The Reddened Hands

High above them, the sky darkened. In mere moments, it was no longer high above them. It was hanging low, clouds bumping into each other and allowing them a full view of their ominously grey maws. Droplets of rain started falling, swirling fiercely and hitting the travellers in the face quite viciously, although they were quite sparse yet. But the torrential rain would follow soon, no doubt. In the Prince's experience with the weather around here, it always did. Rain, thunders, wind that sought to drag one straight into the sea – that was the life the people of the Stormlands were blessed with.

"We have to seek shelter at Storms' End," one of the knights said.

Duncan Targaryen grinded his teeth, his eyes going to the castle that he could still discern despite the swiftly gathering darkness. If he had been alone, he would have preferred to let the storm take him than ask for help there! But he could not risk Jenny's life, or the lives of those accompanying them.

"That's what we're going to do," he said reluctantly, urging his horse.

They reached the great gates freezing with wet cold. It still didn't stop Jenny from staring with fascination and fear at the mighty walls, the gates at both ends of the archway that were so far away from each other that they traveled along the width of the wall in utter darkness, the door opened right in front of them across the quadrangle as if inviting them to enter a witch's lair at their own risk.

"It's so… majestic," she whispered.

"It is," Duncan agreed, bracing for the encounter. As a boy, he had visited here with the court often. He had been a friend then. He held no illusions what reception he would find now.

But I will see Rhaelle, as well. Three years had passed since his little sister had been sent here to appease the Baratheons and for all this time, they had only received letters from the maester of Storms' End. Very rarely had they been accompanied by a line or two in Rhaelle's own, still clumsy hand. His mother had tried to arrange a visit, only to be rebuffed with cold courtesy by House Baratheon. They had finally sunken their claws on a royal and they wouldn't let her out of their sight…

The man who met them in the great hall was now older, his hair grizzled, his face lined but he was every ounce as fierce and proud as he had been in Duncan's childhood. All of a sudden, the Prince was overcome by the memory of those strong hands lifting him high up, so he could take the sun down. How they had scuffled on the floor and somehow, Lord Lyonel always ended up the defeated. I was so proud that I bested him. The memory almost made Duncan smile before he remembered that whatever affection Lyonel Baratheon had felt for him once was now long gone.

"You were lucky," the Lord of Storm's End said. "The storm will be a savage one. If it had caught you out in the open…"

"Go to our maester," a young woman said, turning to one of Jenny's attendants. "I'll have you taken there. You need help."

Duncan was about to say that they needn't bother, that the girl was fine but the gratitude in her eyes made him reconsider. She was feeling unwell and the woman had felt it despite the lack of outward telling signs. "Thank you," he said, and she nodded curtly.

"Does anyone else need some special accommodations?" she asked, looking at their people. "I've already given orders as to their quartering."

No one said anything. "I think not. Thank you, Lady…?" He let his voice trail questioningly.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly but this slice of a moment was all he needed to realize just how unforgivably he had slipped. If he should need confirmation, he found it in the barely contained rage in Lord Lyonel's eyes, the gasps all around.

He felt blood rising to his cheeks. The blue eyes and black hair should have been a deadly clue. But she was so different from the fat, colourless girl that he remembered, the girl who clearly felt uncomfortable in her own skin, clumsy and halting in her socializing. Now, she was beautiful, confident, the perfect lady in all things. She even pretended that she hadn't noticed his appalling mistake by saying easily, "I am pleased that you found Storms' End just in time before someone got hurt."

He tried to remember what her name now was. She was still Jocelyn, of course, but she had wed one of her father's bannermen and for the life of his, Duncan could not remember his name. He had never been too interested in what became of her after the broken betrothal.

"Come on," she now urged. "I'll show you to your chambers."

Her mother was clearly absent if she was to play hostess. But she did not live here any more, did she? Duncan decided that he would have to ask Rhaelle about the affairs in this castle… which reminded him that she had yet to come to greet him. "You're most kind, my lady," he said. "But I'd like to see my sister first. As you might remember, it's been years since I last looked upon her," he added, with a meaningful look at Lord Lyonel.

The Laughing Storm only shrugged. As far as he was concerned, Duncan Targaryen had relinquished the right to have any grievances of his addressed. And while with time, Rhaelle had revealed to be a girl after Lyonel's own heart, one could never be too wary. After all, he had been fond of Duncan once, as well.

"My cupbearer has duties to attend to," he said. "I expect that she'd be keeping us company at supper."

For a wild moment, Duncan thought that if he saw his little sister waiting on the table he was to dine at, he'd lunge for Baratheon's throat, no matter what. Having a misdeed atoned was one thing but mistreating and deliberately humiliating a young girl who had done nothing wrong was another matter altogether.

It turned out that he didn't have to restrain himself. As they entered the hall and took their places, he saw that there was an empty seat right next to him. "Princess Rhaelle begs to be excused," Jocelyn said, raising her voice to be heard over an especially vicious attack of the storm outside. "She doesn't feel very well and sends her regrets for being unable to join us."

As if! Of all things that could be said about Rhaelle, being sickly was the very last one. And skipping a meal? Such a thing never happened. It simply did not. Rhaelle was always hungry and always on the move. Never sick. But of course, he couldn't say it aloud. Instead, he decided to investigate once the supper was over. The rising feeling that they were hiding her made the meal a very long one indeed.

All of a sudden, he felt that he couldn't wait a minute more. He rose and excused himself, hoping that they'd think he was going to the latrine. Instead, he headed for the west part of the castle where he thought Rhaelle might dwell.

He didn't make all the distance. In the long gallery on the second floor, the sheen of silver hair caught his eye immediately. Since most of the shutters were closed, the echo in the space encased in stone was loud and clear. Still, he wouldn't recognize the voice as his sister's – in those years apart, it had changed and deepened. The torches lit dimples in a face twisting in goofy expressions to amuse the toddler she was walking around. Not a trace of illness. Just as Duncan had expected.

"And now, we're going to fly to the eye of the storm," Rhaelle announced and lifted the little boy high, pretending that she was flying him through the only window that was not protected with a closed shutter. He squealed in excitement. "Isn't it lovely?" the girl went on. "We love storms, don't we?"

He started nodding eagerly. "Dagon!" he cried out happily and Duncan heard how Rhaelle's voice changed.

"No," she said. "No, brave knight, you aren't a dragon. No matter your name, you are storm itself. And it's better this way. Dragons cannot be trusted. They take what they want and let others pay the price. They only cause fire and blood, care for no one but their own desires…"

Duncan had the feeling that Rhaelle had drilled a hole into him and she was now dragging his insides out through it. It hadn't been a plot of the Baratheons to keep her away from him. She had not wished to come. She no longer wanted to meet her brother.

But he couldn't blame her. Not at all. Grown-ups were less vulnerable for being influenced. But Rhaelle, in all her innocence, had spent her most important years here, surrounded by people who resented her family, with no one to counter their influence. In this moment, Duncan resented their willfulness to do anything to please the Baratheons, including sending Rhaelle here all alone, with no one to remind her of the life she had left behind. Now, her family felt foreign to her. And those people here, the intruders – they might be actually dear to her heart… His fists bunched against his sides. Before he knew it, he had stepped forward. "Do you really think those things?" he asked, stepping into the light.

A sharp intake of air was the only sign that he had startled her. "Were you eavesdropping on me?" she asked icily, too icily for a girl of eleven namedays. "You were eavesdropping on me playing with a babe?"

"Who is he?" Duncan asked. "I thought you were a cupbearer, not a nursemaid."

Rhaelle shrugged. In the torchlight, the beautiful woman she would turn into was visible. "He's Jocelyn's," he said. "And while I am not his nursemaid, we like each other just fine. He's upset that his mother can't play with him so much now that she's with child again, so he clings to me" she added, and Duncan wondered whether it was an innocent remark, or a mocking reference to the fact that in the four years of their marriage, Jenny had never quickened with child. The thought that they might have changed Rhaelle so, poisoned her mind in such a way was enough to cause boiling rage erupting in him but he also remembered the confused eyes of the child who had left the Red Keep saying, "But it isn't fair! I didn't do anything! I was a good girl! Duncan broke it, so he should mend it. It's only fair" over and over again. And he wasn't so sure what had happened any more.

"Do you really think so?" he asked again.

She gave him a look of such disbelief that she didn't need to say the words.

"Rhaelle," he said, his heart pounding. "You aren't being fair. Father didn't send you here because he didn't care. It was for the realm. Blame me if you want to…"

"I want to," she cut him off, her eyes flashing. "There is enough blame for all of you to share freely, believe me. But I really don't want to discuss it now. I…"

"Not like im," the little boy suddenly announced, looking straight at Duncan, and then turned to Rhaelle for approval.

She laughed and nuzzled his head. "That's right, brave knight. We don't like him. You're so clever. No," she said sharply when chubby fingers started pulling at her hair. The glint of scarlet made Duncan stare harder. The hand that was opening the boy's small one was rough, reddened, with tiny drops of blood.

"What happened?" he asked. Her other hand looked no better. Those were the hands of a washerwoman, not a cupbearer, let alone a princess.

His sister followed his look and shrugged. "It's nothing. I've been carrying firewood for the hearths. It'll have scarred by tomorrow."

Once again, anger choked him, making him almost turn round to go back to Lyonel Baratheon and call him to account before smashing his head against the mighty walls of his own massive castle. "You carry firewood?"

Rhaelle didn't blink. "I also wash clothes, help in the kitchen, clean the rooms… Oh!" she added, suddenly recognizing what he thought. "No, it isn't something that's forced on me. It's just a habit. I enjoy doing it. When I first came here, the servants were the only ones who didn't look at me with resentment."

This time, it was his own head that Duncan wanted to smash against the nearest wall. He could vividly imagine what her life here had been like if she had had to buy acceptance that she had been ready to injure herself doing chores she had never touched in her life. And the sight of those small reddened hands filled him with such shame and regret that even the sight of all those corpses hadn't.