Chapter Twenty-One: Honour and Loyalty (Pt. 1)

Chapter Twenty-One: Honour and Loyalty

“A man is a fool who puts aside his own house for the sake of another’s.”

―Thufir Hawat

…

The rain fell in sheets, driven sideways by the fierce winds that howled through the courtyard of Storm’s End. Thunder rumbled overhead, and Lucerys adjusted his cloak, pulling the damp fabric tighter around him as he trudged behind his brother, Jace.

As they entered the great hall, the atmosphere turned heavier still. Lord Borros Baratheon sat on his great oaken chair, flanked by his daughters and bannermen. His broad face was a mask of disdain, his thick black beard glistening with wine. The hall was dimly lit, the torches sputtering in the storm’s breath.

“You come at last,” Borros intoned, his voice a drawl. “I had begun to think you dragon lords had forgotten my house entirely. But, of course, you remember the stormlands only when of have need of us.”

Luke felt the sting of the words even as Jace inclined his head respectfully. “My lord,” Jace began, his tone measured, “we come not to demand, but to entreat. The crown requires steadfast allies, and none are more steadfast than you. My mother, the queen, values your loyalty above all others.”

Borros snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Your mother values it now, perhaps. But where was her regard for the stormlands when dragons flew high and peace reigned? It is a bitter thing, to be remembered only when the winds shift and the storm rolls in. Now you come again, asking for fealty. What does your mother offer that I should give it?”

Jace paused, his lips tightening. “The honour of standing with the true heir to the Iron Throne. My mother, the Queen Rhaenyra, is—””

“Spare me your titles,” Borros interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Honour? Words are wind, Prince Jacaerys. My house needs strength, not platitudes.” His dark eyes narrowed. “If I were to stand with Rhaenyra, which of my daughters would you wed?”

Lucerys froze. The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Jace hesitated, and Lucerys knew what his brother would say before he spoke.

“I cannot offer that, my lord,” Jace said carefully. “I am my mother’s heir. The matter of my betrothal lies with her.”

Borros laughed—a short, derisive sound. “So, the queen’s heir cannot offer his hand. You would have me pledge my strength to a woman who cannot even grant me the courtesy of a proper bargain? Go back to your mother, boy, and tell her the Lord of Storm’s End is no dog to be called upon at her whim.”

Panic flared in Lucerys’ chest. The stormlands were vital. To lose them would be a blow from which their cause might not recover. Before he could think better of it, the words tumbled out of his mouth.

“I will wed one of your daughters, my lord.”

The hall fell silent. Jace turned to him, shock and anger warring on his face. Borros raised a thick brow, his lips curling into a smirk. “You, boy? And why should I believe you’d keep such a promise?”

“I swear it,” Lucerys said, his voice steadier than he felt. “If you will support my mother’s claim, I will marry one of your daughters.”

Borros leaned back in his chair, his laughter booming. “You have a spine, I’ll give you that. Very well, boy. Tell me, which daughter you would have.”

Luke’s face burned as he looked toward the dais. The ladies Baratheon regarded him with varying degrees of amusement and disdain. He hesitated, his thoughts racing. Finally, he pointed toward the youngest; a safe gamble, he reasoned.

“Floris,” Borros announced, his grin widening. “A good eye, boy. Floris is a fine lady, and she’ll make a fine match for a prince.”

Luke swallowed hard, his chest tightening with the weight of his impulsive offer. Borros’s laughter filled the hall, the stormlord clearly pleased with the turn of events. “Go on, then,” he said, waving a hand. “Take this news back to your mother. Tell her the stormlands stand with her—and her younger son.”

Jace bowed stiffly, his face tight with controlled emotion. “We thank you, my lord,” he said, his voice strained. “But before that, we must travel to Highgarden. House Tyrell’s support—”

Borros cut him off with another laugh, this one darker. “Highgarden? Tyrell has already thrown his lot in with the Greens. You’ll find no succour there.”

Luke felt the blood drain from his face. Jace stood frozen for a moment before nodding stiffly. “Then we will return to our mother,” he said, his voice quiet.