Storm Untamed

As a little girl, Argella believed in the mercy of the Seven – until her father got slewed defending what had been theirs for thousands of years. Then, she believed in the cruelty of the Seven – until she got gagged and dragged out, the first time a man inflicted her pain in her life, to be thrown before the murderer like a cherished prize. And then, she believed that there were no Seven at all and that was a good thing because else she didn't know how she would have survived knowing that her gods had done this to her, inspired both the longing to clung to Orys and never let go and sometimes, the urge to claw the skin off that handsome face that kept her in its thrall.

There was never hatred burning as fierce as the hatred of a woman forced to come to love a man against her will – and forced Argella was, for all that her mouth was not gagged during the ceremony and she said the words. Yes, it was a good thing that she no longer believed in the Seven.

And yet, she had to believe in them or at least in something when it turned out that death was not the end of it. The storms shaking her life as savagely as they did her lands would not stop just because she had died. Instead, she was forced to watch as the stormlands sank even more deeply into the power of the pretender kings, as her ancestors became past to be revered but detached and without her there to maintain the tie and keep it alive, quite unwanted. She was deprived even of the pleasure of trying to undermine the dragons in secret – and trying to take what Aegon Targaryen cherished almost as much as he did the Durrandons' lands even more away from him.

"I do wish I was just allowed to rest," Orys would sigh but of course, souls as restless as theirs could not find the rest in this un-life when they had never had it in life.

At least they weren't there. If the Seven did exist, that was a proof of their mercy. Wherever Aegon and his sisters were drifting now – or being drifted, as was the case of Orys and Argella – their ways never crossed and for this, she was grateful. She had seen the three siblings forty seven times in her life. That was forty seven more than she would have liked.

They weren't there even when Argella and Orys found themselves drifting in the throne room, over that odious throne of iron. None of them knew why they had been brought here but they listened, open-mouthed, as a girl was cheated out of her rights before everyone because she was a woman – and because her blood was not as pure as her uncle's. Argella's hiss as that copy of Aegon knelt to thank the king was loud enough to be heard all the way to the doors but no one seemed to register it.

"Not good enough," she spat, looking at Orys. "Well, what could have been expected from the Targaryens? They used you to the very end, only bringing you misfortunes. Why should it be different for her?"

"If she were a son and heir, it would not have happened." But he would not look at her which only made her anger rise. The long speech the King sitting the Iron Throne now had given his lords, acknowledging his late son's great service before depriving his granddaughter from her rights felt like an echo of the things Aegon had always said about Orys – after he had lost a hand in his service.

But had she really expected that her lord husband would acknowledge this diminishing of their line? He had always been so desperate not to admit that the rejection he had experienced his entire life was a rejection. He had been Aegon's greatest champion but nothing more. Not where the world could see. For the world, he didn't even share Aegon's blood. His fierce loyalty had not brought him this. Slowly, she reached for his hand, grumbling. It was cold in this throne room and cold always brought sharp pains in the once damaged limb, especially where his hand used to be. In death, he was whole again but the habit going on for so many years was too strong to be broken. Besides, they both liked it. She wrapped her palms about his hand, warming it, and he gave her a grateful look. Her annoyance with him faded. Truly, what had she expected? He had always been quick to cut her off even in those dark days after his return from Dorne when sometimes she had been unable to keep her malice towards Aegon in check. She still considered Orys' maiming a wrong the Targaryen king had committed against her – but Orys had been quick to come out of his dark silence to defend Aegon when he couldn't be bothered to lift her head as Argella raged and mocked, and did everything she could to make him look up, see anything but his despair.

They had it so easy, didn't they? Jaehaerys. Aegon. They could say the pretty words and not be bothered to fill them with meaning. Deep inside, Argella knew that she was being unfair. Jaehaerys did look deeply saddened by his son's death. Aegon could have hardly given Orys more than he already had, for acknowledged bastards had always meant trouble for the next generation if not this one. But she didn't care about being fair. The girl before her, the girl of her blood, wasn't naked, gagged, and delivered to her enemy in humiliation but she was no less deprived of her rights than Argella had been. Orys had always wanted to belong and with time, against her will, his longings had started mattering to her.

Aegon had deprived both of them of so much and yet whenever she said so, Orys always rushed to his defence. That shamed Argella, that he'd be more loyal to the king who had given him nothing – nothing that Orys hand't earned himself, that was it – than the land that had accepted him and the wife who could no longer hate him as he deserved. It had also pained her to see him still striving to prove his worth to those who measured acknowledgment according to it. Was Orys the only bastard Aerion Targaryen had bequeathed to Dragonstone? No, he wasn't. He was just the most useful one… but he would get angry whenever Argella pointed it out. "They aren't like this," he'd say. "He brought that Essosi healer to Storm's End, flying him on Balerion, just to make sure that I'd get better when it was clear that I could never lead his armies again."

Ah! The Essosi healer! Another glorious gesture on Aegon's part – Argella had to admit that it had been one of the best. Not that she doubted the sincerity of the concern writ on Aegon's face as he watched Orys burn into another fever depriving him of his understanding when before, Orys had hardly ever been ill. "I am not parsimonious," he had told the short man, his words hesitant, awkward. "You'll be well rewarded if he stops getting ill." Argella had thanked him for coming so unexpectedly, and he had smiled – not quite friendly. "Orys is mine," he had said and something in his demeanor made her wonder if he suspected her of having something to do with his friend, her husband's new state of health.

You're wrong, Argella still wanted to say. Orys is mine. Yes, he had been hers – when he had swayed between dark despair and aggression to her and everyone else he met during the day and clinging to her like a child at night; when he had been slowly, painfully mastering the sword with his remaining hand and fared worse than their son and she had wanted to scream because it just wasn't right, wasn't right; when the sight of the men who had lost their hands under his lead brought him even lower. But for this, Aegon hadn't been present, so he could look at her, wonder if she was harming Orys in some way, and silently blame her for not being an eager and obedient wife, as if she could – she should – forget how this marriage had come to be.

The hand in hers was warm and steady. Argella released it and linked her fingers through his. Together, they watched the girl curtsy to the King and the man who had displaced her and leave, face composed, head held high. In her purple eyes, the betrayal was sharp, although she'd keep it locked within her breast. Argella reached out to pat her hand but of course, she couldn't feel the caress. Argella looked at Orys, wondering how he could look at the girl who could never be queen and justify this betrayal – to the girl and her father, to them and what Orys had done to steady the Targaryen throne.

But he was looking straight ahead and when she called his name, he pretended not to hear.