When We Were Orphans
The pact would be sealed by the marriage of King Argilac's daughter to Orys Baratheon, Lord Aegon's childhood friend and champion. These terms Argilac the Arrogant rejected angrily. Orys Baratheon was a baseborn half-brother to Lord Aegon, it was whispered, and the Storm King would not dishonor his daughter by giving her hand to a bastard. The very suggestion enraged him. Argilac had the hands of Aegon's envoy cut off and returned to Dragonstone in a box. "These are the only hands your bastard shall have of me," he wrote. (The World of Ice and Fire sample)
A marriage that could have been, the marriage that actually was. (Orys, Argella, and the story of Aegon's Conquest)
Argella
The storm was battering the castle again, ferocious and unforgiving in its intensity. But Storm's End endured; it had always endured, since the day Durran Godsgrief had it built. To defy the gods, they said, but it was more to protect himself from their wrath, Argella suspected.
Imagine marrying a man your father and mother so loathed they would not cease trying to kill him (and perhaps even their own daughter, for Elenei was always present by Durran's side in every castle her parents destroyed), even after you have been wedded to this man for many, many years. But then Elenei and her parents were no mere mortals. The gods, Argella knew, played by very different rules, then and now.
Argella was tracing the progress of raindrops on the window with her fingers when her father walked into the solar. He was in his nightclothes, lacking his cloak or even a mantle. His hair, his famous mane of black hair, now sadly grown grey and sparse, was looking disarranged and unruly. Her father had grown old, and frustrated. The sons he had hoped for never came, his only child and heir a young unmarried maiden. Argilac Durrendon the Storm King, whose battle prowess had been legendary; he now watched with fury as his hand shook trying to lift a goblet of wine.
Time was a cruel master, sparing no one. Not even Argella's proud father.
If only he had a son. Someone to lead men into battle in his stead.
And self-doubt a cruel mistress.
Argella had never been trained in arms. Her father had not allowed it. He had been convinced that he would be blessed with a son, eventually. His only daughter was to be trained in all the womanly arts and graces, to make her a worthy prize in the game of marriages and political alliances.
"I can hear them. I can hear them in my sleep," Argilac grumbled under his breath, to no one in particular.
Relieved that no one else was in the solar to witness her father's distress, Argella made her way closer to her father, reaching for his hand. "What can you hear, Father? The rain? Or was it the thunder disturbing your sleep?"
"No, no, no," he replied impatiently, frowning with irritation. "The hammers, the axes. Clack clacking. Building Harren's monstrosity of a castle. Harrenhal! Harrenhal, I ask you. The arrogance and the vanity of the man. Even our glorious ancestor did not name this castle Durranhall. And Durran had defied the gods themselves. Who has Harren defied?"
Most of the kings and lords in the Seven Kingdoms, her father included, if the stories were to be believed. But now was not a good time to point that out to her father.
"Only a man with disputed antecedents would wish to proclaim his personal glory so loudly. That's what you said, Father," Argella replied, trying to calm her father.
"He will come. Oh he will come. Once his vanity castle is completed, he will think it safe to venture further and further into our land. He will rob and plunder as he pleases."
"And you will resist him."
Argilac shook his head violently. "No, not on my own. Once I might have. But not now. Something else must be done, or we will lose everything. I will not sit by while our lands continue to decline day by day. I will not go down in the pages of history as the Storm King who lost the Stormlands."
The decline had been going on for generations, in truth, beginning centuries ago with Durrendon ancestors whose names Argella had to read up in the history books. Once the Storm Kings ruled the whole of the eastern half of Westeros, from Cape Wrath to the Bay of Crabs. Then the Kings of the Reach came from the west to challenge the dominion of House Durrendon, the Dornishmen pestered them from the south, and more recently, Harren the Black and his ironborn expelled them from the Trident and the lands north to Blackwater Rush. The Stormlands, and the dominion of the Storm King, were dwindling more and more.
Her father had been the one who arrested this decline, for some time, at least; turning back a Dornish invasion as a young man, and killing the King of the Reach in the Battle of Summerfield. But now Argilac was old and weary, with no son to take up his mantle in war. What he had was a daughter, a prize worthy of a marriage alliance.
The match must be with Harren, Argella thought, shuddering. Harren the Black. Harren the Cruel. What would it be like marrying such a man, she wondered?
I could slip something in his food. Or his wine goblet. But first I would have to gain his trust. I must act as a loyal, if not loving, wife, until the opportunity comes to be rid of him.
"I will wed whoever it is you command me to wed, Father. For the sake of House Durrendon. Even if it is Harren."
Argilac looked up with horror. "No, child, I would never consider you marrying that monster. Never! In any case, it would do us no good. That would not stop him plundering our lands. Once I am dead, Harren will declare himself the Storm King and put you to death, or imprison you in his dungeon, count on that. Someone else. Someone who could defeat even Harren. Someone with dragons. The Lord of Dragonstone."
"Aegon Targaryen? But he is already married. Twice, in fact."
Argilac scoffed. "Married to his sisters in that strange Valyrian tradition? Not a real marriage according to our customs and traditions. He could take another wife, a real wife in the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms."
Aegon Targaryen, a descendant of old Valyria, probably did think of his sister-wives as his real wives, Argella thought. "Why would he wish to wed me? The Targaryens are obsessed with keeping their bloodline pure."
"It would mean that his descendants will be the Storm Kings one day. That must be a sufficient inducement to tempt any man. And the lands I mean to offer him as your dower lands, they would give him a foothold in Westeros."
The lands east of the Gods Eye from the Trident to the Blackwater Rush, that was what Argilac meant to offer Aegon Targaryen as Argella's dowry. Near the Gods Eye was where Harren the Black was building his monstrosity of a castle. And those lands had belonged to Harren for more than a generation, taken by force from the Storm King and the Stormlands.
"He will have to take those lands from Harren. Aegon Targaryen will not be pleased," Argella pointed out.
Her father's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps he will go to war with Harren. Or perhaps Harren will fear this dragonlord and his three dragons, and will not venture further into our territory."
Her father wanted Aegon Targaryen to serve as a bulwark between the Stormlands and Harren the Black, that much was clear.
"Why would Aegon accept this? Offer him something else, Father. Other lands, or castles. Lands that are actually yours to give, lands he would not have to go to war for. How can a dowry be something that must be taken by force?"
"I'm offering him something more precious. The hand of my beloved daughter in marriage. Why would Aegon Targaryen be foolish enough to refuse such honor?"
Orys
Orys found his lord standing over the Painted Table, tracing his fingers over Gods Eye on the carved slab. Orys had just returned from the area, scouting the progress of Harrenhal.
"How strong?" Aegon asked without any preamble; their usual way of starting any conversation.
"Ten thousand men would have trouble breeching the castle once it is completed," Orys replied.
"What about one dragon?"
Orys shrugged. "I lead your men to battle. I do not ride your dragons. You are the dragonriders, you and your sisters. You would know better."
"Or would we need all three dragons?" Aegon mused.
Orys raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean to burn the castle with its lord inside? That might make the people peevish."
Aegon met Orys' eyes. "Not Harren's people, I should think. He is not called Harren the Cruel for no reason. They will be glad to see him gone. In any case, I do not mean to do anything just yet. I will come when the people of Westeros call for me. Not before."
"Judging from their fear of Harren, that might be sooner than we think. Or has that already happened? Rhaenys told me about the envoy sent by Argilac Durrendon. The envoy is still lurking around Dragonstone waiting for your reply, supposedly."
"The Storm King, he would not have us forget. No, Argilac's envoy is long gone. I sent him back to Storm's End the very same day he delivered the message. We don't want him skulking around Dragonstone spying for Argilac. I will send our own envoy to deliver my reply," Aegon said.
"And what does this Storm King want from you?"
"He offers me his daughter's hand in marriage."
Orys had heard of the Storm King's maiden daughter. Argilla? No, Argella. Probably just as arrogant and as full of pride as her father, Orys thought. "Will you accept?" He asked.
"Rhaenys and Visenya might have something to say about that," Aegon replied dryly.
Visenya especially, Orys thought. To wed brother to sister was a Targaryen tradition, but the brother was only obliged to take one sister to wife. Visenya was the elder sister, so Aegon had done his duty by marrying her. He had married Rhaenys for love. Visenya might have been willing to accept sharing her husband with a sister she adored, but not with another woman, a woman whose bloodline was not Targaryen.
"I have no wish to take another wife. Two are … challenging enough. And take a look at the dower lands this Storm King is offering," Aegon said, his finger pointing to the specific land mass on the Painted Table.
Orys was outraged. "Those are not his lands to give. They belong to Harren now. They have not belonged to the Durrendons for a long time."
Aegon brushed off the perceived insult. "Oh he means for me to fight Harren for those lands, I'm sure. If Harren is too busy trying to defend himself against us, he can't turn his eyes towards Argilac's other lands."
"The conceit of the man! To think that he could use you in this manner."
Aegon laughed. "It's sneaky and almost brilliant, I have to admit. But I will not give him what he wants as easily as that, of course."
"What will be your terms?"
"I will not turn down the dower lands he is offering, of course. That would be rude, and foolish. But I will ask for other lands as well, for the dowry. The question is, where?" Aegon pondered.
"There," Orys said, pointing to Massey's Hook. "And the woods and plains from the Blackwater south to the river Wendwater and the headwaters of the Manders."
They would be making headway into the Stormlands, not just into Harren's territory. Aegon nodded his head with satisfaction. "Yes, that should do very well. Very well, indeed."
"And who will you offer this Storm King to wed his daughter in your place? Velaryon? Celtigar? Take care, my lord. Whoever he is, this man's son might be the Storm King someday, once he is wed to Argella Durrendon. He might start to entertain notions beyond his station, thinking that his loyalty to Lord of Dragonstone is no longer all that important. Perhaps … perhaps you should wed this storm maiden yourself."
Orys would not want to be in the same room when Visenya and Rhaenys were told, however. And love and sentiment aside, Aegon's power resided with his sister-wives as much as it did with himself and his men. Aegon alone could not ride the three dragons, and no one besides the three siblings could ride a dragon to battle. His sisters were as ferocious and as strong a fighter as he was. Aegon would do well to keep himself in their good stead.
"Or perhaps you should turn him down," Orys said, revising his counsel. There were risks and dangers waiting on either path.
"No, I will not turn him down, and I will not offer him Velaryon or Celtigar. It has to be someone else. Someone whose loyalty I do not doubt. Someone who I know will never betray me."
"Who?"
"I will offer the Storm King my own brother."
"But you don't have a broth – surely you do not mean – you cannot –"
"I will offer him my most trusted companion, my champion Orys Baratheon. The rest … no one else has to know."