TBOV: Chapter Twenty: House Targaryen of Storm’s End

Chapter Twenty: House Targaryen of Storm’s End

“The nightfires had burned low, and as the east began to lighten the immense mass of Storm's End emerged like a dream of stone while wisps of pale mist raced across the field, flying from the sun on wings of wind.”

―thoughts of Catelyn Stark

…

Baela could still feel the strain in her thighs from clinging to Tessarion’s saddle as she slid off the dragon’s flank. The warm breath of the beast washed over her in a final puff of smoke-scented air as she landed upon the rocky ground outside Storm’s End. For a moment, she simply stood there, catching her breath, brushing the tangles of windblown hair from her face. The sky above was heavy with clouds, the wind that keened across the ramparts tinged with the brine of the Narrow Sea. The Stormlands, indeed.

Daeron slipped from Tessarion’s back with more practiced grace. He turned quickly, offering a small, tentative smile when his eyes found hers. On the flight here, he had tried more than once to strike up conversation—stories of his training at King’s Landing, or small jests about his older brothers. Baela had listened politely, struggling to reconcile her loathing of Aemond Targaryen with the awkward kindness of her new husband.

Nothing but good-nature, she thought, watching as Daeron brushed a hand along Tessarion’s scaled neck in farewell. And the blood of a serpent, she reminded herself, though she found no malice in those pale eyes. She hated that conflict in her heart—how to remain loyal to her own, to her grandmother Rhaenys, to the memory of her humiliated father and banished family—when she was wedded now to a Green princeling who seemed determined to be gentle with her.

A cluster of armed men approached from across the yard, all of them sporting red cloaks that whipped about in the coastal wind. They were not the gold-and-white of a traditional Stormlander guard, but the colors of Aemond’s accursed City Watch. That alone stirred Baela’s unease. Even in the seat Daeron was meant to govern, it was One-eye’s presence she felt—His watchers, his gaze, his influence.

Daeron understood nothing of her discomfort, only stepped forward to greet the watch captain with polite words and gracious nods. Baela lingered at his side, forcing her face to calm composure as the men bowed. One had the look of a seasoned soldier with scars across his cheeks, introduced as “Marshal Cutter of Storm’s End, appointed at Prince Aemond’s order.” He saluted stiffly. “I and my men stand ready to serve the new Lord Paramount.”

Baela forced a taut smile when the man bowed to her.

They entered the fortress proper through a wide, heavy gate that led into a sprawling courtyard. The wind beat at the high curtain walls, rattling the iron braziers. Workers in roughspun jerkins bowed hastily as they passed, a group of scullions paused in their scrubbing to gawk at the spectacle of their newly arrived Lord. More red-cloaked watchmen stood at intervals, halberds and batons held in disciplined rows.

At last, they came to the central keep: the colossal drum tower that crowned Storm’s End. Within its thick walls was a cavernous entry hall, lit by wavering torchlight. A group of figures awaited them under the high, vaulted ceiling: a tall Targaryen cousin wearing a discreet golden pin—clearly the castellan, by the keys embroidered on his cloak—a grey-bearded Maester in chains, and a solemn-faced Septa in pale robes. Clustered behind them were two more: a man in the Merchant Guild’s distinctly embroidered half-cloak and another sporting the raised sigil of the Dragon’s Bank, each with ledgers tucked beneath an arm.

“Welcome, my prince, my princess,” said the castellan, stepping forward to bow. He was tall and slender, and looked enough like a Targaryen that Baela wondered at the closeness of their kinship. “I, Velar, have kept Storm’s End these last months for the good prince. I was instructed to anticipate your arrival; I trust your flight was safe and swift.”

“As swift as might be expected,” Daeron replied, glancing back toward the doors. Baela sensed that he too found all this a trifle overwhelming—an entire keep, an entire fief, thrust upon them without so much as a by-your-leave. “You may rise, cousin. Let us do away with ceremony if we can.”

The castellan straightened with a faint smile. “My thanks, my prince. I would present Maester Roderic, Septa Leorah, and our newly appointed Marshal.” He gestured to the man from the yard, who had followed them in. “These men from the Guild and the Bank come bearing the news of Storm’s End’s finances with the Crown and its trade obligations. Lastly, there is one more introduction.”

From behind the group came a slight boy, no older than eight. He stood with anxious dignity, wearing a surcoat embroidered with a per fess, a white crescent moon in the first on black above a green field, a sprucetree line between—the sigil of House Fell. “This is Artos Fell, heir to Felwood,” the castellan announced. “He is sent by his lord father to squire for you, my prince, that he might learn courtesy and knightly valor in service to the new Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”

Daeron knelt, so the boy would not have to crane his neck. “Ah, I was a squire myself just a few days ago. How quickly time flies”—the assembled crowd laughed politely at that—”I welcome you, Artos,” he said, voice warm. “I pray the time flies just as quickly and smoothly for you as it did for me.”

A flush touched the boy’s cheeks. He bowed clumsily. Baela found herself almost smiling at Daeron’s tone, his gentle encouragement. Thankfully, she caught herself before she did.

What followed was a protracted tour of the keep. The castellan guided them from hall to hall, reciting names of storerooms, recounting the fortress’s capacity, describing the stable of warhorses Aemond had funded, the new vault for storing gold from the region’s taxes, and the roster of sworn knights from the local houses. Through tall windows, Baela glimpsed the towering battlements, battered by the sea wind. She could not help but marvel at the architecture—Storm’s End truly dwarfed many other keeps in Westeros. The great drum tower was thick-walled and defiant, a bastion meant to withstand even the mightiest storms from a bay rightly named the Shipbreaker.

Still, she noted that not one shred of House Baratheon’s identity remained, aside from old carved stags in the stone. It was eerie how thoroughly Aemond had erased all memory of the former lord and his house from this place.

When at last they returned to the main hall, the castellan cleared his throat. “My prince, my princess, you have seen the shape of the place you now rule, though there is much left to discover in your own time. I have served here at Prince Aemond’s behest; now that his chosen Lord is come, my duties are complete. The staff you have met—the Maester, the Septa, the Marshal—are well-prepared to assist you. My men and I shall depart at once for King’s Landing. We beg leave to gather our effects and be on our way.”

Daeron nodded somewhat stiffly. “You have my thanks, cousin. The realm owes you a debt for holding Storm’s End in the months gone by. May the gods grant you safe roads.”

“And may they grant you fair rule,” Velar returned, with a short bow.

He withdrew, leaving a subdued hush in his wake. Daeron turned to Maester Roderic, who stepped forward and coughed politely. “My prince, there are some matters of immediate concern that cry for your attention—levies and taxes, as well as the smallfolk’s petitions I must acquaint you with. If it pleases you, we might retire to the solar to review them.”

Daeron cast a look at Baela, plainly wondering if she would sit in on the discussion. Before she could decide, the Septa—Leorah—spoke with gentle authority. “My Lady, if I may, I would be honored to acquaint you with the household staff and their tasks, that you might better understand the daily order of your holdings.”

For a moment, Baela hesitated. A part of her wanted to remain at Daeron’s side for he was a quantity well-known to her now, much unlike the strangers they had been saddled with. But she caught the uncertain note in his expression, as though he, too, was being swept along by a current he could not fully control. Perhaps it was best to let him find his footing with the counselors. With a subtle nod, she accepted the Septa’s offer. “Very well,” she said softly. “Show me.”

Daeron watched her go, a small, wry smile flickering on his lips—a silent apology, perhaps, or gratitude for not making him handle every new face while she glared over his shoulder. Baela inclined her head in return and turned away, following the Septa’s trailing skirts down a broad corridor that smelled of salt and rushes. The hush of the keep enveloped her, broken now and again by the distant clang of a hammer or the murmur of men’s voices in the courtyard.

She still bristled at the memory of how they’d held her at the Red Keep, but she could not deny that the queen and queen dowager had been civil… kindly even. As for Daeron, he’d shown her no harm. Only courtesy. That thought weighed on her heart like a stone. Sighing, she forced herself to focus on the present and move on. She would think more deeply on the nature of her not unkindly husband at another time.