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thetormentita · 1 month ago

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broken spear, crowned storm - chapter 1

with the blackfyres looming over the seven kingdoms, sacrifices must be made.

Pairing: Original female! Baratheon x Baelor 'Breakspear' Targaryen

A/n: just changing the timeline a bit. A very special cameo in this chapter!

Rating: Teen (+13)

red keep, king's landing. 205ac

“Turn your hip. Like this.” He places his right foot back, automatically changing his position “The worst you can do in a face-to-face combat is to let the enemy see you as a whole. With less to see, less to aim for.” The kid frowns and tries to imitate his posture. “That’s a start.”

Of course he should be tending other duties, but from time to time he likes to slip away and approach the training courtyard.

He will always be a man stick to a sword.

“Uncle,” the little voice catches his attention “why does Aelor not train with us?”

He tilts his head to a side, realizing how much the boy looks like his father. While Maekar’s older boys had been difficult during their childhood, that kid reminds him of the days they used to spend in that same courtyard when they were his age, when they would pretend to be the Conqueror and his Hand, fighting side by side to unite Westeros into a big and prosperous kingdom.

How much things can change.

“Because your uncle isn’t precisely fond of this kind of things, my boy.”

The boy frowns and the hand with the wooden sword falls to his side. If he had learnt something from his own two sons was to know when a kid was troubled by something. Leaving his own wooden sword on the floor, he approaches the child, just enough to sit on the floor to be at his height, always wanting him to be able to look at him in the eye.

“Mother said I could be a knight like father or you… But I think I wanna help people.”

The kid’s last words are a mere whisper.

“Hey,” he puts a hand on his shoulder, softly but reassuring “it’s okay if you’re not into swordplay. A man can be anything he wants, but you can do even more. If you don’t want to fight with swords, I will not complain. You can always focus on laws, or history, or even become a maester.”

“Like Maester Melaquin?”

“Sure, why not?” he shrugs his shoulders, wondering how would Maekar assume that his son prefers to leave any weapon aside “There are sons from most of the Great Houses that are or have been maesters.”

The child seems to fight to look at him instead of the floor.

“Are you not mad?”

That simple question makes him sigh, realizing how far Maekar and he have gone with the passing of time. They are not mere lads anymore.

“Of course I’m not mad. Your uncles don’t like swordplay, and it does not matter, I still love them and care for them.” Not too far from where they are, the sight of a white cloak calls his attention “Any news, ser Willem?”

“Aye, m’lord.” The youngest of all the Kingsguards, a lad of no more than two-and-twenty, approaches them and stands to attention “A meeting of the Small Council. The King wishes you to attend, m’lord.”

Uncle and nephew exchange looks, and Baelor puts a funny face to the kid, making him smile.

“That’s better” he stands up and shakes the dust from his clothes, specially his pants; it would be a shame to stain with dirt the fancy chairs of the chamber of the Small Council “Go and play with your brother. When the session has finished we’ll get to talk to your grandsire and tell him about your idea.” He can’t help but mess little Aemon’s hair like he likes to do with his own children “Let’s go, ser Willem.” He starts walking and the knight rushes to catch him “Let’s not make His Grace wait.”

They make their way towards the Council Chamber, and the castle seems to be unconnected to reality, far from the thought of a possible oncoming war. Echoes of the last conversation with Daemon Blackfyre come to his head as he climbs the steps towards their destination.

‘I will take what it’s mine, nephew. I will be greater than the Conqueror ever was.’

He frowns as they both stop by the entrance of the council chamber. Taking a deep breath to clear his mind and keep himself as much sober and positive as he can, he opens the doors, leaving the young Kingsguard behind. The lords and advisors inside look up as Baelor enters, their discussions halting abruptly.

“My lords.” he greets as he takes a seat by the King’s left side “Father.” Father and son exchange quick looks, and his intuition tells him the meeting does not bring a menace to the Seven Kingdoms “Well, what is all the fuss about?”

Silence.

As he gets comfortable, his gaze crosses ser Roland Crakehall, Commander of the Kingsguard and close ally. Baelor keeps him in high esteem since his childhood, when he was the first to train him in the courtyard, disobeying Quentyn Ball’s opinion. Who could blame him? The master-at-arms brought by his lord father years ago was prone to give advantage to the then king’s natural sons instead of his own grandson. Ser Roland shrugs his shoulders, and the clanking of his armor threatens to echo in the room. None of them have no clue about the reason of them all gathered there.

The King clears his throat, breaking the tension that has suddenly filled the space.

"Thank you all for coming," his voice is firm but tinged with weariness “there are news about the ‘Blackfyre Rebellion’, as it has reached my ears.” Daeron glances at his half-brother, who is sitting almost in front of him, with a straight back and both hands on his lap, patient. The image of a predator comes to Baelor’s mind as he puts his eyes upon Brynden Rivers.

“The late king Aegon promised his son Daemon Waters the chance to take a second wife, following the Valyrian tradition.” his voice is modulated and for a moment Baelor doubts if he ever blinks “Your Grace king Daeron, here present, denied him that chance as soon as he got crowned, and the matter had fallen into oblivion, but we have news that there are eyes observing the maids or widows of the Great Houses in search for a potential second wife.”

“So what?” he finds himself saying “He aims to be as good as Aegon the Conqueror, and taking another wife will get the opposition of everybody in the Realm. The last king who dared to do such thing was Maegor the Cruel, and we all know how it ended.” as he speaks, he reaffirms himself with the movements of his hands, unconsciously using them to give the rest the image of decision he always wanted to give as heir to his father “There are no dragons to destroy the lands, and a good army can be formed in any time.”

A subtle nod from ser Roland is enough for him to have a tiny warm feeling inside his chest. He can always count with his appreciated white cloaks.

“My prince,” Mace Redwyne’s double chin trembles as he speaks “I am afraid things are not that easy…”

Baelor Targaryen raises an eyebrow, slightly tilting his head.

“I don’t follow you, lord Redwyne.”

The Master of Ships could be quite annoying some times.

“Son,” his father’s voice catches him unarmed “we must discuss matters of succession.”

A cackle echoes on the room. Out of all the Small Council, only ser Roland seems to match Baelor’s mood, even if it is fighting back a smile.

“Nonsense.” Father and son exchange looks “There’s me, and then Valarr and Matarys. I am not even counting the possible heirs they can have. After me goes Aerys, and then Rhaegel and Aelor. And are you even forgetting Maekar and his boys?” as he talks, Baelor can see in his father’s eyes the incertitude he and his siblings had been raised by that man. With a small tilt of his head being answered by the king’s clenched jaw he gets all confirmation. “You can’t be serious…”

“We have a war at our gates, nephew,” he doesn’t turn to face Bloodraven, choosing instead to hold his father’s gaze as a sort of defiance or reprimand “and let’s be honest, out of all that list, the only fit to sit on the throne are you and your eldest boy. Even Maekar if he manages to handle his temper. Matarys is too malleable, and so is Rhaegel. Do you even want to have a bunch of regents feasting over Aelor, Aemon or Aegon?”

Nobody dares to speak.

Baelor hates to agree with any of them in that specific matter, but he would not like to face a rule by Aerys, who does not want to bed poor Aelinor Penrose nor to get an annulment, or Aerion setting everything on flames. Truth be told, he has no escape.

“Tell me you don’t want me to sentence any lady to give birth heir after heir only for the chance of Daemon and his crew slaying us all.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to do it.

Out of all the men present at the meeting, the only one who could try and convince him is his father, and only because Baelor knows well the torture he lived under his own father Aegon the Unworthy.

“I would not dare to make you dishonor the memory of Jena.”

“Duty made me marry her, father, do not forget it. I liked her, I cherished her, but I did not love her.” something inside him twists at the memory of the redheaded Marcher “Not as she should have been loved.”

Ambrose Butterwell, his father’s Hand, starts talking about different houses that would have women who could possibly be a suitable wife for him, and all Baelor can do in that moment is to picture the daughter of the lord of Storm’s End. He even allows himself to close his eyes for a moment, recreating in his mind the bright of the Stormlander sun in her hair, showing different shades of black. The memory of her laughter brings a rare warmth to his heart, one he has grown used to and even finds certain pleasure in.

Baelor snaps out of his reverie just as Butterwell’s voice cuts through his thoughts sharply, suggesting a marriage with Otho Bracken’s sister, widow of ser Elmer Frey with six children, that can almost get interpreted as an offense.

For the first time in ages, Baelor can hear Brynden Rivers’ fight back a guffaw.

“With all due respect, Butterwell, you are a pathetic little man and you should not be sitting here with us.”

Despite his respect for his uncle, he has always been quite distant with him, but in that moment he can’t be any closer.

“Enough you two.” he takes a deep breath before turning to face his father again, observing ser Roland fighting back a chuckle. “If I must remarry again, I shall choose the lady and be the one to talk to her.” King Daeron’s face shows a mix between amusement and irritation “I choose lady Alysanne Baratheon.” A tense silence fills the room following Baelor's declaration.

“House Baratheon has no suitable maid to be a queen consort.”

“Says who?” a raised eyebrow in Baelor’s face challenges the rest of the men in the chamber.

“The actions of lady Alysanne’s great aunts, my prince.”

A snort of amusement.

“And my own father was a disgrace and a cunt, Butterwell, and it does not mean that our king or his heir, presents here both of them, are to be as disastrous as he was.” Brynden Rivers, the last people Baelor expected to have as a defender of his will, modulates his voice to almost echo in the place “With his choice, prince Baelor keeps the Stormlands close, and the strength of one of the most effective armies in the whole Seven Kingdoms.”

...

By the time he realizes where he is, his steps have already driven him towards his destination. As he opens the door after a soft knocking, a pair of big indigo eyes look at him, accompanied of a soft smile in a clean shaven face.

“Do you like storms, brother?”

He should he used to Rhaegel’s dragon dreams, but this time the question catches him with his guard lowered. He hesitates for a moment, looking at his brother with a mixture of curiosity and concern, even tempted to ask if he knew something about the council meeting. A hint of a crooked smile decides to answer him.

“What did you dream?”

After closing the door behind him, he approaches the table where his brother, the third son of Daeron the Good and Myriah Martell, the only other child apart from himself to share any trait of Dornish blood and the one whom he feels most comfortable with, takes a look at a book with clear interest. Taking a chair, he sits in front of him, observing each and every movement and quirk.

“A red dragon flying towards the greatest storm ever.” his voice just a mumble, his eyes scanning quickly each and every letter on the volume.

“I do like storms,” he finds himself saying as he tries his best to read any piece of that text able to attract Rhaegel’s interest “but what about the dragon?” the youngest of the siblings shrugs his shoulders “Red as our arms?”

“Possibly. I do not know.”

He was just a boy when he knew about those kind of dreams, when little Rhaegel used to wake up from time to time scared, with a myriad of questions fighting to get out of him and find any answer. Each time, he felt a mix of helplessness and determination, wanting to protect his younger brother from the ominous fates those dreams foretold, learning how to deal with his restlessness and spending as much time with him as he could trying to help him give any kind of meaning to the visions.

“What are you reading about?" he huffs, knowing well the reason he has gone there in the first place "I just got out of a council meeting. They want me to marry again. It seems there are not enough valid candidates in case something happens to me or Valarr.”

“I don’t want the throne. Nor the council. I don’t know those people.” he blinks twice before raising his gaze to meet his “Marry again? With who?”

“They kept suggesting different ladies. I told them I want to propose to lady Alysanne Baratheon.”

“Storm’s End.” Rhaegel mutters, distracted for a second, slightly frowning.

“That’s right."

“Do you think the storm of the dream has to do anything with her?”

“It can be.”

His brother’s brow furrows, thoughtful, and Baelor knows he has to give him time. Silence fills the room as Rhaegel searches for the right words, inches away from an epiphany or dismissing the connection entirely.

“Do you know her?” Baelor shrugs his shoulders, and Rhaegel puts a face, not fully understanding.

“I met her in a tourney some time ago,” his mind drives him to that sunny day “Rickard Baratheon’s eldest grandchild was born and he held a hastilude. She was there, with those bright eyes of hers and a very sad smile. I asked her for her favour, and— I swear I would have killed a giant to be able to caress that hair, Rhaegel. I mean it. She is so—”

“You are smiling.” it takes Baelor a moment to realize his younger brother’s observation “Is it a happy smile?”

“Aye” he bites his lower lip, feeling again that warmth inside his chest.

“Then I think you should do what makes you happy.”

#bscs2 #baelor breakspear fic #baelor breakspear fanfic #original character x baelor breakspear targaryen #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf fic #a song of ice and fire fic #a song of ice and fire fanfic #akotsk fanfic #akotsk fic #a knight of the seven kingdoms fanfic #a knight of the seven kingdoms fic

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thetormentita · 30 days ago

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broken spear, crowned storm - chapter 2

peace is something so valuable yet so fragile.

Pairing: Original female! Baratheon x Baelor 'Breakspear' Targaryen

A/n: let's put some order into the Baratheon family tree! Valarr is just some jeaaaalous boy

Rate: Teen (+13)

“So, you are leaving.”

He doesn’t turn to face his own son, who had eluded every single white cloak or guard to, apparently, lecture him.

“Aye, just for a few days. Apparently I still have to make sure there are enough heirs to the throne in case you and I die.”

A moment of silence. Possibly the same thoughts he had during the meeting run through young Valarr’s mind.

“But there are enough! Mataerys, your brothers and their sons as well! How can—?”

His eyes spot the silken cloth, soft to the touch, with a small prancing stag embroided in it, resting in his cupboard, away from the rest of the world, and he takes it, carefully, before turning to face his son.

“I love my family with all my heart, starting with you and your brother, but you know as well as I do that things may twist, and the sort of ideal situation of our house may turn to ashes in case Daemon Blackfyre decides to start a war.”

Valarr Targaryen clenches his jaw, clearly upset at his father's words but understanding the gravity of the situation. The room is tense, the air thick with unspoken fears and the heavy burden of responsibility.

“Where are you going then?”

“Storm’s End. We need support, and right now the strongest army lies there. The Baratheons are proud, and possibly difficult to handle, but Lyonel Baratheon will not reject a good fight, and they will be flattered to host a Targaryen prince under his roof.”

“And how do you know they will accept? You look really sure, father.”

A sigh escapes his lips, a hint of longing and determination in it.

“It seems our house still has the need of heirs, and I will propose to lord Lyonel’s sister” clear surprise makes his eldest child raise both eyebrows, fighting to find any word to answer. “The lady Alysanne is a widow, married young to the then lord of Highgarden. I met her at the hastlitude of Storm’s End, some moons before the pasing of his then husband and a year after your mother’s.” Baelor bites his cheek, giving himself a moment to find the words he needs. “I do not intend to replace your mother with her, be aware of that. Lady Alysanne has gone through three pregnancies and with proper care here in King’s Landing she may be able to go through more and give birth to the heirs so seeked for your grandsire.”

He tries his best to hide his feelings towards the Stormlander, basically because he doesn’t know how she will react, but to think of her as a mere brood mare makes him sick.

“Did any of those pregnancies—?”

“I spoke with Bloodraven. Apparently she had a tough time as the lady of Highgarden and none of them were successful.”

“How can you be so sure that here she will start giving birth to babies?”

Baelor sees disconfort on his son’s eyes, and he can’t blame him. He may have felt the same if his own father had told him that he was to propose to another woman after lady Myriah’s passing.

“Intuition, my boy.”

Deep down, he refuses to recognize that a small part of him denies to accept that he is indeed scared of the future. Jena’s death had been hard, specially for both his sons, and created a necessity inside him he did not even know it existed. He had tried to fulfill it with his own duties and his family, sticking close to them, as if he was the concrete to keep the wall together.

But none had been there for him at that extreme. Nor they would be.

“I— I want to go there with you.”

“Valarr…”

“I want to, father.”

...

As soon as they leave the hut, claps of thunder announce the arrival of one of the biggest storms of the season. Despite being tradition in the Stormlands to pass each and every Autumn witnessing the destruction caused by the weather, they grew up used to it, and made to endure.

“We must hurry, m’lady. Maester Theomore said this one is going to be huge.”

Echoes of thunder along the bay give her goosebumps.

"Come on, let's get moving then," she approaches her mare and leaves the folded parchment in one of the pockets of the leathered saddle, carefully wrapping it first in a cloth to protect it from a possible wetting. One of the guards quickly reaches her side and helps her mount the palfrey, getting a polite and considered thank in exchange

As they leave the little fishermen village of Dawncoast behind, she closes her eyes for a second, enjoying the chill breeze announcing rainfall. With only the sound of the horses’ hoofs against the floor, and the branches of the trees dancing in a way that seems they are invoking tempest, Alysanne Baratheon can feel how each and every worry leaves her body, finally being able to be herself after all those years of pretending. She lifts her face just in time for the first raindrop to hit her cheek, smiling softly to herself. Shehad always found solace in the rain, a rare moment of peace amidst the chaotic world she inhabited.

A thunderclap echoes in the bay, as if the gods themselves were about to start a war.

Despite their efforts to avoid it, the downpour reaches their position sooner than any of them expected. Rain soaks through their cloaks, but Alysanne doesn’t mind. She is more than pleased with raindrops rolling down her skin.

When she was just a child, her lady mother used to tell her tales of old, legends of how the gods of the sea and thunder modeled those lands and its people, how their ancient seat, one of the most ancient fortresses ever built in the Seven Kingdoms, was built with spells, and promises of love, and bravery and defiance. Lady Elinor had cared for her four little stags as the most loving mother, but for her she kept a special tenderness, a recognition of the wild spirit and fierce heart that mirrored her own.

They are bordering the Howling Hill when a sudden lightning flash illuminates the landscape, turning their surroundings into a stark contrast of shadow and light.

“Fifty stags on your brothers getting mad at us, my lady.”

A cackle. Famed is the temper of the prancing stags, and still their own household has not get used to manage it for their own good. Alysanne is the youngest of them, the most accessible in times like these, and the one the guards and maids think they can trust when time comes to placate the fury of her kin.

The silhouette of the ancient seat of the Storm Kings shows itself, proud and untouchable. Its towering walls stand as a testament to time and tradition, drenched now by the heavens, but unwavering still. Aly nudges her mare forward, her eyes straining through the downpour to catch a clear view of the castle's gates, and before she can even notice, she has her escort surround her as a sort of unneeded protection.

Thunder rumbles in the distance as they approach the towering gates, half-anticipating the reprimand waiting for them inside.

“Open the gates! Open the gates for the Lady Alysanne!” the other guard shouts, and the guards upon the walls of the fortress rush to obey, maybe expecting a roar of anger from the youngest of the Baratheon siblings.

The rain goes heavier as they cross the fortress’ gates, the relentless drops soaking them to the bone. Once inside, Alysanne shivers, instinctively drawing the wet cape tighter around her shoulders with little effect, her mind only thinking of sitting by a flaming hearth and asking for some broth to warm her chilled bones.

“You just couldn’t wait, could you? You had to go out and risk getting sick” Lyonel Baratheon’s voice rings out, echoing off the stone walls of the hall. His blue eyes scan her with a hint of annoyance as some maids approach to take their dripping cloaks. “What were you thinking about?”

“It had to be done” she shrugs her shoulders, her piercing gaze meeting his, a clash of storms inside the very fortress that saw them grow up. “If we make haste, by the time Winter comes we will only have to worry about getting enough log for the hearths.”

Lyonel huffs, his frustration tempered by the understanding of Alysanne's relentless determination. Their father used to jest about them both being twins despite one being the oldest and the other the youngest of the siblings, and only the years she spent far from Storm’s End managed to soften the now Lord Paramount.

“Go and get changed before you catch a chill,” Lyonel insists, a touch of softness creeping into his tone as he raises a hand pointing to the stairs leading to her chambers. “We will talk later.”

Alysanne gives a curt nod before making her way up the stairs, her boots leaving wet prints on the ancient stone steps. The servants around her try their best to not slip and fall as she dishevels her hair, dripping wet, with little care. Once inside her chambers, Alysanne sheds her damp clothes, wrapping herself in a thick, woolen blanket by the fire as Rielle, her lady mother’s former maid opens the dresser and picks some clothes, leaving them over the bed for her to choose.

“Lord Lyonel was only worried for you, my lady,” Rielle speaks gently, tucking a lock of hair behind Alysanne's ear with maternal care, the old Riverlander being the only one allowed to look upon them all, carelessly roaming the fortress as if the stags were his own offspring. “Autumn storms are always unpredictable, and he cares deeply for you.”

Her gaze meets the woman’s dark eyes, silently, as in some kind of understanding. Compelled by Rielle's warmth, Alysanne softens, grinning faintly.

“If it were for him I would just rot by the window, sewing as the world outside forgets that I even exist.”

The woman’s tender hand upon her cheek comes as a surprise, but she finds herself leaning against the touch, swearing that if she closed her eyes the feel would be pretty similar to her mother’s.

“He’s not to blame, you know. His concerns come from love,” Rielle reminds her softly, and she has to give up, because that woman took active part in the birth of them all and nursed them against her breast anytime they felt like.

“Aly.”

He doesn’t even bother to knock, because Gowen knows she seldom locks her door— a habit, she suspects, left over from childhood. He steps into the room, shadows from the corridor clinging to his form like a cloak, the sound of his boots muted on the thick carpet as she gets her hair dried with a cloth by one of the maids.

“What is it?” Her voice is sharper than intended, but the storm outside makes her uneasy, and Gowen's abrupt entrance hasn't helped. For a moment she thinks she should apologise, because Gowen means no harm, he is still that young lad who had given her a dagger for her to protect herself on her way to Highgarden because none of her brothers could be there for her.

“The guards have spotted riders coming towards our gates.”

“So what? Give them shelter if they're weary or turn them away if they're not welcome," she replies, setting the cloth aside and slipping off the seat, her feet driving her towards the bed as she puts on the clothes picked by Rielle: a simple yet elegant gown of deep green wool, enough to spend the rest of the day locked in the fortress.

“They bear the king’s colours.”

Still with her hair wet, she pauses, looking back at Gowen with a mixture of disbelief and urgency until his words really reach her, making her rush out of her chambers, barefoot, only to quickly return to slip her feet in a pair of soft leather shoes. She hurries down the corridors, the echoes of distant thunder mirroring the drumbeat of her heart. Close to her rushes his brother, the youngest of the sons of the late Rickard Baratheon, who joins her as they near the main hall. His eyes, a sharp contrast to their stormy surroundings, carry the same urgency as hers. They only stop by the stairs, when the sight of the newcomers leaves her breathless.

Her eyes spot half a dozen men, all well armed but not well dressed for an Autumn south of the Kingswood. It takes her a moment to recognize the man leading them, the chiseled features and intense gaze unmistakable, once buried into the depths of her memories.

“Baelor Breakspear,” she breathes, a name almost forgotten as it rolls off her tongue, and the inquisitive blue eyes of her cherished Gowen meet hers, reflecting a mixture of confusion and excitement; now they would not have the need to discuss their preparations for the oncoming cold.

Once her heart settles, she keeps on with her path, quickly descending the stairs to join the group gathered in the hall as she keeps ordering the servants to prepare spare rooms for their unexpected guests. As she approaches, Baelor's eyes meet hers with a flicker of recognition, and a hint of a smile plays at the corners of his lips, making her heart skip a beat.

“Your Highness.” She curtsies once she reaches Lyonel, whose face reflects the same mixture of perplexity and curiosity as Gowen’s, and possibly hers as well. “Be welcome to our home.”

Baelor Targaryen inclines his head respectfully, his demeanor powerful yet carrying a weary grace. The man could compete with Lyonel, being only just a few inches shorter than her eldest brother, who keeps his hands at his back, trying to maintain his dignified posture despite the evident surprise.

She doesn’t recall the wetness of her hair until Lyonel’s side glance, quick as his sword, traces a drop falling from her temple.

“It seems the rain has caught us all off guard,” he observes, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “We are most thankful for your hospitality on such short notice.” His voice carries a warmth that matches the fire crackling nearby, and she finds herself oddly drawn to the depth of his gaze.

“Our doors are always open to those in need,” it is Lyonel’s time to show himself as the host he never expected to be. Clearly missing his bedridden wife, sweet Marya, he almost forcibly leans on her, trying to show their guests that Storm’s End did not forget hospitality after the Dance of the Dragons. “Come by the fire. Allow us to prepare hot water tubs in your rooms and some dry clothes before supper.”

The Crown Prince exchanges looks with a young lad as the rest of the party gladly obey. She notices how the young lad's eyes mirror the storm outside, a mixture of awe and expectation.

“What do we owe the honour to have you under our roof, Your Grace?”

Alysanne raises an eyebrow at Gowen, not noticing Lyonel’s simillar gesture. None of them had expected him to drop the big question.

“There are state matters that need to be discussed” Baelor hesitates only for a moment before responding, his voice steady despite the unexpected inquiry. “The Crown has a soft spot for the Stormlands and its fierce loyalty, and one of our goals is to ensure it lasts for at least another century.”

She realizes the gaze of the young man upon her, almost with a lack of decorum, only leaving her to observe her brothers, as a sort of analysis of them three. Only when her eyes spot the three headed dragon brooch upon his clothes she realizes that Baelor has not traveled alone.

“With your permission, we would like to go straight to the point, lord Baratheon.”

The lad stands straight, his stance reflecting a mixture of Lyonel’s and Baelor’s, as if he himself wanted to display an aura of authority.

“Then do speak your mind.“ Lyonel raises both eyebrows, almost urging them to reveal the purpose of their trip and spare them the formalities. Baelor exchanges a glance with his companion before nodding, silent, and place his dark eyes upon Alysanne.

"Our interest lies in the unification of our Houses," Baelor continues, his gaze unyielding and intent. “The Crown wants to count with the Stormlands in case of future wars to come, and with lady Alysanne to be its future Queen.”

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