『The Furiuostorm』
| Year 276 AC | Westeros, Stormlands.
Lady Betha Baratheon.
A soft rain had fallen the night before; one could smell the scent of damp earth and wet pine. The cool air filtered into her nose like a perfume. Her breathing became shallow while her steps grew slow and measured, her eyes fixed on the great brown stag. It leaned down, drinking water from a small puddle formed by the rain—it was the right moment. She took one of her arrows, its feathers painted yellow, nocked it to the string, and drew it back slowly.
At her side stood her father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, a presence as solid as the castle of Storm's End. His hand rested on her shoulder, a clear indication to wait for the opportune moment to release the arrow.
"Breathe, daughter," Steffon whispered softly. "You already know what to do. The bow is an extension of your arm."
My left hand gripped my Dothraki bow tightly. It was a magnificent piece; its size adjusted perfectly to her needs. It had been a name-day gift from her father, brought from across the Narrow Sea; they said it had belonged to a powerful Khal who was defeated by a mercenary company. It was light, flexible, and above all, lethal—perfect for her, who was as fast as she was strong due to her genes.
She aimed toward one of the stag's thighs; she didn't want it to have the chance to run.
"Now," her father ordered in a whisper.
Inhale.
Exhale... and she released the arrow.
The arrow hissed through the air and hit the mark. The stag shrieked in pain as the arrow pierced the left thigh of its front leg. It tried to run but plummeted to the ground because of the arrow in its leg; had the animal been younger, it might have gathered enough strength for an escape. However, before it had the chance to try, two more arrows flew through the air. One struck its back thigh, and another hit the stag near the liver, causing it to finally collapse against the ground in agony.
As the animal continued to writhe, one of her father's men-at-arms, Cortnay Penrose, stepped forward with a steady pace to put an end to its suffering.
"By the Seven," Ser Cortnay exclaimed. "It was an impeccable shot, my lady."
She approached with a triumphant smile—a true Baratheon smile. She slung the bow over her shoulder and moved forward, followed by her father.
"Thank you, Ser Penrose," she accepted the compliment with a nod. "I have had good teachers, and a good bow."
My father approached the fallen animal and knelt to honor that piece of nature. He turned to look at her with those deep blue eyes of his. He stood up and, with an identical smile, ran a hand over her head, ruffling her dark hair which had already escaped its style.
"The bow helps, daughter, but the skill is yours," he exclaimed in a deep voice. "You have hunted a king of the forest. Make sure the men who arrive at our home today see that same confidence in your eyes."
"I don't care if they look at me," she replied with a shrug. "I'm certain I'm better than them at archery."
Steffon Baratheon let out a roar of laughter that startled the nearby birds. After calming himself, he looked at Ser Penrose. "Take care of the animal."
"Father, may I do it?"
"No, daughter. The last thing I want is for you to hurt yourself." He shook his head and turned around.
"But, father, it's already agonizing!" Betha protested with a frown.
"No, Betha," Steffon said with severity. "The royal family is already on its way; the last thing they need is to see you injured."
Betha did not respond; she gave a small huff and turned around to head toward her horse. Unlike her family, she was not at all enthusiastic about what was to come in the next few days.
"Take care of the animal!" Steffon ordered loudly to his retinue. "We shall continue hunting. But tonight we will dine as is proper. We shall open a barrel of ale to celebrate my daughter's hunt!"
The men shouted in celebration, whether for the ale or for their lady, Betha wasn't quite sure. But it didn't matter; she would try to drink a little if possible to leave behind the bitter taste she had felt on her tongue since the news.
The adrenaline of the hunt had dissipated, leaving nothing but the silence of the nights and the moonlight. While her father's men butchered the stag and set up a temporary camp to spend the night before returning to the family castle, Betha took a seat in front of a small campfire she had built herself in front of her small tent. She stayed there in silence, watching how the flames consumed the pine wood.
The crackling of the fire was hypnotic, and her mind... treacherous as it was, could not help but travel back two moons.
---
**Two moons ago.**
Betha entered her father's solar; she had been spending a pleasant time in the courtyard with her ladies-in-waiting until a servant informed her that her father was calling for her. Despite her different tastes, she had no problem spending a quiet afternoon with her ladies talking and gossiping; moreover, she considered herself a positive influence on them—after all, they had started riding horses with her much more often, and she had even taught one of them.
"Father, Mother," she greeted with a smile; her mother used to say she had the same smile as her father.
Her father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands, possessed a magnetic presence. Not much was truly known about him... and knowing him had been quite an experience. He always reminded her of that son he might have had if she weren't there. He had a raven mane of untamable curls framing a face of noble features and deep blue eyes inherited from his own father. He wore a doublet of leather and gold brocade, whose intricate heraldry of stags recalled the might of his lineage in every stitch of gold thread. A thick, neat beard underscored a smile charged with confidence—an almost insolent happiness, typical of one who knows they are favored by the Seven. The small ruby hanging from his left ear provided an air of bohemian distinction, the only eccentric detail in a man who personified the robustness and pride of House Baratheon.
Her mother, on the other hand, sat on her own sofa with a book in hand. Lady Baratheon, but Estermont by birth, was capable of radiating a serenity as deep as her emerald eyes. Her brown hair, straight and shiny, fell elegantly over her shoulders, crowned by a fine gold circlet that barely managed to compete with the warmth of her gaze. She wore a kirtle of forest green silk, adorned with delicate gold embroidery that shimmered under the dim light, while white pearls hung from her lobes like dew drops. There was in her half-smile a mixture of wisdom and sweetness; her expression only softened when she directed her gaze toward her.
Despite being between thirty and thirty-two years old, her parents were young and full of vigor. She did not doubt that her mother, perhaps, was already with child.
"Dearest, there is good news to tell you," her mother exclaimed in a soft voice, but she could sense the excitement in it.
In fact, it had been a while since she had seen her so smiling. She had been a bit saddened since her younger brother, Stannis, was taken as a ward to the Vale by Jon Arryn to honor the friendship her father had forged with the Falcon and the Wolf during the last Blackfyre Rebellion. By the Seven, she preferred her mother angry a thousand times over, like when she decided to take one of the practice swords and try to learn with her younger brother. She even preferred how furious she was when her father, amused as he was, allowed her to take lessons in using the bow, riding horses, and even using daggers and short swords.
It was funny to see the man who was her father being scolded by her mother, who was much shorter in height than him. Fortunately, her dear grandmother came to her defense so she could practice the art of weapons.
"What is it about? Is Stannis coming back early?" she questioned with a raised eyebrow.
"No, no. Your brother will stay there a while longer." Her father shook his head, but nothing could take that smile off his face.
"Oh, then... what is it about?" Betha paused at that moment. "Are you pregnant?!" she questioned with excitement.
Cassana and Steffon laughed at their daughter's words.
"No, no. Though if I were, I promise you would be the first to know, daughter," Cassana replied.
Betha blinked; confused, she looked at her mother. She truly didn't know what was so important then.
"Daughter, we have allowed you to take up arms... though I protested against it. And although your father assured me it was just a whim that would pass. However, the three of us know it isn't true; now you are a young lady of ten-and-four name-days who still prefers playing at knights than listening to her septa."
"Am I going to be punished? But I listen to each and every one of the septa's lessons, and I do all my chores so I can practice on horseback, which is what amuses me the most!" Betha protested with an offended face; she took all her duties seriously and responsibly, otherwise, she knew they would restrict many of her freedoms.
"No, daughter. We aren't going to punish you," her mother denied. "But you are now at an important age, one where you must try to be more of a woman than a girl. I was your age when I became betrothed to your father."
"I indulged your whims, Betha, and although I let you do those things, you must begin to moderate them more," her father spoke with seriousness. "You are nearly an adult woman. And you need to be aware of the responsibilities you carry, and those you do not. Most ladies of other houses are not their husband's sworn shield."
Betha almost laughed at her father's words—almost. After all, she was a worthy daughter of House Baratheon, and the seed was strong in her. Her grandmother even said she looked a bit like her paternal great-grandfather, Lord Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm.
But one simple word made her mood slowly drop.
*Betrothal.*
"I received this letter from King's Landing this morning by the hand of an envoy," her father continued, while her own stomach sank with a feeling of unease. "Here, take a look."
Betha didn't want to grab the piece of folded paper; if she had telekinetic powers, she was sure it would already be on fire. But she took it slowly, fearing the mere thought of reading it.
"Read," her father said softly, and the smile on her parents' faces made her feel a strong urge to vomit at that very moment.
To my dear and loyal cousin, Lord Steffon of House Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Warden of the Stormlands.
Steffon,
It has been some time since we last exchanged letters, old friend. It seems like yesterday when you were a page at the Red Keep, and we sat listening to the old stories of our grandfather, King Aegon V. We were children then, enjoying playing with swords under the watchful eye of Ser Duncan, having no regard for what would come in the future.
Now, I must think of the future of this Realm and that of our Houses. My son, Rhaegar, has become a young man who fills our illustrious lineage with pride. A strong and wise man. He possesses a spirit both fierce and reflective, qualities very necessary in a future ruler. However, he remains unwed.
We are both aware of the bonds that have united our houses, from the days of the Conqueror until as recently as with my aunt and your lady mother, Princess Rhaelle. It is time for us to be united as family once again.
I have heard wonders of your daughter, Lady Betha. They say she does honor to her name, and that her beauty and personality personify the storm itself. There is no other woman in the Seven Kingdoms so worthy to sit beside the future King.
I hereby formally propose the betrothal between Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Betha Baratheon. We shall unite our houses again, Steffon. We shall unite Fire and Storm so that no one in this realm dares to question the supremacy of our blood.
I shall travel in two moons to your home at Storm's End to celebrate the alliance in person. Let us prepare a tournament together in honor of this union. I want to see your face, cousin, and toast to the future of our children. Prepare your halls and your tilting grounds; the Dragon flies South.
With affection and the authority of the Crown,
Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.
Betha felt nauseous as she set the letter down; she didn't know at what point she had sat down in front of her father, but she couldn't remain standing. She looked at her parents, using all the control possible not to vomit on her lord father's desk.
She was sure that, at this moment... if the news had spread through the realm, Westeros must believe she was the luckiest girl in the Seven Kingdoms; the future queen of the Silver Prince.
"(Damn all the Gods! Why did it have to be him, of all people?)" Betha thought; she felt an... incredible urge to cry out of helplessness.
She felt a bitter taste in her mouth. In the songs, he might seem like the perfect prince, the melancholy musician, the warrior who did not love war. But for her, in her memories of her first life, it painted a totally different picture. She remembered her own feelings for the man who, by following prophecies and his own selfish desires disguised as noble actions, was capable of abandoning his wife and young children and leaving them at the mercy of his father's madness and the fury of his enemies. She remembered a father who would let his family live through terror in the flesh while he hid somewhere in Dorne with a girl half his age.
The mere idea of being the one abandoned and left to her fate with the Mad King turned her stomach, and worst of all, she knew how difficult it would be to try to dissolve this betrothal. There was only one man who could undo it... and it was the same one proposing it.
"Father, have you... have you accepted?" she asked slowly, clutching her skirts tightly.
"Of course I accepted, Betha. What kind of question is that?" he replied with a small, amused laugh. "Not only can one not refuse an offer of such magnitude from the King himself, but also... what kind of father would not wish to see his daughter as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?"
*A father who wanted me alive!* was what she wanted to scream in his face, but she restrained herself. There would be no way to explain what she knew without being taken for a madwoman.
"But father..." Her mind raced, trying to think of a thousand and one excuses. Anything that could help her get her father on her side and find a way together to reject the proposal. "Haven't we bled enough for the Targaryens in the past? Great-aunt Shireen was rejected by Prince Duncan; he had the nerve to set her aside for a common woman."
Though she didn't want to disparage any woman, the story of Duncan and Jenny was the first thing that came to mind as a quick excuse.
Her father laughed, letting out one of those thunderous roars of his; when he calmed down, he looked at her with amusement. "Daughter, of all the excuses you could use, there must be a better one than that." He shook his head playfully. "The fact that Prince Duncan rejected your great-aunt led to your grandparents marrying. If he hadn't done it, neither of us would be here in this solar!"
"Betha, it is no longer just that we cannot reject such a proposal without insulting the King. Understand that there are innumerable young women of noble birth who desire this betrothal offered to you so much. You will not stain the honor of House Baratheon seeking some childish excuse to reject the opportunity to marry the prince," her mother said, notably less amused than her husband.
"Calm yourself, dear." Her father, who had stood up, placed a hand on his wife's shoulder. "Betha is simply nervous. Isn't it natural for a young maiden of her age?" He looked at her softly. "Is it not so, daughter?"
Betha, masking her true words, replied with an imperceptibly bitter tone. "Yes, Father."
"Cheer up, darling. The royal family won't arrive for another two moons. More than enough time for you to enjoy your pleasures," her father said. "But after that, you must promise to look your best when you have to present yourself before the King and his heir."
Betha only nodded, without looking at him.
"Very well. Now go continue your activities, dear," he said, dismissing her.
As soon as she left her father's solar, she went furiously to her room, paying no attention to who crossed her path.
---
She frowned with disgust. She remembered how she had no desire or humor to return to her ladies; rage turned her stomach enough to make her vomit. She didn't even have the strength to hit something; she had just collapsed onto her bed and cried so much that she fell asleep from the anguish.
With an irritated sigh, she needed to take a walk. She stood up without a word and moved away from the circle of light from the campfire toward the thicket to tend to her needs and freshen her face in the nearby lake.
"Don't go too far, dear!" her father shouted from a distance.
"I'll be fine, father!" she shouted back without looking back. "I know how to take care of myself..."
Betha went about twenty meters deep into the giant ferns, seeking a bit of privacy. The Rainwood was unusually silent—a tense calm that, in other circumstances, would have served as a warning. She had barely unfastened her doublet when a sound of breaking branches, heavy and violent, shattered the peace of the surroundings.
From a dense bush, less than five meters away, emerged a shadow of tusks and bristling fur. It was a boar, but not a young specimen; it was an old beast, marked by scars that made it more terrifying, its eyes bloodshot, radiating a hunger worthy of a beast.
"Damn it!" Betha screamed.
She turned quickly to run toward the bow she had left by the fire, but luck played a trick on her: her boot got tangled in the protruding root of a tree. The ground hit her chest with force, knocking the air from her lungs. Before she could catch her breath, the boar let out a raspy grunt and charged.
Time seemed to slow down. There was no room for panic, only for pure instinct. Instead of covering up and waiting for the impact, Betha rolled onto her back while her right hand desperately sought the hunting knife at her belt. She unsheathed the steel just as the animal lunged at her, enveloping her in a foul and primal breath.
She felt the crushing weight of the beast. The boar's tusks tore her overcoat, grazing her ribs with a mortal coldness, but her arm was faster. Betha plunged the blade into the animal's neck, right where the jaw meets the torso, and pulled with all the strength her rage granted her.
"YOU WON'T KILL ME, BEAST! DAMN IT! ARGH!"
She stabbed with force, as much as her arm allowed, screaming a thousand curses with each blow while blood gushed out, splashing her face and clouding her vision completely. The boar gave one last agonizing squeal and collapsed on top of her, twitching spasmodically before going limp; she had to use all the strength she had left to push it off her.
"Betha!" Her father's shout echoed through the trees, followed by the crash of heavy boots breaking through the undergrowth.
Lord Steffon, Ser Cortnay, and a number of men burst into the clearing with swords drawn. They stopped dead, processing the scene: the Lady of Storm's End was slowly rising from the ground, an expression of disgust on her face as she wiped blood away with her sleeve, holding a bloody knife next to the carcass of a boar.
"Daughter! Are you hurt?!"
Her father approached, and she looked up full of fury and loathing; she spat—a very unladylike act—saliva and blood onto the ground.
One eye was clear of blood, but on the rest of her face remained the stains of the wild animal's blood. The metallic smell was nauseating and sticky.
"I'm fine," she growled with annoyance, in a voice that surprised those present with its firmness and anger. "I'm just... dirty. Very dirty."
Ser Cortnay Penrose, who did not take his eyes off the animal, approached it with a mixture of horror and wonder.
"You've hit the jugular, my lady," the knight murmured. "A second later and..."
"A second later, and you would have been rid of your greatest nuisance, Ser," she commented sharply, cleaning the blade of her knife on the animal's hide with a gesture of deep disgust.
She looked at her father. Steffon was still trembling slightly, but seeing his daughter's determination, he exhaled a sigh that seemed to empty him of all tension.
"You gave me a deathly fright, Betha," he murmured, taking the young woman's face between his hands without caring about getting stained; his own face was a mixture of worry and pride. "You are a true Baratheon. The fury is yours, there is no doubt of that."
"Fury is useless if you're left lying in the mud, father," she replied, gently pulling away to walk toward the nearest stream. "I want to wash. I can't stand the smell of this creature."
She walked toward the water, ignoring the dumbfounded looks of the guards who had not yet sheathed their steel. As she cleaned her face in the cold current, she saw her distorted reflection in the red-tinted water. Fate thought it had her cornered, just like that boar. But if she had just learned anything, it was that her teeth were sharp enough to slit the throat of any beast that tried to run over her.
"(I suppose there's more of Robert in me... than I thought.)"
.
"She's a big little thing," she remembered hearing her father's voice. "So, what shall we call her?"
"We prayed so much for it to be a boy..." her mother sighed. "We decided so firmly that he would be named Robert that we didn't contemplate what would happen if it were a girl."
"Well, things are as they are. We must adapt, dear," her father replied. "What do you think, Mother?"
"Mmm... how about Betha? Not only for my mother, Queen Betha, but something closer to Robert... like in Dorne where it would be Roberto."
"Oh, that sounds wonderful, mother-in-law," her mother accepted with pleasure. "Don't you think so, my sweet little fawn?"
Betha vividly remembered the day of her birth; she was grateful her eyes couldn't see the whole procedure, otherwise, it would have been traumatic. Her rebirth in this land had given her many benefits, but she forgot about hindsight; she should have known this betrothal would be inevitable. Not just because the King would have a clear dislike for Tywin Lannister by this point, but because the three had grown up together. It was logical to think, beyond whatever blood they might share, that this could happen.
Two moons had passed since the letter arrived. The night before, her mother had been terribly worried about her well-being after being informed of the accident with the boar... her father had not escaped her wrath. She now stood at her father's side, looking presentable for the King and his heir. For someone of fourteen name-days, she was quite tall compared to her mother, and she was still growing; though fortunately, she didn't inherit her father's strong, broad shoulders, she had inherited his strength.
She observed everything with her deep blue eyes. Her straight raven hair fell in a cascade down her back and over a dress of heavy gold and black fabric, where the Baratheon stag stood out on her chest with pride.
"(If I were truly brave, I would have thrown myself into the sea from my window,)" she thought with resignation.
While she remained rigid at her parents' side, she couldn't help but think of all the things she would have done if, instead of being reborn as a girl, she had been born with a cock between her legs. She would be as free as the King to decide whom to be with in the near future.
"(Eww, for a moment I sounded like Cersei,)" she shuddered with disgust.
Finally, she looked up, clutching her ringed fingers tightly, as she saw the black banners with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen approaching the entrance of Storm's End, where they were expected with open gates. There seemed to be around a hundred riders approaching, and almost her entire house—from the servants to the stable boys—was standing to welcome them.
"I don't see a carriage. Isn't the Queen coming?" Betha questioned, noting the lack of a carriage. If there was anyone she wanted to meet in all this chaos, it would be Queen Rhaella—a woman who had suffered hell in life and was able to endure until giving birth to her last daughter. Targaryen women seemed destined for suffering, and very few, like her grandmother Rhaella, had reached old age.
"No, Her Majesty the Queen is pregnant. Only the King and his sons will be here," her mother replied softly, giving her a look. "Now, behave like a proper lady, is that clear?"
"Yes, mother..." Betha murmured with distaste. She hated the whole stereotype of the proper lady.
Though she blinked in confusion. "(Sons? But Viserys should be a newborn... shouldn't he?)" Betha thought. She didn't fully understand her mother's words; she assumed one never knew what went through the Mad King's head. She had no time to ask her mother.
When the horses passed through the great gate of Storm's End, the King's men formed a path for him to pass. When he was in everyone's sight, they knelt to welcome him; Betha did so, though she was a few seconds slower than the rest.
Even with her head bowed, she could see out of the corner of her eye how they brought a stool to help Aerys dismount his horse, and he descended with an arrogance as if he believed he were the Conqueror himself climbing down from his dragon. A ridiculous sight to her, and she had to suppress a mocking snort.
"Stand, cousin," King Aerys indicated. Her father did so, and the others present followed suit. "It has been a while, has it not? I see some grey hairs; the years seem to be catching up with you."
Her father gave him a smile. "No man can escape time, can he, Your Grace?" he replied, and Aerys let out a chuckle and a nod before turning toward her mother.
"Lady Cassana, a pleasure to see you again. The years have been much more beneficial to you than to your lord husband," the King joked, amused by his own jest.
His eyes finally turned toward Betha, who had to struggle not to run toward the nearest cliff. This man could be the cause of the most horrific nightmares for hundreds of readers.
"And you must be Betha! The rumors of your beauty are certainly justified. Without a doubt, a splendid young bride for my heir," Aerys exclaimed with joviality.
"I am honored, Your Grace," Betha lied brazenly, trying to mask her grimace with a smile and her stomach upset so as not to vomit right there; she succeeded... barely.
"Very well, young lady. Without a doubt, you are the living image of my great-aunt. The Blood of the Dragon runs through your veins, I can see it; you will fit perfectly in the Red Keep," he added with a satisfied nod.
"Thank you very much, Your Grace."
"Now, I believe I haven't yet introduced you to my sons, have I?" Aerys commented, rambling, but his eyes settled on her father. "Of course, you saw them some years ago, Steffon. Although they are no longer those little dragons; they have grown much since then. Oh, they are finally here."
Betha watched with curiosity; as much as she was disgusted by the whole idea of the betrothal, meeting a true royal family... even if those of this era weren't her favorites, seemed interesting to her. The rest of the royal retinue finally arrived, and she saw whom she assumed was the Crown Prince, Rhaegar. His long silver-and-gold hair flowing, his bright violet eyes standing out easily.
He was certainly attractive.
But Betha was not so stupid as to be caught by superficial beauty or honeyed whispers in the ear. She was a serious, independent, and intelligent woman. The last thing she needed was to be Princess Daenora Targaryen with a mad spouse—and the truly pitiful thing was that this one wouldn't drink wildfire.
But it was the other one who really surprised her and truly caught her attention. Not just because this boy, this Prince, shouldn't exist—but because he was approximately her age. Despite being on horseback, she could deduce he was slightly taller than her; he wore riding clothes of black and red leather, just like his father and his older brother.
His silver-and-gold hair was long and wavy; his expression was the total opposite of his brother's and completely different from his father's—he was much more cheerful, confident, and extroverted.
His eyes, more lilac than violet, finally met her deep blue ones. And the world seemed to have stopped.
"(Who... who the hell is he?!)" she thought, dazed, frozen in place. What kind of butterfly effect was this?!
"Steffon," Aerys said. "Let me introduce you again to my two sons, Princes Rhaegar and Daeron."
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Written by me, translated by AI. Let me know if you find any errors.