Thunder.
More thunder.
The wind howled, carrying with it the scent of salt and seaweed from Shipbreaker Bay. Rain lashed the distant sea beyond the towering walls of Storm's End, sheets of water smearing the gray horizon until sky and sea became one.
Yet another storm raged—not only in the heavens, but also in a quiet chamber of the keep, within the pages of a well-worn book.
Princess Argella Durrandon sat on a cushioned bench beneath the tall, arched window, the dim gray light catching the silver threads woven through her dark braid. Her storm-gray eyes flicked steadily across the yellowed pages of the leather-bound tome resting in her lap, one hand absentmindedly twisting the corner of the next page. Her lips moved faintly, as if mouthing the words aloud without even realizing it.
"He pressed his forehead to hers, breathless. 'I'd burn the world if it meant keeping you another moment,' he said."
Argella's brow furrowed.
"Idiot," she muttered, flipping the page with a bit more force than necessary. "You're both going to die."
She scanned the next paragraph, where the doomed lovers professed their feelings once more, declaring eternal devotion as a blizzard closed in around them. Her heart swelled—and then, for reasons she couldn't quite explain, a sharp sadness followed, threading itself through her chest like cold wind through the cracks of a shuttered window.
Behind her, the door creaked open. Argella didn't hear it—too engrossed in the storm of emotions on the page.
"Is that the story where the lady runs off with the hedge knight and dies in a cave full of snow?" came a voice, light, amused, and all too familiar.
Argella jumped, snapping the book shut with a hard thud and twisting around on the bench. Her cheeks flushed.
"Cassandra!" she snapped. "I've told you to knock!"
Red in the face, she shoved the book behind a cushion.
Leaning casually against the doorframe was Cassandra Tarth, tall and sun-kissed, her flaxen hair braided neatly over one shoulder. She wore a simple but well-kept gown of blue silk, and her smile was absolutely insufferable.
"I did knock. Twice," Cassandra said, the grin tugging at her lips. "You were too busy swooning over your book."
"I was not swooning," Argella muttered, reaching down to adjust the cushion concealing her secret reading.
"Mmm," Cassandra hummed, strolling into the room and flopping into a nearby chair. "Oh, Ella, so there is a romantic in there after all."
"There is not," Argella snapped, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it across the room.
Cassandra caught it midair, laughing as she tucked it behind her head.
"Shut up," Argella grumbled, turning back toward the window, arms crossed.
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," Cassandra sang, mock-dramatic. "Serious, tough Princess Argella Durrandon, pining for romance like the rest of us poor girls."
Argella turned away with an audible huff, arms still crossed, a pout settling on her lips. Her cheeks were pink. "I was not pining," she said stiffly. "It was just a… well-written story. That's all."
Cassandra laughed, clearly unconvinced.
"Why are you here anyway, Cassie?" Argella snapped, trying to change the subject.
That sobered her.
"The king has called for a council," Cassandra said.
Argella's demeanor shifted in an instant. She turned sharply from the window, shedding the bookish awkwardness like a snake's skin. Gone was the girl lost in stories of snowbound love and doomed knights and ladies—and in her place stood the Princess of the Storm.
Within minutes, her chamber became a flurry of motion. Cassandra was joined by Elaena Fell and Maria Estermont, her fellow handmaidens and companions since childhood. They worked quickly and with practiced precision, helping Argella shed her lounging robes and prepare for court.
Argella stood before the tall Valyrian mirror—an heirloom passed down from her mother's line—its glass shimmering faintly with an otherworldly sheen, as if touched by magic. She studied herself with a calculating gaze.
Her hair was a cascade of midnight black, thick and straight, reaching down to her waist. Today, it was pulled into a high warrior's braid woven through with golden thread and storm-gray silk. A few strands curled at her temple, softening the sharpness of her high cheekbones.
Her eyes were her most arresting feature—wide, stormy, and endlessly shifting in tone. In some lights, they were the blue of deep waters before a tempest; in others, a silver-gray crackling with unspoken fury. Her gaze could wither the pride of men twice her age, or summon a hush across a chamber with a single glance.
Her skin was pale, kissed faintly by the sea sun, unblemished and regal. The high bridges of her cheeks and proud nose gave her a striking profile, and her mouth—often curved in amused contempt—was full and expressive.
She was already being whispered about in court songs as "the Jewel of Storm's End," but Argella paid those words no mind. Beauty was just another tool in her arsenal—one she wielded with calculated ease.
Her fashion choices, as always, were flawlessly chosen to reflect her heritage. Today, she wore a gown of midnight blue velvet, cut close to her frame and embroidered with the golden-crowned stag of House Durrandon, its antlers traced in silver thread. She wore no jewelry beyond a single ring—her late mother's—and a small stag pin at her collar.
When they were finished, Elaena stepped back and whispered, "You look like the storm itself, my princess."
Argella didn't smile. She only nodded.
"Let's see what my father wants," she said, turning toward the door.
====
Argella walked with her handmaidens through the long stone halls of Storm's End, the rhythmic sound of their footsteps muffled by thick carpets woven in the colors of House Durrandon—gold and black. Tapestries lined the walls, depicting faded scenes of her ancestors in battle, kings and queens wielding swords against their enemies. Argella's chin was held high, her expression composed, but within, her thoughts swirled like the storms that gave her house its name.
She was her father's only child. That meant she was his heir. And that meant a future filled with challenges.
There were cousins with diluted blood and hungry eyes who plotted quietly behind closed doors. There were lords who sent their sons to court, dreaming of wedding her and wearing the crown of Storm's End themselves.
But she would not be ruled. Yes, she would marry—duty demanded as much. She had made her peace with that. But whoever that man was, he would not rule her. She was not some prize to be claimed. She was Durrandon by blood. And when her father's time came, she would rule as queen in her own right.
"Gods help us, it's Lord Edmund," Elaena muttered, breaking Argella out of her thoughts.
Argella's heart sank.
Up ahead, near a narrow gallery that led toward the council chambers, stood Edmund Swann, the son of the Lord Marshall. A pig of a man, swollen with self-importance. His face was shiny with sweat despite the cool air, and his doublet strained at every seam. His lips were too wet, his hands too eager, and in his own mind, he was the Realm's most handsome man.
"Oh no," Cassandra said under her breath. "Let's turn around, Ella. Quickly."
"No," Argella said, her jaw tightening. "Let's not."
She walked straight forward, her storm-blue eyes locked ahead, regal and unyielding. As they approached, Edmund's entourage fanned out slightly, blocking their path like a wall of puffed-up peacocks.
Edmund's round face brightened with an almost lecherous joy. "Ah, Princess Argella!" he called, stepping forward with a bow that made his gut jiggle beneath his embroidered coat. "What a fortunate surprise. You grace these halls like a goddess."
"Lord Edmund," Argella replied coolly, giving a curt nod. Her voice was calm, her posture poised.
He licked his lips. "I was just saying to my dear companions"—he gestured vaguely behind him—"that the two of us should take a walk through the gardens. A private stroll, just us. After all," he chuckled, "we're practically betrothed already, are we not?"
Argella felt her anger rise but she could not afford that now with the position she was in. Cassandra, standing just behind Argella, squeezed her hand hard.
Argella's smile didn't waver, but her eyes turned colder. "A stroll would be lovely," she said with sweet composure. "But alas, I am too busy with the duties of a princess."
Edmund blinked. "Ah—yes, well, I suppose…"
"I fear my father's summons takes precedence," she added smoothly, stepping past him. "But I'm sure the garden would enjoy your company."
She swept by, her handmaidens gliding behind her, their expressions tight with suppressed laughter. Edmund stood there, confused but grinning.
As they moved away from Edmund, Elaena spoke, breaking the silence between them. "Have you heard what's happening in the Riverlands?" she asked, lowering her voice with dramatic flair. "A rebellion—led by a sorcerer. A dark conjurer who drinks the blood of his enemies and wields forbidden magic."
Maria Estermont rolled her eyes. "Nonsense. They say he's the manifestation of the Seven themselves—that the gods heard the cries of the faithful and sent their champion to punish the heathen Ironborn."
Elaena scoffed. "And you believe that?"
"I didn't say I did," Maria replied, brushing her auburn hair behind her ear. "But people believe it. They say he destroyed an entire castle with just his voice."
"Yes, his voice," Cassandra added, her tone more measured. "I heard the same. A shout that cracked stone like thunder."
"That's not all," Elaena said with a wicked grin. "One of the guards swore he can summon lightning and fire at will. And"—she dropped her voice to a scandalized whisper—"that he bedded a hundred women in a single night."
"A hundred?!"
"That's what the story says."
Argella said nothing, her eyes fixed ahead, but her ears were sharp. She let the chatter wash over her, the rumors layering one atop another, each more fantastical than the last. A part of her dismissed them all—just tales spun too far. Yet another part, deeper and quieter, wondered. If even half of it were true...
They reached the tall oaken doors of the council chamber. Two guards stood watch, spears crossed, then stepped aside with bowed heads.
Argella turned to her handmaidens. "Wait here."
Cassandra gave her a subtle nod, while Elaena and Maria offered respectful curtsies. With a final breath, Argella squared her shoulders and stepped through the doors alone.
====
As soon as Argella Durrandon stepped into the council chamber, her father's thunderous voice echoed off the high stone walls.
"Why not?!" King Argilac bellowed, his fists slamming onto the oak table that dominated the center of the room.
The chamber was as tempestuous as the storms outside. Lords stood in tense clusters, all attempting to reason with their king.
"My king," Lord Dondarrion said quickly, his brow furrowed, "the Yellow Toad waits for any weakness. If we march, Dorne will descend on the Marches. They're watching for any slip."
"Yes, Your Grace," began Lord Fell, his voice cautious, "this talk of invasion, while bold, may leave us exposed. It is foolish… Harren—"
"Foolish?!" Argilac roared, his silver-streaked hair wild around his scarred face. "You dare call your king foolish?"
"N-no, my king," Lord Fell stammered. "That is not what I meant, only that—"
"Father," Argella said, stepping forward beside the Storm King, her voice calm but firm. She placed a hand on his arm, and at once, the air in the chamber seemed to still.
Argilac turned toward her, and his expression softened. "Ah, Argella. My daughter. My heir." He gestured toward the gathered lords with a scoff. "Tell these cowards that now is the time to strike. To reclaim the Riverlands. To avenge King Arrec's shame!"
Of course, Argella thought grimly. She should've known this meeting would be about that. Ever since word of the rebellion in the Riverlands reached Storm's End, her father had been obsessed—obsessed with correcting a century-old wound, with undoing the disgrace of Arrec's defeat and the loss of the Riverlands to the Hoares.
But she saw what the others feared. Dorne, waiting like a serpent in the sand. The dragonlords, with their dragons coiled on Dragonstone. And now this strange uprising in the Riverlands, led by a man cloaked in mystery.
"My king," said Lord Swann, the Lord Marshall, a lean man with deep-set eyes, "this rebellion will be crushed soon enough. We must not be lured into folly by desperation."
Argella cut in, her voice carrying clearly. "Tell me more about the rebel leader—the one they call the Dragonborn. Is it true what they say? That he's a holy warrior with divine power? That he possesses magic gifted by the Seven?" Her eyes swept the room. "Some even say… he is the Seven themselves, made flesh."
"That is heresy, my princess," Lord Swann said at once, his voice cold. "This 'Dragonborn' is no more than a sorcerer from Asshai or some eastern hell, twisting the minds of Lords Frey, Mallister, and Blackwood."
Argella frowned. "Which makes it all the more troubling, does it not? That three powerful houses would follow such a man. If he is a fraud, he is a dangerously convincing one."
"Fuck this sorcerer," Argilac growled, waving a hand. "I will crush him beneath my hammer like I would any pretender. Magic or not."
"Father. Please. This may be our chance, but we must not act blindly. Dorne is watching. And what of Dragonstone? They have been quite aggressive of late."
"Bah!" Argilac spat. "The Targaryens are cowards and sisterfuckers—hiding on that rock for a hundred years, breeding with each other and playing with fire. Their dragons are old tales. If they had real strength, they'd have taken all of Westeros already."
"Even so," Argella said, her voice gentle but firm, "peace now will cost us nothing. Patience may win us everything."
Argilac's shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, at last, he nodded. "Fine. We wait. But not forever."
The court murmured quietly, relieved. Argella glanced around the room, catching the eyes of a few allies. She had held the storm at bay—for now.
=====
As Argella strode from the chamber, the echo of her father's voice still bounced faintly off the stone behind her. She let out a slow breath through her nose. Her boots clicked softly against the cold floor as Cassandra fell into step beside her.
"Cass," Argella said quietly, her tone all command despite the nickname. "Write to your brother."
Cassandra blinked. "To Cedric?"
"Yes. He's still a guest of Lord Darklyn at Duskendale, is he not?"
Cassandra nodded. "Last raven I got, yes."
"Then ask him if he's heard anything about this Dragonborn. I want to know more."
Cassandra tilted her head slightly. "You believe the stories, then?"
Argella didn't answer at first. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, sharp and thoughtful. "I don't know what I believe," she admitted finally. "But something is happening. Something strange, and I want to be prepared."
Cassandra nodded, her expression serious. "I'll write him tonight."
They rounded a corner—and immediately Cassandra groaned. "Oh no."
Argella followed her gaze and there, waddling pompously down the corridor, was Edmund Swann, flanked by his usual puffed-up entourage. A smug smile crept across his face the moment he spotted them.
Argella didn't break stride. She simply turned, her cloak swirling behind her, and walked the other way.
"Hey, wait for me," Cassandra said, running after her best friend.