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Storm's End rose from the cliffs like a monument—a castle built to challenge the gods themselves.
Its walls were old, older than most kingdoms, thick enough to defy hurricane winds, torrential rain, and years-long sieges alike. Lightning flashed beyond its battlements, thunder rolling over the Narrow Sea as it had since the Age of Heroes.
Storm's End was built to defy all.
So too was its king.
Argilac Durrandon, the Old Storm, or as the smallfolk called him, the arrogant—though never within earshot of him—stood upon the battlements overlooking his capital, a heavy cloak clasped at his shoulders as the wind tugged at it like a living thing.
Once, men had whispered another name with awe: the Storm King.
A warrior without equal.
A conqueror who had crossed the Narrow Sea and returned victorious.
That man still lived.
But time had begun to collect its due.
The black mane and beard that had once framed his face like a war banner were now dulled to iron-grey, with little black remaining. His shoulders, once broad enough to fill a doorway, had begun to sag beneath the weight of years and armor alike. His grip, still strong, no longer crushed bone without effort.
The household knights saw it.
The bannermen noticed.
None dared speak of it.
Argilac remained dangerous—still capable of splitting a helm or breaking a shield wall—but no man ruled forever at his peak. The storm, like all things, eventually passed.
Yet it was not the decline of his body that troubled the Storm King most.
It was the throne.
Princess Argella Durrandon was his only child. His blood. His legacy. The future of the Stormlands rested upon her shoulders alone.
And the world had never been kind to ruling queens.
No matter how fierce her will or how sharp her mind, Argilac knew the truth written into the bones of history: men would resist her rule. Some would cloak their defiance in tradition, others in faith, others still in naked ambition—but resist they would.
And if not his own bannermen, then the other kingdoms would see her rise as weakness.
A time to strike.
If Argella were to wear the crown, she would need more than her father's name and blood.
She would need a husband.
Not merely a consort, but a shield and a sword—one powerful enough to secure her throne and cow the ambitious lords who would test her claim. Many of Argilac's bannermen had sons, strong and proven, eager to bind themselves to the royal line.
Yet the Storm King's thoughts did not linger on them.
Instead, his mind returned to memory.
To Essos.
To the Disputed Lands.
To fire falling from the sky.
To battles won not by numbers or steel—but by terror and flame.
Dragons.
They had been the true reason his campaign across the Narrow Sea had succeeded. Not courage. Not a strategy.
Power.
And power, Argilac Durrandon knew, was what would keep his daughter upon the throne.
As thunder cracked overhead, the Old Storm returned to his seat and sat heavily upon his throne, lost in thought.
Pride stirred.
Ambition followed.
He dreamed of armies marching beneath the shadow of black wings.
Of Ironborn ships burning where they were beached.
Of Dornish raiders reduced to ash, their bones swallowed by the sand of their homeland.
Argilac Durrandon smiled—a rare, toothy grin—as he set quill to parchment and wrote a proposal he knew would change the history of the Stormlands.
He would offer Aegon not just his daughter's hand but land across Blackwater Bay, lands his dragons would defend and burn any ironborn raiders that dare sail to his northern border.
As the envoy carried his letter from the castle, the Storm King still wore that smile.
Some say he was still smiling days later, until an envoy from Dragonstone arrived with Aegon's message.
And his smile turned to ash and became a roar of thunder and lightning.
Despite having given the envoy the custom of guest right, Argilac cut the envoy's hands off with his own sword and sent them back to the last dragonlord.
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POV: Aegon Targaryen
Location: Dragonstone
My eyes shot open as I sat up too quickly, immediately regretting it as pain exploded through my skull. My head throbbed and rang like a temple bell, the world dissolving into a familiar—yet alien—agony I couldn't alleviate.
A warmth wrapped around me.
"Be still, husband," a voice like sweet honey murmured close to my ear, her breath warm against my skin.
"A dragon dream," another voice said softly—calm, firm, carrying a command that brooked no delay. "Write it down. Quickly, before the details fade."
My hands moved before my thoughts caught up.
Years of practice took over, motion becoming instinct, instinct becoming muscle memory. I reached for the quill and parchment and began to write, capturing fire and storm, blood and crowns.
As the words took shape, the pain ebbed. The world sharpened.
"I hate these dreams," I sigh—though it comes out closer to a groan.
Moments later, I find myself humming despite myself as Rhaenys' fingers work gently through my hair, easing the last remnants of pain from my skull. The sensation is pleasant enough that I almost wish for prophetic dreams every night.
"We know they can be difficult," she murmurs against my ear. Her lips brush my temple, and I know—without doubt—that any pain is worth enduring when it ends in her care.
"We need to get up. Now."
Visenya's voice is calm, but the tension beneath it is unmistakable. Forced. Rhaenys hears it too, because we both move at once, slipping from the bed and reaching for our clothes.
"What is it?" I ask, my senses flaring as I scan the chamber for threats I know cannot be there.
Then I see the parchment.
The words I had written.
And I understand.
The arrogant Stag breaks the laws of the gods, and in doing so breaks his rule and all others'.
From this day, let there be one king.
Let him destroy the world in fire and drown it in blood, so that from the ashes something new may rise.
For the golden dawn comes for the Last Dragon.
Not for the first time, I felt the breath of fate on my neck.
I stood quickly, discarding the multiple covers of wool and cloth on our bed, and let my mind race as to what order things should be done.
"Visenya, have our sentries look out for any ship from the Stormlands. The response from the Storm King Argilac is most likely on its way," I say quickly with a commanding urgency in my voice.
Visenya nods. She did not question or hesitate, grabbing her clothes almost as quickly as I am.
"Rhaenys, send word to Driftmark and Claw Isle to prepare and raise their levies by this week's end; we shall be at war."
Rhaenys nods as well; she moves the slowest of us, and by the time she's putting on a suitable dress, Visenya is already marching out of our room, pushing aside servants that accidentally find themselves in her way.
"My love, what will you do?" Rhaenys asks as I reach the door. I turn and give her a confident smile.
"I will go to our brother, and we shall prepare the soldiers and ships of Dragonstone, and then we shall meet with and organize the sellswords and sellships we have contracted," I explain, and before we departed for our duties, we kissed once.
I walked steadily to Ory's private chambers, my steps resounding through the blackstone corridors and causing servants to quickly move aside.
As I reached my brother's door, my hand raised about to knock on his door, only for said door to open to me, finding my brother just as hurriedly dressed as I was.
"What has happened?" He asked so quickly yet so straight-faced it caused me to pause for an imperceptible moment.
"The Storm King has received our counteroffer, and we shall receive his answer soon," I said calmly, but Orys knew what this meant. I had told all my siblings what would happen after we received Argilacs' proposal for me to marry his daughter and his potential reaction to my counteroffer.
"So the war you have foreseen is almost upon us?" he asked as we began to walk side by side to the armory.
I noded once we entered the armory, the attendants, upon seeing us, quickly moved to gather our armor and weapons. Just as Blackfyre was strapped to my waist, a servant came in and quickly knelt.
"My Lord, a ship bearing the banner of the Stormlands has docked. A messenger claims he carries words from Argilac Durrandon himself."
So the stag's answer is already here.
Orys and I exchanged a glance. No words were needed. He gave a single nod and turned away, already issuing orders before he had taken three steps.
I looked down at the kneeling servant.
"Bring the Storm King's messenger to me. I shall receive him at the Painted Table."
The servant bowed deeply.
As he turned to go, I stopped him.
"And summon the Red Priestess. And the Maester. I would have witnesses."
If Argilac had chosen insult over alliance, all would hear it.
If he had chosen war—
Then let the realm remember who drew first blood.
---
The Painted Table lay before me — all of Westeros carved in wood and shadow, its mountains rising in ridges, its rivers etched in silver lines. Plans already marked their surface with pieces marking points of interest and future paths to march. Ports marked. Castles considered.
Planning had begun long before any would think, but all in this chamber knew that this moment would be the spark that would change everything.
The hearth burned low, casting a steady orange glow across the room. The shadows it made seemed to dance and move as Myra tended to it as a mother tends to a child.
In the Red Priestess's eyes, the flames' light danced. To my left, in the corner, the old Maester prepared parchment and ink, his quill already trembling with anticipation. He didn't know it, but in just a moment, history was about to be made.
The doors opened.
Two guards entered first, and between them came the Storm King's messenger.
He was bowed, but I could tell he was afraid, and I could understand why what he was about to hand me, depending on my reaction, could end his life.
He did not speak.
He walked forward slowly, each step heavy upon the polished volcanic stone floor, until he reached the end of the table and knelt before me with careful hands. He placed two objects before me.
A box and a letter sealed in black wax, bearing the crowned stag of House Durrandon.
I broke the seal; the parchment inside bore only a single sentence.
"These are the only hands your bastard will have of me."
Slowly, deliberately, I set the letter aside.
Then I opened the box.
The smell reached me before I pulled the lid away entirely.
Rot just beginning to whisper its presence with the tang of salt and the metallic sense of copper or rusted iron.
As I fully lifted the lid, I saw what lay inside: two severed hands.
They had been bound together at the wrists, the stubs covered in dry blood, cleanly cut.
The signet ring still clung to one finger — the ring I had given my envoy when I sent him to Argilac Durrandon with my counterterms to his alliance.
"The only hands my bastard will have of me," I said softly, yet my voice seemed to fill the room from the tone I took.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
The Maester's quill scratched weakly against parchment.
The Red Priestess did not look away.
The messenger before me trembled, still kneeling, still bowed.
He had delivered his king's answer.
I closed the lid of the box.