Storm's End was impressive, he dared say it awed him more than Dragonstone. Dragonstone had an alien make and had horrific stone sentinels atop its walls. Yet Storm's End roost made it look more ominous. The constant barrage of thunder and lightning only served to accentuate how grim and unyielding the Baratheon seat was.
It stood defiant, looking impervious to all attempts by nature to make it bow.
Dragonstone invoked dread by its unnatural stone, Storm's End invoked fury in its refusal to yield.
A fitting home for a House like Baratheon.
For millennia the Dornish and Stormlords have warred, well everyone south of Westeros have. The stories he heard of men like the Lord of Wyl crippling Orthys Baratheon himself, had made him feel uneasy when he first arrived here.
Yet none of them paid heed to the Dayne boy, all were grim men, shoddy reflections of Stannis Baratheon.
Their attitudes and aloofness only served to calm him.
It was odd, when he first came here he thought it was going to be the end of the world; but as he learned and sparred under Lord Stannis Baratheon he found himself changing his thoughts.
He always thought himself a selfish lad, indeed he did not see any flaw in looking out for one's self. He believed little in the empty oaths and codes of knighthood; they seemed restrictive and detrimental to one's skills as a warrior.
Stannis Baratheon rocked him out of such thoughts.
A younger him would have dismissed the second son of House Baratheon. His example would have merely proved Gerold's point that True Knights were weak men.
Stannis Baratheon was no True Knight as most would see it.
He was not compassionate, nor graceful and warm. He did not go off gallantly rescuing damsels and slaying evil. In fact, he would have served a perfect Black Knight in many a tale. A grim and cruel figure whose literary purpose was to fail and to validate the True Knight's creed.
Stannis Baratheon was no true knight.
But Gerold Dayne couldn't help but see him as the knightliest among them all.
It was queer, he had despised Stannis for qualities that he now admired.
This epiphany happened quite early in his squiring, during Lord Stannis' duel with the Greyjoy heathen.
Gerold had witnessed the man's savagery and inhuman strength. How he easily battered away his foes with no hesitation.
He was awed by him, so of course he had expected his victory.
But then Lord Stannis clubbed him in the head with a shield, he willingly allowed his arm to be ruined just to achieve his victory, braving sheer pain and even potential maiming just to prevent the man from leaving his pitiful island.
He remembered attending to him, how frozen and mirthless his face was, as if he had not just escaped death; but then he saw his eyes.
Those eyes haunted him, they were not human eyes.
Gerold had beautiful violet eyes, a staple amongst House Dayne. It gave them an ethereal aura that awed many.
Stannis Baratheon's eyes were different.
They were the eyes of nature given form.
They burned and raged like a quiet tempest, they bellowed loudly like an enraged stag about to gore its foe. They were the eyes of a man unyielding, who would let death itself claim his life if it meant avoiding failure.
He wanted eyes like his, eyes that left those speechless and numb.
Eyes of true power, that surpassed even a crown of gold.
So he listened and obeyed, he suffered and toiled under the gaze of such striking eyes.
To his amazement he was learning.
Lord Stannis thought him patience, Ser Ronald thought him combat and Ser Ilyn how to survive.
All three had terrorized him; breaking him in mind, body and soul. What they did made him stronger.
Ronnet too seemed to be benefiting as well. He was surprised that the boy's own father would be even more vicious on him than Gerold; both would often complain at the tight grip of Stannis, the mad barking of Ser Ronald and the sheer brutality of Ser Ilyn.
They were close strangely enough. It was a comradery that Gerold himself did not expect to enjoy. He had first tried using Ronnet as a tool, but now they had become strong friends.
The reason for such a sudden bond was that both had lost their sword virginity at the same time and circumstance, killing their first men in the same skirmish. It happened when they were rushing towards Claw Isle for Lady Cersei's nameday celebration. They had encountered a small minor band of brigands who had thought that the passing Hedge Knight would have been easy prey.
Gerold remembered the misshapen face of the lout who tried to tear him off his horse, how his once manic glee turned into frozen terror as the scalp of his head slid off, revealing the still pulsating viscera underneath. He remembered almost retching at such a sight, still smelling the pungent odor of the man's dying spasms.
Killing wasn't as pleasant as he thought it would be.
Ronnet was not so lucky if it were possible, his foe was an insane smallfolk woman who had straddled him while attempting to stab him in the crotch in a demented mockery of copulation. The boy ended up breaking her neck with both his hands in an impressive display of strength. Her half naked body fell atop over him, the look on his horrified face made him feel sorry of the poor lad instead of the usual sadistic glee.
The experience changed them both.
He remembered clearly the words Lord Stannis told him in the aftermath as they tried to regain their bearings.
'Men who don't live righteously, do not deserve to live.'
Gerold was not convinced by such words; but Ronnet took to them fervently. The boy had grown darker in his outlook, even more vicious and zealous as he started changing into a strange cross of Lord Stannis and Ser Ronald. The Blue Hen and the Silent Sister blamed him for such a change; when indeed they should have been blaming Stannis.
The experience had dulled the courtship between Ronnet and the Silent Sister. He remained infatuated with her, but any discussion concerning the sexual would elicit a very strong response from Ronnet that would range from mild distaste to almost homicidal fury.
Though Gerold couldn't admit that Stannis' influence was affecting him as well.
His once earlier childish game with the Blue Hen had cooled into simple banter, no longer did he rave for revenge like it was some sort of prize. It had become civil if he needed to put a word to it.
Civil, and only that.
Although that was what he thought it would be.
In secret, he started seeing something in the Blue Hen that he did not see in anyone before. She was clever, a witty little thing. She was also beautiful, something he realized only recently.
Gerold was now starting to feel the changes of manhood wracking his body, his voice was deepening, and he started feelings the urges of men when confronted by beautiful women. He was going growing now, and Lady Shierle Swyft was starting to appear in his very raunchy dreams
Was this what maturity felt like?
He stood quietly within the Storm's End Godswood, staring at the solemn face that had been etched on the Weirwood tree.
Why was it so sad? What terrible things did it see as it was rooted here in this stronghold of storm and salt?
Gerold was lost in his recollections, trying to make sense of his circumstances and the changes that were now affecting him.
What changed? What had made him so unsure about his self? About his desires?
Once he aspired to be a vicious renegade, a hellion unworthy of the Dayne name. One whose infamy would spread across Dorne and Westeros.
Now he knew nothing.
"Lost in your thoughts?" Gerold frowned.
"You're here by your lonesome?" He asked without turning towards the disembodied voice.
Lady Shierly Swyft did not seem the type who intruded on others in their moments of privacy, but the Blue Hen was quite the gossip even if she denied it so. She always had to know what was going on around her, a fine attitude for a courtier playing the game of thrones.
"You're a mere boy, I see no harm in being by myself." She quipped quickly as always.
"But soon I won't be." He responded back.
She was taken off balance by that answer as he stared at her with his dark violet eyes.
"You should leave before anyone discovers this scene." He found himself saying gently, with a level of concern he didn't knew he had.
She looked surprised, but then smiled sweetly.
"I'm surprised, I thought you'd want that to happen. The maids and the servants would love gossiping about the shameless handmaiden and her dalliance with a young squire ." She japed.
"Dalliance? Is this what you call it?" She started blushing as she realized what his meaning was.
"D-Don't misunderstand me! I assure you that nothing tawdry is happening between us." She said tongue-tied, reddening at how he coyly smirked at her words.
"Oh? Such a shame, I was about to ask you to sit alongside me as I stare into the weirwood tree." She fidgeted on her spot, stressing over something.
"M-Mayhaps you should proceed with your proposal then." She was avoiding his eyes now, a bit embarrassed.
"You don't mind wasting your time with a foppish Dornish lout?" She pursed her lips, a light shade of pink surrounding her freckles.
She stomped towards his side, sitting on the fresh dew covered grass before giving an irritated noise.
She looked away from him, not willing to confront his face with hers.
He turned his eye towards the weirwood, wondering if he should be doing this.
"You know the stories of Storm's End I assume?" The Blue Hen relaxed, slowly looking back towards him as he stared at the solemn face of the weirwood tree. His eyes gazing straightwards as he was lost in a reverie.
"Which ones? There are many." He nodded his head slightly.
"The one about the castle's origins. The story of the Storm King and the daughter of the Gods." Shierle nodded her head enthusiastically, figures even she had a liking to such romantic tales.
"Such a sweet and romantic tale for such a dreary castle. A man defies the very God's for his beloved, erecting seven castles. To think Storm's End was created out of a man's love for a woman." The Blue Hen was a lot more outspoken now. He couldn't help but smile.
"I think it's quite apt in all honestly. A tale befitting the Baratheons." Lady Swyft just stared at him with a smirk, wondering what would make him say such a queer thing.
"You think a romantic tale fits the House that says 'Ours is the fury'?" Gerold seemed to take her question with stride.
"What makes men furious?"
That question dumbfounded the Blue Hen. Even her glib tongue couldn't think of quick retort.
"Love." Shierle didn't seem to be convinced.
"What is the quickest way to make a man furious? Threaten that which he loves. His family, his House, his faith. If you do, then he will come at you with all he has." Shierle just stared, speechless by how wise he sounded.
"What do you love?" She asked that question without thinking, she blushed as she realized she had allowed her tongue to slip so carelessly.
"I don't know, first mayhaps I must figure out what makes me feel fury." Gerold was enjoying every word that passed between them. Talking with Lady Shierle made him feel as much ease as staring into the weirwood.
"What makes you furious?" He took some time trying to remember any incident that made him feel such strong emotions.
"The Ironborn." She looked at him quizzically.
"When the rogue Ironborn were fleeing from Lord Victarion Greyjoy. In that cave where I fought them." Lady Shierle had a dawning expression as she remembered that incident as well.
"When I was fending them off, trying to impede them. I felt fear, hope and a sort of quiet rage." They were now looking at each other, the tension and awkwardness all gone.
"I remember, you ordered me to ride back to Dragonstone. I was worried just what might happen to you if I did not arrive in haste." Gerold smiled softly at how concerned she was.
"And I was afraid just what might happen to you if I had not prevented them." It took them some time to realize their faces were very close to one another, to a point that their breaths could be felt on the other's skin.
"I remembered how wretched you look when I asked of you to abandon me. I felt a queer rage that I was walking to my grave with that face on my conscious. I just wanted to see your haughtily looking at me one last time. "Slowly he moved his face even closer to hers, now they were able to smell the other's sweat.
"I….I…..was terrified. I was afraid that you'd die." Her voice was cracking; her eyes watering now.
He did not intend to do what he did, there was something primal that was guiding his body.
Their lips made contact, under the gaze of the weirwood.
It lasted for only a second.
"N-No this is indecent!" She grabbed his wrists, before his hands were able to grab her back.
She was crying.
He felt a stabbing sensation in his gut as he looked at how she wept.
"I-I'm sorry…. I didn't know what came over me. I- "She shoved herself into him. Their bodies intertwined for only a moment. Her dainty hands combing his silver hair, his rough hands firmly grabbing onto her hips.
Their tongues jousting. Their lips dancing.
It was messy, their bodies were very stiff, but the longer it continued the more they relaxed.
She was the first to break contact, with heavy labored breaths she wiped away his salvia from her mouth.
Gerold found himself lying on the grass, his mind blank as he tried to register just what happened.
She was seated next to him, a look of both dawning horror and immense satisfaction.
"It seems I have been henpecked." He was still recovering; his rosy cheeks were burning hot. The lower nether regions of his developing body were very much awake now.
"T-That was a mistake." She whispered feverishly, covering her face with her hands as she rested her head on her knees.
"We all make mistakes, we're only mortal." Gerold looked high into the night sky. The dozens of stars were greeting him as he felt his body heat up.
"I-I'm sorry I should lea-." He placed a hand over her head, ruffling her hair slightly.
"If anyone chances upon us. Then I would want you to scream, and say how I tried to take your honor. That way you save face." She turned parted her hands from her face, her reddened eyes staring at him with anger.
"I will do no such thing." She caustically said.
He laughed.
He took the time to stare at her now.
Those lovely eyes, those full lips, her beautiful freckles.
Yes, he finally understood.
"I think I might like you Lady Shierle." He stated with a warm smile.
She blushed even more intensely than he thought possible.
"How can you say such a vulgar thing!" She screamed into her knees, her voice muffled.
"Well I am Dornish." He glibly responded.
She raised a hand and tried to hit him in the arm, but with her face buried all she managed were weak and inaccurate blows.
"This is not the proper way of showing one's affections!" Gerold couldn't believe what she was saying.
He might have been the instigator, but she was the one who continued so enthusiastically.
"Fine, as the soon-to-be-Ser Gerold Dayne of High Heritage. I suppose I should send a raven to Lord Swyft and ask permission to woo his lovely daughter." She raised her head, showing him a surprised look.
"W-Would you do such a thing?" She asked hopefully.
He had intended to make a jape out of it, but now he was considering such a proposal
"Would your father accept a lowly landed knight as a suitor for his daughter's hand?" She shifted in her place.
"He would most definitely, your name carries a certain weight." He should have been annoyed that the name of Dayne was the only thing that would get him what he desired, but he shouldn't be complaining.
"The question is why would you want to court me of all maidens." Gerold sighed, this was what women did. They doubt a man's honest feelings, deceiving him into thinking they did not actually fancy her, but in secrecy wanting him to chase her meanwhile getting livid when he does not understand her games.
"What do you doubt of me?" She parted her hair, placing an observant eye on him.
"I don't know where to start." His head dropped at her failure to even voice what she wanted to know.
It seems he needed to allay her fears without assistance.
He scooted himself next to her, resting his head on her lap.
She didn't seem to mind.
"They say that the Dornish do not have marriage bed's and that they sire bastards as much as they sire true born sons." He started talking now, she started to get tense now. It seems he was off to a good start.
"They say that I am a cruel, listless and arbitrary lad with no sense of morals. That I am a creature of whims and not of duty." He repeated what he had heard of himself through hearsay and gossip, she continued to be tense as well.
"Do you want to know what I say?" She nodded simply.
"I say I do not know who I am. I am a boy in the cusp of manhood. I am told to be virtuous by the Seven, to be cruel by the knight I squire, to be free by my Dornish kin and so many other things. You ask why I am courting you? I venture a guess that you think I am being a wastrel of it, you think that to me this is merely fancy and nothing of true meaning. I want to answer the same. That I do not know, but that is not the truth." She was waiting for his answer.
"You defy me. To such a degree that it vexes me so. Not even my spat with Lord Stannis matches the sheer vitriol I had for you when we first met. I honestly wanted to hurt you." She frowned deeply, tears ready to fall.
He raised his hand, wiping the drops with his fingers before they could form fully.
"Look at you, in times past I would have reveled in this. Yet I only feel anger. Stop wasting your tears over a churl like me." It hurt him in ways he didn't thought possible seeing her cry over him.
"S-So you court me in spite? Did you steal my first kiss in your demented form of vengeance?" She tried to shove him off her lap, but Gerold wasn't having none of that.
"No, you do not get my meaning" He struggled, he was irritated by how foolish she was being.
"Then why? Why waste your time with me?" She whispered out, her hands balling into fists. He was very likely to get hurt if he didn't answer correctly.
"I-I can't find the words. I don't know what to say that makes this better." He finally spat in consternation.
"I want to say so many things, yet I do not know how to do so." He grabbed his forehead.
"Why can't you?" He felt her pain, it churned his stomach.
He rubbed his face.
"I'm no Dayne." His voice was shaky now.
"I am no Sword of the Morning." He continued.
"It would be so easy if I was a true knight. In my efforts to stem your tears, I've only made more of them." He felt a strange burning in his eyes.
"I can't compose pretty songs extolling your beauty of the like that Rhaegar did." He croaked.
"I am no Amon the Dragonknight, whose virtue is without reproach, whose word is trusted above all others." He felt something wet dripping down his eyelids.
"I'm only a boy, not even a true man yet. Who does not know what he is, who feels something around a pretty girl. He does not know if it's mere fancy or love at all. All he knows is that he's drawn to her and feels at peace by her side." Soft hands held his cheeks, a smiling maiden looking down at him.
"I accept your answer." She said with genuine joy.
"My answer?" He was confused.
"Yes, all my doubts about you are gone." She placed her right hand over his, fingers intertwining.
"I love you too my Lord Dayne." She had said those words so simply.
His heart was beating like a war drum. His ears were on fire.
He didn't know what to say.
All he could was kiss her once more.
He did not know if this was truly love, but if it was then he truly was madly intoxicated.