When King Aegon granted Storm's End to House Baratheon in perpetuity, and named Orys Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and the Hand of the King, none dared suggest that he was unworthy of these honors. (The World of Ice and Fire)
He watched her piercing blue eyes stray from the parchment containing Aegon's decree to the Targaryen banners crowding the Great Hall of Storm's End.
(They had not even needed to yank down the old banners to put up the new ones. The Durrandon banners were all gone by the time Orys and his men marched into Storm's End, unopposed. The men manning the castle's garrison – the same men who had delivered their queen naked, gagged and in chains to Orys' camp - had taken great care to erase almost all traces of House Durrandon from Storm's End. The only banner that flew that day was the peace banner at the gate of the castle.)
"I suppose they will all have to come down now," Argella said, her gaze fastened on the red three-headed dragon breathing fire on a black field.
If looks could slay, Orys thought. "They, my lady?"
"The Targaryen banners, of course. Now that you have been honored with this grant to Storm's End in perpetuity, the banner of House Baratheon should be displayed proudly throughout the castle. Do you not think so, my lord Orys?"
Clever, Orys thought, since he had taken the Durrandon words and banner as his own.
"Crowned stags shall fill these halls once again," Argella said. The darkness in her eyes had disappeared. Her smile was wide and generous, but it unnerved Orys all the same, to see her smiling at all. How could she possibly be glad that Storm's End and the Stormlands had been granted to House Baratheon in perpetuity? This crowned stag was not the Durrandon's crowned stag. She, of all people, would be acutely aware of that. She, the last living Durrandon. She, the daughter of the last Storm King.
Tell me true, my lady. Is your hate still alive and well?
(Visenya's warning had been dark and ominous. "Do you really mean to marry her? She will try to murder you in your sleep, count on it. She sups on hate, that one, despite the meek and mild 'I am ever so grateful for your kindness, my lord Orys,' front she is affecting now."
Rhaenys had been more hopeful. "What better way to ensure peace and loyalty than a marriage alliance? And perhaps in time, she will even learn to love her husband, or at least grow fond of you, Orys."
Visenya had groaned, rolling her eyes, declaring, "This is life, sister, not one of those songs or mummer's farces you are inordinately so fond of.")
"Why, what did you think I meant, my lord?" Argella's voice broke through.
"I do not know, my lady. I seldom do, it seems," he laughs, uneasily.
"After we are married, perhaps you will find it easier to read my meaning."
"Are you looking forward to that day, my lady?"
"Oh how not, my lord? Were it not for your protection, only the gods know what greater calamity would have befallen me. Your cloak sheltered me from rain. Your wine rescued me from dying of thirst. Your hands -"
Orys interrupted. "The cloak stained with your father's blood, some would say."
"Was it? Was it really stained with my father's blood? I did not notice, you see. I was too intent watching your hands undoing the chains fettering my feet. Such big hands you have, my lord. And yet, they are ever so gentle."
"Those hands were responsible for slaying your father." There, he'd said it. There was no way she could keep up this pretense any longer, this mockery of courtesy and good behavior.
He had to know. He had to know if –
She will murder you in your sleep, Orys.
"Your hands, my lord? Both of them?" She touched his hand, gently. His sword hand. "But surely, my lord, surely you used only your sword hand to slay my father?" The gentle touch suddenly turned into a crushing grip. "Or are you one of those strange creatures blessed with the use of both hands with equal deftness?"
"Unhand me, my lady," he warned her.
"Oh but surely … surely … my lord protector, my savior, surely he is strong enough to unhand himself from my grip?"
"I do not wish to hurt you."
"Why? Because I am such a weak, pitiful, helpless creature? Was that why you were so kind to me, the day I was delivered into your clutches? Or was that merely a mummer's farce staged for the benefit of the people of the Stormlands? Or did it fill you with overweening pride and satisfaction, to condescend to be kind to the woman whose father would not condescend for you to wed her?"
"Believe what you will, my lady. I do not have to justify myself to you, or to anyone."
"No, of course not," she said, her voice full of withering scorn. "Victors rarely do have to justify themselves to the losers, or to the world, for that matter."
There it was, the bitterness he had been waiting to hear. Now that he finally heard it, he felt … deflated. Hollowed.
Releasing her grip on his hand, Argella groaned, bringing both hands to cover her face. "Why, my lord? Why do you have to taunt me so? Why could you not just leave it be? Why could you not accept my words on faith?"
She sups on hate, this one.
He chased away the thought of Visenya. This was between him and Argella, and no one else.
"Tell me true, my lady. Do you despise me?"
"I despise myself for not despising you more."
"That hardly answers my question."
"Yes! Yes, I do despise you! How could I not? You killed my father. You took away everything that was my family's, everything that should have been mine. You and Aegon between you. 'In perpetuity,' your king decreed. What mockery. House Durrandon has stood the test of time for thousands of years."
Had, not has, he resisted the urge to say. From the venomous look she shot him, he supposed that she must have guessed what was in his mind.
"And yet," she continued, "you were also –" she paused - unwilling? - or unable, to say the words.
He waited.
"My hate is real, but so is my gratitude," she finally said.
"And one does not negate the other?"
"Does a good act wash out a bad one? Or a bad act the good one?"
"It depends," Orys replied. "It depends on the relative scale."
Eyebrows raised, she asked, "The relative scale?"
"Of the goodness and the badness. Not all acts are created equal."
"Does killing my father trump saving my life, for example?" She asked, sardonically. "Tell me true, my lord Orys. And before you answer my question, remember that I have been honest with you today. Did you truly take the Durrandon words and banner as your own in order to honor my father's valor?"
"Yes … and no."
"That hardly answers my question!" She said, heatedly, unconsciously mimicking his own complaint earlier.
"Yes, in that I chose your father's House words and banner over anything else because his determination, his manner of meeting his death, greatly impressed me. No, in that if I already had a banner and House words to call my own, I would not have set them aside to adopt your father's."
"Are you really … I mean, is it really true that –"
"That I am a bastard? Yes, it is, I'm afraid. The rumors are true, my lady."
Tell me true, my lord, she had said. Well, there was the truth.
"Tell me true, my lady. How do you feel about marrying a bastard?"
Her father had seen it as such a grave insult to his only daughter that he had chopped off the hands of Aegon's poor, unsuspecting envoy for the crime of merely conveying that proposition.
Argella's response was altogether more dispassionate. "Well, on that relative scale that you are so fond of, my lord, being a bastard is certainly no worse than being the man who slayed my father. Since I have not objected to marrying the latter, why should I object to marrying the former?"