The last two moons since winter began in earnest, and since word of the Stormlander defeat and the death of Edmund Swann had arrived, had changed Argella's life greatly.
Lord Edward Swann, the Lord Marshal of the Stormlands, the man behind her misfortune and powerlessness, the architect of so much suffering, perhaps even complicit in her father's death through his disastrous campaign, had weakened considerably.
Swann's own men had been almost entirely wiped out in the Maidenpool disaster. The household troops, the professional soldiers loyal specifically to House Swann, the knights and men-at-arms he had spent years cultivating, were dead or captured. He had been forced to raise new levies from his own lands, pulling farmers and craftsmen from their winter shelters and arming them hastily. But those lands were now surrounded by territories loyal to her traitorous cousins. Ormund controlled the north, Baldric the south, and both were squeezing Swann's holdings like a vice.
All Swann had left was enough men to hold Storm's End in her name, perhaps five hundred soldiers of varying quality, barely enough to man the walls of the massive fortress. His power base had crumbled. His eldest son was dead. His grand plans lay in ruins.
Argella, meanwhile, had gained some semblance of control during Swann's weakness.
The Lord Marshal had been bedridden for days after receiving news of Edmund's death. Whether from genuine grief, shock, or some combination of despair and illness, Argella did not know and did not care. She had used that opportunity ruthlessly, making her own moves within the castle. She had spoken privately with guards who were tired of Swann's manipulation, with servants who remembered serving her father loyally, and with minor knights who saw which way the wind was blowing.
She had gained enough support and influence to do what she needed most: escape Storm's End.
The thought of escaping Storm's End, of leaving her family's castle, the fortress that had stood unconquered for thousands of years and had weathered the wrath of gods themselves, would shame her ancestors. She could almost feel their disapproval.
But Argella had no choice. She had no way of surviving this situation, let alone winning, without outside help.
Her cousins would begin their war as soon as winter ended. Already, their armies were gathering, supplies were being stockpiled, and alliances were being forged. All of them wanted her dead or sent to the Faith.
Perhaps not the Faith, since she had been condemned by the High Septon himself as a heretic. The formal declaration had arrived a moon ago, elaborate calligraphy on fine parchment, sealed with the crystal of the Faith, proclaiming that Argella Durrandon had fallen into heresy, that she had shown sympathy toward the Leonite Heresy, and that she was unfit to rule as both woman and apostate.
She had never even met anyone from the Covenant, never expressed any interest in their faith. But truth did not matter, only what people believed. And her cousins were spreading a thousand other slanders about her as well. That she was barren. That she was a drunk. That she had taken lovers among the servants. That she was mad like her grandmother. That she had poisoned her own father to seize power.
None of it was true, but all of it was effective.
She wondered sometimes what her father's plans would have been if he had returned from the war alive. Had he truly intended for her to marry Edmund Swann? Had he some other alliance in mind? Had he prepared contingencies to prevent her cousins from rising up, or had he been so confident in his own strength that he had never considered the possibility of dying before securing her succession?
She would never know.
No. Argella pushed those thoughts away. The past was the past. She could not change it, could not undo the mistakes or misfortunes that had brought her here. She needed to look forward. The gods, whether the Seven or the Storm God or whatever powers governed the world, had given her a chance with the defeat of Swann's army and Edmund's death.
And she was going to take it.
Her thoughts turned to the kingdoms she could call upon for help. The Reach, Dorne, and the West were out of the question. Her mind kept returning to the very kingdom that had defeated her just moons ago.
The Heartlands.
The stories that slowly trickled down to her and the rest of the court as the defeated army began to return were ones many would have found unbelievable had they not come from so many different sources.
The men told of King Harald Stormcrown calling forth the Storm God himself to fight for him. They spoke of skies darkening at his command, of lightning striking men down by the hundreds at his word, of thunder rolling at his direction. They said he spoke in a language that was not quite language, that the very air vibrated with power when he used his voice, that the world itself bent to his will.
These stories could no longer be dismissed as tall tales, not when lords and knights had witnessed them firsthand. Lord Tarth himself had written of Harald's power in his letter to her. And all of it terrified many within Storm's End. Courtiers whispered fearfully about sorcery and demons. Septons preached about the dangers of dark magic. Swann's remaining supporters muttered about heresy and abomination.
They were all terrified. None would even think of marching against the Heartlands now. That much was certain.
A power like that could win her back her kingdom. But to go to King Harald for support would mean giving truth to the slander her cousins were spreading about her: that she was turning to the Covenant, becoming a heretic, betraying the Faith of her forefathers and her people.
No. She could not. She needed to find another way to—
The door opened, and Cassandra walked in, her expression carefully neutral, though her eyes were bright with news.
"Has your uncle written?" Argella asked immediately, sitting up straighter.
Cassandra nodded and produced a small, rolled parchment from within her sleeve, sealed with wax but bearing no identifying marks. A secret letter, passed through secret channels.
Lord Galadon Tarth, after returning from the war, had been in communication with Argella through intermediaries and coded messages. He could not be seen supporting her openly, not yet, not while her cousins were watching anyone who might rally to her cause, but he was willing to offer her sanctuary.
Argella's plan to escape her home turned prison was to sail to Tarth. The island was defensible, isolated enough that her cousins could not easily strike at her there. She had been waiting for an opportunity, for the right moment when Swann's attention was elsewhere and the weather was favorable.
Lord Tarth had promised her safety, but not his support in retaking her throne, which still worried her. Was he simply buying time, waiting to see which cousin would win so he could back the victor? Or was he genuinely loyal, but too weak to openly declare for her?
She broke the seal and began to read, her eyes moving quickly over the careful script.
"A merchant vessel, the Sea Drake, will be docked at Storm's End for the next week, ostensibly trading winter supplies. The captain is in my employ and can be trusted. When you are ready to leave, send word through the usual channel, a servant purchasing 'Dornish wine,' and he will know to prepare. The castle has many secret exits toward Shipbreaker Bay, as you well know. The one beneath the eastern tower is least watched. Come at night. Bring only what you can carry. My ships will be waiting beyond the bay to escort you to safety.
—A Friend"
Argella looked up at Cassandra, her mind already racing through logistics and risks.
"The eastern tower exit," Argella said quietly. "That comes out near the rocks, doesn't it? We would have to climb down to reach the water."
"It's difficult, but not impossible," Cassandra confirmed. "We explored it when we were children, remember? There's a path if you know where to look."
"And if we're caught..." Argella did not finish the sentence.
"We won't be," Cassandra said firmly. "Swann's men are stretched thin. Most are watching the main gates and the roads, expecting your cousins to try something. They won't expect you to flee by sea in winter."
Argella wanted to believe that, but she was still worried about Lord Tarth's loyalties. "How can we be certain your uncle won't simply hand me over to whichever cousin offers him the best terms?"
Cassandra's face hardened. "My uncle would not turn his back on you, Ella. I know him. He's offering you sanctuary because you are the rightful queen. He is not playing some game." She stepped closer. "Tarth is the safest place for us all right now. Once we're there, we can plan properly, reach out to other potential allies without Swann's spies listening to every word."
Argella wanted to argue, but Cassandra was right. What other choice did she have? Stay here and eventually be forced into marriage with some Swann nephew or cousin? Wait for her cousins to storm the castle and put her to the sword? Hope that somehow, miraculously, loyal lords would rally to her cause despite the High Septon's condemnation?
No. She had to take this chance.
"We should leave by the end of the week," Argella said, her mind already planning. "That gives us time to prepare properly, to make sure everything is in place for a clean escape. We'll need—"
The door burst open, and Maria walked in, her face flushed. "Lord Swann is coming. He requests an immediate audience with you."
Cassandra's expression darkened. "What does he want now? Can't the man leave her alone for even a day?"
"I will find out," Argella said, standing and smoothing her dress. She looked at her handmaidens. "Leave us. I will speak with the Lord Marshal alone."
Both Cassandra and Maria looked as though they wanted to protest, but they knew better. They curtsied and left through the side door, though Argella knew they would be listening just outside.
Moments later, there was a knock at the main door.
"Enter," Argella called.
The meeting with Swann had only taken a quarter of an hour, and by the time he walked out, Argella was resisting the urge to empty her stomach. She could feel bile rising in her throat, all because of what Swann had demanded of her.
The door burst open, and her friends rushed in, Cassandra and Maria, their faces full of concern and unspoken questions.
Argella looked at them, her decision forming in an instant. She could not stay here another day, another hour if she could help it. Not with Swann expecting an answer in the morning. Not with that proposal hanging over her like a noose.
She had only one thing to say to them.
"We leave tonight."
.
.
.
She left that very night.
The escape was tense but successful. Argella, Cassandra, and Maria slipped out through the eastern tower exit just as planned, climbing down the treacherous rocky path in the dark with only a sliver of moon to guide them. Lord Tarth's ship was waiting in the small cove, its crew ready to depart the moment they were aboard.
The winter storms made the journey far from easy.
For five days they were battered by wind and waves that rose like mountains, tossed about until even Argella, who had thought herself immune to seasickness, was retching over the rail. The ship's captain was skilled, navigating through the worst of it, but there were moments when Argella genuinely believed they would all drown.
But they survived.
They arrived at Tarth on the morning of the sixth day, the distinctive island rising from the sea like a sapphire set in grey stone. The storms had calmed enough for them to make port at Evenfall Hall, the seat of House Tarth.
Lord Galadon Tarth was waiting on the docks himself to greet them. His face bore new scars from the Blackwater campaign, and there was a weariness in his eyes that had not been there before.
Cassandra was the happiest Argella had seen her in moons, practically running into her father's arms with tears of joy, then embracing her uncle, Lord Galadon, as well.
But Argella knew, watching the careful way Lord Tarth regarded her, that she would not receive the support her friend believed awaited her. That much became clear in their private conversation later that day.
"I support you, my queen," Lord Galadon said, his voice earnest. "I will never support the usurpers, Ormund, Baldric, or Lyonel. Nor will my friend, Lord Robert Dondarrion. We remain loyal to King Argilac's chosen heir."
"I did not even receive a reply from Lord Dondarrion when I sent him raven after raven asking for his help," Argella said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.
Galadon sighed heavily. "I doubt Robert will respond, Your Grace. He plans to close the Marches until this inevitable civil war is over. He has lost much. His men, his father, and many more died in Dornish raids while he was away fighting at the Blackwater." His voice grew heavy with shared grief. "He told me himself that he cannot afford to involve himself in a succession war when his own lands are burning and his people are dying."
He paused, looking out the window at the grey sea. "I myself planned to do the same, to close Tarth's ports, weather the storm, and emerge when the dust had settled. But my heart would not allow it. Not when you needed sanctuary. Not when I could offer you something, even if it is not an army."
Argella closed her eyes, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on her. Lord Galadon was being honest with her, more honest than most lords would be.
"Would you ask me to leave?" she asked quietly, preparing herself for the answer.
"No," Galadon said firmly. "You are welcome to stay as long as you wish, Your Grace. No one will invade Tarth to reach you. No one has the power to do so, not your cousins, not Swann, not anyone. It would require a fleet to assault the island, and they will all be too busy fighting each other to spare the resources. You will be safe here for years if necessary."
"Thank you," Argella said, though the word felt inadequate. "Your loyalty means more than you know, my lord."
Galadon leaned forward, his expression growing more serious. "Your Grace, I want to see the kingdom at peace. I served your father loyally, fought his wars, and bled for the Stormlands. And I do not think your cousins' war will end quickly. It will bleed the kingdom dry. Thousands will die. Our strength will be broken, and we will be vulnerable to enemies who are waiting for exactly that opportunity."
Argella felt anger surge through her numbness, her hands clenching into fists. "Yes, I know! I do not need reminding, my lord!" Her voice rose despite herself. "I am the queen, the true monarch of the Stormlands, and yet I feel so powerless. I have let down my entire line, all my ancestors who built this kingdom and defended it. I am watching it tear itself apart, and I can do nothing!"
"There is only one way to stop all this," Galadon said quietly.
Argella knew what he was going to say before he said it. "No. I cannot go to him for help. Already I am being slandered as a heretic, as someone who has turned to the Covenant. If I actually go to Harald Stormcrown, it will prove all their accusations true."
"Listen to me, Your Grace," Galadon said firmly. "I have seen what Harald Stormcrown is capable of. I have witnessed the power he possesses firsthand." His voice dropped lower, more urgent. "Power like that is not easily contained. It is not meant to be contained. No, my queen, it will only burst out and consume everything in its path. It is destined to do so."
He stood and paced to the window. "That kind of power is the power of conquerors, of world shapers. Whether he wants to or not, Harald Stormcrown will eventually rule far more than just the Heartlands and the Blackwater. Men like that cannot help but expand, cannot help but reshape the world in their image."
Galadon turned back to face her. "So I ask you this. Would it not be better for you to go to him and ask for an alliance from the start? To approach him as a fellow monarch seeking mutual benefit, rather than waiting until he simply takes what he wants? You could go to him with an offer of friendship, and he could end this civil war in a fortnight. A single legion of his, Your Grace. That is all it would take. One thousand of his blessed soldiers, and your cousins would bend the knee or die."
He moved closer, his voice becoming almost pleading. "You have heard what he did to our armies. Imagine that power working for you instead of against you. Imagine Harald Stormcrown declaring that Queen Argella is the rightful ruler of the Stormlands, that anyone who opposes her opposes the Herald of the Gods himself."
Argella sat in silence, her mind churning.
A part of her knew Lord Galadon was correct. She had no other real options.
Harald Stormcrown had power. Real, tangible, terrifying power. Power that could restore her to her throne, punish her enemies, and make the Stormlands whole again.
And what would it cost her? Her pride? That was already in tatters. Her reputation? Already destroyed by slander.
Her body?
"I will think on it," Argella said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Galadon nodded, recognizing that this was as much as she could commit to for now. "That is all I ask, Your Grace. Weigh your options carefully. And when you are ready to decide, I will support whatever choice you make, even if it is to remain here in sanctuary and wait for the storm to pass."
But they both knew, sitting in that solar overlooking the grey sea, that waiting was just another way of losing.
The storm was not going to pass.
It was only going to grow stronger.
And eventually, Argella would have to make a choice. Stay safe and powerless, or risk everything for a chance to reclaim what was hers.
The question was not if she would go to Harald Stormcrown.
The question was when.
.
.
.
Moons passed, and winter was close to ending. The first signs of spring were beginning to show, ice melting, birds returning, and days growing incrementally longer.
And Argella had made her decision.
In the Stormlands, Swann had been searching for her in secret. He still held Storm's End, and through a combination of threats and bribes, he had managed to keep her disappearance hidden from the wider realm.
She left Tarth with Cassandra, Maria, and a small group of loyal knights, only six men, led by Ser Lance Penrose, a younger son of a minor house who had served her father faithfully. They took a merchant vessel flying neutral colors, heading north along the coast toward the Blackwater.
From there, she would make her way to Cyrodiil, the capital of the Heartlands.
This was not a decision she had made lightly. She had spent moons agonizing over it, weighing every possible consequence. But this was her only real choice now. Her cousins were gathering their armies for spring campaigning. Swann was descending into paranoid madness. She had no allies, no army, and no resources.
Lord Galadon had said King Harald was honorable and kind, that she would be treated with the utmost respect befitting her station. Still, she did not truly know what she was walking into. What if the stories were exaggerated? What if Harald was simply another ambitious king who would use her as a pawn? What if he was as terrible as the Faith claimed, a dark sorcerer who would corrupt or destroy her?
She pushed those thoughts away. She had made her choice. Now she had to see it through.
They passed Dragonstone on their journey north, that dreary island of the last Valyrian dragonlords, rising from the sea like a nightmare carved in stone. The volcanic rock seemed to writhe in the morning mist, its towers and battlements shaped like dragons frozen mid-flight, their stone wings spread as if ready to take to the sky. The ship gave it a wide berth, skirting around the island's treacherous waters, where currents swirled unpredictably and rocks lurked just beneath the surface.
The thought of asking the Targaryens for help had passed through Argella's mind more than once during her stay at Tarth. They had dragons, after all. Three of them. Surely that would be enough to cow her cousins into submission, to make even the most ambitious lord think twice before challenging her claim.
But she quickly snuffed out that idea when she remembered the terrible tales her father had told her of the Valyrians. Their blood magic and sorceries, practices so dark that even the maesters refused to fully document them. Their casual cruelty, the way they treated those they conquered as little more than cattle. Their belief that they were gods walking among mortals, dragon-blooded and superior to all other men. The Targaryens were Valyrian, and though they had lived in Westeros for a century, they had not abandoned their ways. No. Better to deal with a sorcerer who at least claimed to serve gods recognizable to Westerosi than dragon-riding madmen who believed themselves divine.
As their ship sailed past the island, Argella noticed something that made her blood run cold.
Ships. Dozens of them.
They were anchored in Dragonstone's harbor and pulled up on its black sand beaches. War galleys, trading vessels being refitted with reinforced hulls, smaller craft that looked built for speed. All bore the banners of the houses sworn to the Targaryens. Even from this distance she could see activity: men loading supplies, carpenters working on hulls, what looked like troops drilling on the shore.
"Your Grace," Ser Lance said quietly, moving to stand beside her at the rail. "That's a war fleet."
Argella felt her stomach drop. "How many ships do you count?"
Ser Lance squinted, his eyes scanning the distant harbor. "Forty? Fifty? It's hard to say with certainty from this distance, but…" He paused, his jaw tightening. "That's more than enough to transport an army, Your Grace. Thousands of men."
Cassandra joined them, her face pale as she too saw the gathered fleet. "Why would the Targaryens be preparing for war? Against whom?"
A horrible thought struck Argella, sending ice through her veins.
The Stormlands.
What if the Targaryens had decided to take advantage of the civil war? What if they saw the kingdom tearing itself apart and decided that now was the perfect time to strike? Swoop in with their dragons while the Stormlander armies were busy fighting each other, burn any resistance to ash, and claim the kingdom for themselves?
Her father had always been suspicious of the dragons, warning that the Targaryens would not remain content on their rock forever.
"They wouldn't," Argella whispered, though she was not sure if she was trying to convince herself or the others. "The Stormlands are too strong. Even divided, we could resist dragons. Storm's End has never fallen. The walls are too thick, too high. Even dragonfire cannot—"
She stopped.
As Argella watched the distant island recede behind them, watched the war fleet being prepared for whatever campaign the Targaryens had planned, doubt gnawed at her certainty.
"Pray to the gods that the dragons stay on their cursed rock," she heard Ser Lance mutter.
==========
They arrived at the ruins of Duskendale, their ship still flying merchant colors so they would not be attacked on sight.
Her heart wrenched at the sight of the town.
The scars of the sack were still visible, burned buildings, empty spaces where structures had once stood, the outer wall still showing damage from the siege. But the people were recovering. New construction was everywhere. Merchants' stalls lined the rebuilt market square. Ships filled the harbor, loading and unloading cargo. Children played in the streets.
Her people had done this. Stormlander soldiers under Swann's command had sacked the city, killed its people, and destroyed it.
She did not linger. The guilt was too heavy.
They continued their journey from there on foot. And as they journeyed deeper into the Heartlands, Argella began to see the changes that were slowly transforming this war-torn region.
It was recovering fast, so fast that it seemed impossible, as if the region had continued to receive support all through winter, when travel should have been very difficult. Fields that should still have been fallow were already being prepared for spring planting. Villages that should have been half empty from winter deaths were bustling with activity. The people looked not just alive, but healthy, well fed, content.
She saw regular patrols of soldiers, men in identical armor and equipment, moving in disciplined formations. Ser Lance, the leader of her guard, noted quietly that they looked extremely well trained. "Better than most knights I've seen, Your Grace. And these are just common soldiers on patrol duty."
Her own knights had been prepared for bandit attacks. The aftermath of war always bred brigandage. But the roads were safer than she had expected. They encountered no thieves, no desperate men looking for easy prey.
This was the Dragonborn's Peace, as many they met called it.
She saw that everyone seemed busy with something, reconstruction, farming, trade, crafts. There was an energy here, a sense of purpose and industry that was almost unsettling to her.
And she saw the Covenant for the first time.
In a large village where they stopped to rest the horses, she watched as its septons, no, keepers as they called themselves, both men and women, preached in the market square. They wore robes that combined elements of septon garb with simpler, more practical clothing.
She listened to some of their preaching, expecting heresy and blasphemy. Instead, she found herself agreeing with much of it. It was a mix of the Seven's teachings and other ideas, respect for nature, the importance of community, the duty of the powerful to protect the weak, the belief that all faiths contained pieces of divine truth.
It was not what she had expected. It was almost reasonable.
As she traveled farther into the Heartlands, leaving the Blackwater territories and entering the core of King Harald's kingdom, she came to understand how the king was viewed, almost like a god among his people.
Stories were everywhere. How he had chased out and defeated the Ironborn who had terrorized these lands for generations. How he provided bountiful harvests that never failed, even in the depths of winter. How he protected both body and soul, healing the sick with his magics, blessing crops, ensuring justice was done fairly.
The people seemed genuinely happy. Content.
Finally, after weeks of travel, Argella arrived in Cyrodiil.
And then she saw Castle Cyrodiil in all its glory.
The breath left her lungs.
It stood atop a hill, white marble gleaming in the spring sunlight, towers reaching toward the sky, walls that seemed impossibly high and thick. It was beautiful, undeniably so, and something to inspire awe.
"By the Seven," she heard Cassandra say, echoing her own thoughts.
"Gods preserve us," Maria whispered.
Even her knights were stunned into silence.
"That… that wasn't there two years ago," Ser Lance said slowly. "When I visited these lands before the war, this was all just scattered villages and a small holdfast. There wasn't even a hill here. This castle… Your Grace, it cannot have been built in two years. It's not possible."
"Magic," Argella's mind supplied.
Of course. It had to be magic.
Nothing else could explain it. No amount of gold, no number of workers, no conventional means could raise such a structure in so short a time. Only sorcery. Only whatever Harald Stormcrown truly was.
It was all true. All the tales and stories she had heard of the king now crashed into her consciousness at once.
And now she felt real fear, the pressure of meeting him face to face, of looking into the eyes of a man from the legends she had heard so much about over the last year.
What was she doing here? What made her think she could bargain with someone like this?
But she had come too far to turn back now.
Argella arranged lodging at one of the better inns in the growing town around the castle, a clean, well appointed establishment that seemed far nicer than she had expected for a settlement this young. She changed into her best clothes, a gown of deep blue velvet she had brought specifically for this meeting, and had Cassandra and Maria help arrange her hair in the formal style of Stormlander nobility.
She sent Ser Lance to arrange a meeting with the king.
The knight returned by sundown, looking both impressed and slightly overwhelmed.
"I met with Lord Edmyn Tully, Your Grace," he reported. "The Lord Chancellor, a position similar to Lord Marshal in the Stormlands. He was surprised to hear you were here. He wishes to verify your identity personally before arranging an audience with King Harald."
Ser Lance paused, then added, "There is more, Your Grace. I have also learned that the King in the North, King Torrhen Stark, and the King of the Rock, King Loren Lannister, are both coming here. There is to be a grand tourney in a week's time, celebrating the founding of the kingdom."
Argella felt a surge of hope cut through her anxiety. "Both of them? Here? At the same time?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Argella's mind raced. This was perfect. If she could gain an audience not just with Harald, but also with Torrhen and Loren, she could make her case to multiple monarchs at once. The North and the West were both powerful kingdoms. If she could convince them of the illegitimacy of her cousins' claims, gain their support or at least their recognition…
Perhaps she would not need to rely solely on Harald's power after all.
"This is good news," Argella said, more to herself than to Ser Lance. "Very good news."
"Take me to Lord Edmyn," Argella said to Ser Lance, standing and straightening her dress with trembling hands.
They left the inn with her small retinue, Cassandra, Maria, and two of her knights for protection. Ser Lance led them through the burgeoning town toward the castle.
Lord Edmyn Tully met them at one of the administrative buildings near the castle, a handsome man in his thirties with auburn hair and the blue eyes characteristic of House Tully. He bowed deeply when he saw her.
"Your Grace," he said, genuine surprise in his voice. "This is unexpected, to say the least."
Argella drew herself up, summoning her queenly presence despite her fear and exhaustion. "Lord Chancellor. I have traveled far to speak with King Harald on matters of great importance."
Edmyn studied her face for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Of course, Your Grace. Please, follow me. King Harald will want to see you immediately."
He led them toward Castle Cyrodiil itself, and as they entered through the main gates, Argella and her companions found themselves in awe of the castle's interior.
Work was still being done. Artisans carved intricate designs into the walls. Craftsmen installed stained glass windows. Masons fitted stone with perfect precision. But what was already complete was breathtakingly beautiful. The halls were wide and soaring, decorated with artwork that combined Westerosi and foreign styles.
It looks more beautiful than Highgarden, Argella thought with shock. If it continued like this, it would be the most magnificent castle in all of Westeros.
They were taken to the throne room itself, which was also still under construction. But even incomplete, it was impressive. A vast chamber with a vaulted ceiling supported by pillars carved to resemble weirwood trees. At the far end, something was growing from the marble wall itself, an actual weirwood, its white bark and red leaves emerging from stone as if the tree and the castle were one living thing.
Lord Edmyn left as soon as they entered the throne room, bowing respectfully and asking them to wait while he went to inform the king of their presence.
Argella's heart began beating faster, pounding against her ribs. She felt both Maria's and Cassandra's hands on her shoulders, steadying her, offering what comfort they could through touch alone.
She could see Ser Lance and the other knights shifting nervously, their hands unconsciously drifting toward their sword hilts before remembering where they were. This was not enemy territory, at least she hoped it was not, but the unknown was often more frightening than a known foe.
She did not know what would walk through that door. Part of her expected someone like the sorcerers in stories from her youth, a figure in dark robes with a long grey beard and evil eyes that glowed with unholy power, hunched and ancient and radiating menace.
Or perhaps she imagined a warrior, large and muscular, barbaric, covered in scars and trophies taken from his enemies, more beast than man.
She tried not to think about it. She tried to calm her racing thoughts and prepare herself for whatever came.
After what seemed like an eternity, though it was likely only minutes, she heard footsteps approaching. Multiple sets, echoing through the vast throne room.
Her breath caught as she first laid eyes on the man she instantly knew was King Harald.
He was younger than she had expected. Handsome in a way that seemed almost unfair, with sandy blond hair that caught the light and eyes that seemed to shift in color depending on the angle, gold one moment, green the next. He wore fine clothing, but not ostentatiously so. On his head sat a circlet crown of gold set with gems that seemed to glow. It was almost hypnotic.
Their eyes met across the throne room, and Argella felt the weight of destiny settle on her shoulders.
Behind Harald walked Lord Edmyn and several other men who could only be lords of his council. She recognized some of the sigils from her studies. Blackwood. Frey. Mallister. All watched her with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion.
"Lord Chancellor," Harald said, his voice carrying easily through the chamber. It was a pleasant voice, warm but commanding. "May I ask who our unexpected guest is?"
"Your Grace," Edmyn said formally, stepping forward. "May I present to you Queen Argella Durrandon of the Stormlands. She has come—"
Argella found her courage and spoke, interrupting before Edmyn could finish. She would not have her story told by another. She was a queen, and she would speak for herself.
"I have come seeking safe haven, King Harald," she said. She kept her voice steady and proud, despite the desperation beneath it. "To seek asylum in your kingdom." Her chin lifted defiantly. "And I come seeking aid in reclaiming my kingdom from the vultures who pick at it."
She took a step forward, her dress rustling in the silence. "My father is dead. My kingdom is tearing itself apart in civil war. Lords who swore sacred oaths to him, who bent the knee and promised loyalty to me as his heir, now plot against me. They call me a heretic. They call me unfit. They gather their armies to tear the Stormlands to pieces in their lust for power."
Her voice cracked slightly. "I come to you because you are the only king in Westeros with both the power and the will to help me. The only one who could restore order to the chaos consuming my kingdom. And because…" She paused, forcing herself to admit the terrible truth. "Because I have nowhere else to go."
There was a moment of profound silence in the throne room.
She could see the lords behind Harald exchanging glances. Some were suspicious, clearly wondering if this was some kind of trap or ploy. Others seemed more sympathetic, like Lord Edmyn, whose expression held genuine concern. A few looked calculating, already considering how this might benefit the Heartlands.
But Harald's face remained neutral, unreadable, as he studied her. Argella felt as though she was being measured, weighed, evaluated in ways she could not comprehend.
Then his face broke into a smile.
"Queen Argella," he said, and his voice held no condescension, no superiority, only honest welcome. "You are welcome in the Heartlands for as long as you wish to stay. I grant you asylum and place you under my personal protection. No harm will come to you within my borders. This I swear by the Covenant, by the Old Gods and the New, and by the Nine Divines."
He gestured broadly. "You and your companions will be treated befitting your station. I will have chambers prepared for you in the castle. You must be exhausted from your journey. Rest and recover your strength."
He looked directly into her eyes. "And when you are ready, tomorrow, the day after, whenever you feel prepared, we shall speak properly. But for now, let us attend to your immediate needs. You are safe here, Your Grace. You have my word on that."
He turned to Edmyn. "Lord Chancellor, please see that Queen Argella and her companions are given chambers in the royal wing. Send servants to attend to their needs."
"At once, Your Grace," Edmyn said, bowing.
Argella felt a weight lift from her shoulders. The fear that he would turn her away, that he would demand impossible prices of her, that he would be the monster the Faith claimed, all of it dissolved in the face of his straightforward kindness.
"Thank you," she said, her voice thick with emotion she could not quite hide. "Your Grace, I… thank you."
Harald's smile widened slightly. "There is no need for thanks, Queen Argella. Offering sanctuary to those in need is simply the right thing to do."
"Go. Rest."
Edmyn stepped forward, along with several servants who had been waiting discreetly. "If you will follow me, Your Grace?"
Argella nodded. She turned to follow the Lord Chancellor, Cassandra and Maria falling into step beside her, her knights trailing behind.
As she reached the doorway, she glanced back one final time.
Harald was still watching her. Their gazes met across the throne room once more, lingering for a brief moment, before she turned away and left the chamber, following Edmyn.
This was only the beginning of a long journey, and she would need to be more prepared than ever.
.
.
Next update will be March first week. Will post multiple chapters togther.