So, here's a lil' prologue to wet the beak and bring in more character creators: Guys, I thought the Starks were popular! Oh, well…
This series will be named 'Clash of Crowns', and you can find the wiki at: clash-of-crowns-asoiaf . fandom . com
Okay, I've added the newest part at the top. I was originally was going to have the Starks feature heavily in this opening, but… well, people don't wanna send 'em, so, I'm working around it. Snooze, ya loose and all that jazz.
Now, I'm gonna be constantly updating the wiki when new characters are accepted, but in the meantime, this prologue will have to tide you all over.
So, just letting you know, I'm setting this a while after the Dance of Dragons, but, with some changes: Dragons have not died out (obviously). The current King Aeric is Viserys I' great-grandson… and also grandson 'cos Targs. So, everything is canon until we get to Aegon III, which is when stuff gets a lil' screwy: Aegon III died before ever taking the throne, which instead passed to his son, Aeric in 131AC.
Third Day of the Third Moon, 152 A.C.
The Ruins of Old Valyria
The sea was calm. No rushing waves or even gentle lick of a current against the boat – the ship simply slid through the waters as if it were passing through blades of grass. It was a modest vessel, far unlike the one Maelor had been gifted when he originally left King's Landing, nigh on ten years ago. He recalled the jealous envy that gleamed in his older brother's eyes, the words of encouragement to the Prince of Dragonstone, Aemon, the look of betrayal on Aerion's face, his younger nephew.
Still, he had supped with the most wealthy men in the Free Cities. Stayed as a guest of the Sealord of Braavos, dined with the princes of Lorath, taken a Lyseni noblewoman as his own. He may have even fathered a bastard with her, had she lived through their entanglement with Myrish pirates when embarking upon their return west. He had oft thought of how it would feel to lose a woman as beautiful as she – with golden eyes and pale skin – a true Valyrian woman. But, as their ship took on water and the men began to howl in pain and panic, Maelor had taken hold of the woman by the hand and leapt from his ship upon his dragon, Valarys and set to the skies before razing the two ships of corsairs, watching them disappear under the waves. He hadn't even realized the woman had fell during the flight. He reflected on that memory, less than a month ago, and realized he couldn't even remember her name.
The moment of reflection evaporated like steam from a pot as the mists slowly drew back, revealing the shattered stonework and mess of trees that had since overgrown the streets that had not been submerged beneath the quiet black water. It was Old Valyria – or, rather, what was left of Old Valyria. The greatest city, far beyond the likes of Qarth and Pentos, Volantis or Tyrosh. It was the seat of an empire – one that had scourged the Rhoynar from their home, that had laid waste to all that came before it. It took the gods themselves to destroy such a place.
But the Targaryen's remained. It was them that sat the Iron Throne, forged by their ancestor, the Conqueror. It was their dragons that roamed the skies – from the colossal monstrosity that was the Gilded Prince, Gaelithox, the mount of his late grandsire, to the young and constantly-oestrus Riñaxes. Almost every Kingdom had bent the knee and proclaimed his ancestor as the one true King.
The remains of the once-magnificent stonework was all but swallowed by the sea. He envied his nephew, Vaegon. To have seen such magnificence of the Valyrian city, even in a dream, must have been seeing the world from dragonback for the first time. His nephew had been blessed, to have seen what was and would be. So few Targaryen's had been dreamers.
He gestured for the boat to halt as they came closer, his eyes scanning the treeline for movement. He did not fear any creatures that might have prowled in the ruins, not with Valarys circling above. But Maelor was no fool either – he was too wary to try and cross paths with the stone men of the ruins. They had succumbed to the madness in their minds, and any that wandered too close, breathed their bad air… there would be no point in journeying home, at that point.
Maelor looked above at his dragon, a ruby-red beast that began its descent, landing in the water with a colossal splash and crawling with its wings back up into a flight before settling upon a half-collapsed dome and letting out a deep roar that made the water around the ship shudder.
Maelor took a moment to wait and heard nothing. He saw nothing. No change in the trees or the water save the last few shudders of the dragon's roar. Maelor walked up to the bow of the ship and grabbed onto one of the many lines as he climbed up onto the side of the ship. With one hand on the skinny handle of his ancestral blade, Dark Sister, he leapt over into the water, landing with a smaller splash than Valarys and stumbling, putting a hand into the water to steady himself.
"My Lord," One of the Pentoshi sailors leapt overboard into the shallows to help Maelor stand, but with a firm hand, he shoved the man back into the water, drawing the narrow blade from its sheath and glaring down the next sailor that came after him. Once he was sure they saw him standing the other sailor, tall and sword-in-hand, he turned back to the shore and approached, glancing up to Valarys, who maintained a watch from on high.
He walked through the deserted ruins, passing between the forgotten skeletons, the empty belts of intricate metalwork. He saw no steel or scabbards – most likely stolen by looters – Westeros was full of the vultures who longed for Valyrian blades for their minor houses.
This was the fate that befell the Valyrian people – the people that mattered. Not smallfolk like the Celitgar's, nor the sailors like the Velaryon's, but the true masters of the empire. The Dragonlords. Maelor and his kin were the last of them. His brother Aeric, and his children. All together, there were less than ten Valyrian's left alive. The Greyjoy's had seen to that after manning a scorpion and firing two bolts into the dragon Blacksmoke, with Maelor's younger brother, Lucaerys, mounted. He'd watched his younger brother plunge into Ironman's Bay, ten-and-five years ago. But Maelor made sure they'd repaid such a grievance. Four Greyjoy men and boys had been devoured by his own dragon. The mother and father had been strung up outside the castle of Pyke – stripped of their religious death of drowning, and the honourable death by beheading. The sights of them being engulfed in dragonfire and then devoured would scar the memories of all the Westerosi that witnessed it, but leaving the rotting bodies and skeletons upon the walls of their ancient seat? That would never fade from memory.
Maelor continued on through the streets, sword held out to the side, ready to strike down upon any that emerged from the ruins or shadows. He entered a half-decimated tower, where the domed roof had collapsed in on itself during the Doom. Entering it, he found little more than sunbeams and broken black stone.
He pressed his wet black boot against the chipped stone wing of a dragon and give it a strong kick, watching it rock back and forth before finally falling back, revealing a cavity in the floor, and a swathe of purple cloth.
Maelor frowned and let out a loud whistle, calling to the other sailors in High Valyrian. They came over and, with an order from him, began to peel away stone after stone until they began to unearth the floor beneath the tower. Five of the sailors used the hammer-faces on their axes to dislodge the stones , and dug the blades in to lever them apart. Finally, the cavity revealed the entirety of an old purple banner, with a gold and silver pair of dragons intertwined together. It looked to be a sigil, although, Maelor knew the Valyrians had no sigils. There were no great houses, only families. Perhaps it was a banner for their city, or used to praise the Fourteen Flames?
Maelor pushed aside one of the sailors with the flat side of Dark Sister and knelt down to look down at the banner: the first man in centuries to lay hands upon such a thing was going to have the blood of the dragon.
Maelor unwrapped the banner and found a collection of treasures: a small necklace of Valyrian steel – a dark set of chains that wound tightly around each other like snakes, clasping a heavy amber jewel in its jaws. A ring of the same dark steel, a pair of blood-red garnet set in place of the dragon's eyes. Another work of magical steel – a circlet with rubies worked into the intersections where each strand wove together. Maelor smiled as his eyes fell upon the largest treasure wrapped up – the most valuable of all.
A single black egg. Bigger than any he'd seen before – so big that Maelor had to hold it in one arm rather than his hand. Though it weighed as much as any stone, it seemed to glint like highly-polished onyx, with tiny little scales.
A dragon's egg. The oldest one around. Perhaps even older than Balerion the Black Dread had been.
He saw it out of the corner of his eye – the envy on the face of one of the Pentoshi sailors. How he looked to his fellow seaman, wondering if he would be assisted, whether his comrade would follow him into his act of madness.
Maelor did not need to look to anyone. Dark Sister fell in a flash and sliced through the man's skull, severing him from nose to neck. He spun around and sliced at the other sailor's throat – the one whom the dead man had been looking at. A third man moved – perhaps to run away, but Maelor's blade slashed again, opening his belly. The man writhed on the floor and Maelor shoved the sword into the fourth man's chest before rounding on the fifth, who had fallen back onto his hands and feet, scuttling away to the wall of the tower, watching in horror as his peers died. Maelor cradled the egg closer and backed away, pointing his sword at the man, who was panting hard, his pants rapidly soaking with his own piss.
A twisted smirk played upon Maelor's lips as he heard the trees bend. He pointed his blade to the stone street and a moment later, the ground shook with Valarys' landing. Maelor opened up the bag attached to the saddle on Valarys before climbing up the wing and settling into his saddle on the dragon's back. He barked a command and the beast launched into the air, jumping off what remained of the tower and soaring into the air.
Men would kill each other for a dragon egg. Men would try to kill him for that egg. Word would spread of the wonders of Old Valyria – he could not allow anyone else to find what treasures had been kept there. There was only one option.
Maelor pulled on the reins of his dragon and the beast rounded back onto the ship with the sailors. The Pentoshi ship he'd spent so long aboard. The men that had served him faithfully for months. Men he'd eaten with, lived among.
But Targaryen's were not men, they were kings. They were gods. They were dragons.
"Dracarys," Maelor hissed. Jets of bright yellow fire baptised the ship, charring wood and cindering the sails, all to the cacophony of a choir of a near-hundred screaming sailors, burning and twisting in pain.
The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands
The leather heel of Aerion's black boots clicked against the stone slabs of the Red Keep. Servants and handmaids, men-at-arms and squires all parted ways for him, bowing their heads as he marched by, hands balled into fists as he turned the corner and walked down a long corridor, lined with pillars, wrapped with embossed golden vines. He strode down, his shoulder knocking into the arm of a servant carrying a silver tray of empty plates. Aerion turned around and shoved the servant to the floor before wheeling around to continue on down the corridor. Usually, Aerion would have beaten the boy for not bowing and giving the Prince a wide berth, but Aerion's fury was reserved for another.
He finally made his way to the chamber reserved for the Small Council meeting. The doors had been shut, as was custom when meetings were being conducted. He may not have looked as a prince should have – donned in black garb, a stiff collar of spikes brushing against his earlobes. He arrived at the door, giving them a firm shove with one hand and looking at the long table of Lords and Masters, all staring at him, aghast. Sunlight dazzled in, reflecting and illuminating the marble dragons that decorated the floor. The long marble table stretched out with men (and a single woman) lining the chairs along it, until, at the head of the table, sat a single man, silver-haired and violet-eyed like Aerion, but shorter in stature. Thinner. With long waves of hair and a bare chin, unlike Aerion's short locks and full beard.
"Betrothed?" Aerion roared across the chamber, pointing at the silver-haired man that sat at the head of the table. "To those fucking paupers?"
Aemon's face fell as his brother arrived at his side. He leant forwards rubbing his pale brow with his right hand, his silver waves of hair falling and curtaining his face as he let out a small sigh. "Good brother, this might wait-"
"Get out," Aerion said, stern and clipped. He turned to the man that sat closest to Aemon, Lady Jeyne Tully, the Mistress of Laws, and grabbed her chair, wrenching it back to the ground and watching the woman fall backwards.
"Prince Aemon-" Ser Connas Corbray said, taking a step forward and wrapping a hand around the leather grip of his sword. In a flash, Aerion had drawn his dagger and held it out at the Kingsguard knight. There was a moment's silence as Ser Connas stood there, watching Aerion, waiting for his command like a hound on the hunt.
"Please, good Sers, my Lady- may you excuse us?" Aemon asked in a soft, apologetic tone, "I must talk with my brother."
The Small Council members all stood, bowing to Prince Aemon and giving Aerion a wary look. Lord Reynard Reyne, the Master of Coin, helped Lady Jeyne to her feet and escorted her out of the chamber by hand. The red-haired woman flashed a glare back at Aerion right up until Grand Maester Herrick closed the doors behind them all.
Aemon's violet eyes looked up at Aerion's darker, that were transfixed on Ser Connas' dark brown. The two swordsmen stood there, glaring at one another. Finally, Aemon spoke.
"Ser Connas, would it be alright if I asked you to fetch us more wine from the kitchens – I fear our cups may have run dry."
Ser Connas was taller than both of the princes, his hair falling in black curls to the white pauldrons. A chivalric knight – the perfect protector of a regal Targaryen prince. He took a moment, glancing from Prince Aerion to his charge before relaxing his grip on his sword and, with a stiff bow to the eldest Targaryen, walking the length of the chamber. Aemon reached beside his chair and picked up his black cane, furnished with a silver dragon for a handle.
"This is a Small Council-"
"You intend to wed Rhaenerys to Durran Baratheon," Aerion growled. It wasn't a question.
Aemon grunted as he climbed out of his chair, one hand on his cane, and the other on the edge of the table as he steadied himself, staring at his younger brother. He gave a small sigh and a nod. "I do."
"This wasn't father's doing."
"It wasn't."
Aerion launched his foot into Lady Jeyne's chair, sending it skidding across the cream-and-gold floor with a creak and a groan. He wheeled back around to Aemon and pointed a finger at him. "She's not his to wed-"
"She's not yours, either," Aemon retorted. "She's of an age. And Durran Baratheon is heir to Storm's End-"
"He's a fucking Andal!" Aerion snarled.
"And a good match," Aemon said calmly. "The Baratheons have fought the last two Dornish wars, and rest assured, we will need their loyalty for the fourth-"
Aerion spat on the floor. "They'll remain loyal, or they will burn. You do not offer up the blood of the dragon as a reward of vassalage!"
"Then what do we offer up?"
"We offer fire; they serve faithfully or burn as traitors."
"Maegor gave similar 'offers', Aerion. How did his reign end, brother?"
Aerion had studied the history of his forebearers – more than any of his siblings. He remembered Maegor, the son of the Conqueror, who had possessed the strength to seize his father's crown. He also remembered how he was found – still upon their ancestral throne of twisted, black blades – his wrists slit and body empty of blood.
The younger prince took a step closer to Aemon. "I do not need lectures from a man that can hardly walk."
Aemon remained calm. Out of all the Targaryen children, Aemon was the one who did not shy away from Aerion in his bursts of fury. "Rhaenerys understands. She will do her duty."
"Her duty was with me," Aerion hissed. "She was to be mine."
"Was she? Did Father say this to you?"
"I won't marry Daelaena," Aerion ranted as he began to pace again. "It's only by Meleys' grace that she hasn't whelped a litter of bastards."
"Daelaena is not yours to marry," Aemon said. "We do not worship the Fourteen Flames- we follow the Faith of the Seven."
"You may, but-"
"Listen, brother. If we wed brother and sister like Aegon before us, surely the smallfolk will curse us and declare us-"
"Who cares for the smallfolk?" Aerion scoffed. "Rats and filth – nothing more."
"I have made my decision."
"You are not King yet, Aemon."
"But I will be King before you," Aemon reminded him. "As will Aerys, as would Maeghar, as would Vaegon-"
"Boys that have never held swords, nor claimed dragons, and a drunken, brooding fool." Aerion spat the words. "Boys die before often before they become men."
A moment passed before Ser Connas fully drew his sword and took a step towards Aerion, but Aemon wove his hand and walked around his chair, his cane stabbing against the stone with each step.
"Maegor would have taken your sword-hand for such words," Aemon said softly. He looked down at Aerion's balled fists before placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked into his brother's eyes and his lips fell into a sad smile. "I apologise; it was foolish of me not to tell you. I know how dear she is to you, but-" Aerion pushed his brother's hand from his shoulder, glaring at him though no words escaped his lips. "But… fealty is not just assured by dragons. Rhaenerys will marry into the Stormlands- we cannot break betrothals to Houses such as Baratheon. They're our kin- our oldest allies-"
"Born of bastard blood, them that crow about the struggle of killing tired old goatfuckers in mountains."
Aemon sighed and paced back around the table, pouring himself a small, temperate glass of Arbor gold. "House Baratheon are the power in the south. A family that you insulted when you shoved your lance into Arrec Baratheon's horse."
Aerion rolled his eyes in response. "I was protecting our name. A bastard unseated our brother, and you saw fit to applaud him?"
"It was a tourney, you bloody madcap fool – men get knocked off horses all the time, but you decided to spear the horse. That spectacle won't be forgotten for several generations…"
"Good."
"Thank the Seven the boy can still walk…" Aemon muttered under his breath. "Wedding them to our family will salve the wound you made and ensure their loyalty in this Dornish war our King Father has seen fit to declare." Aemon sipped the glass of wine and set it back down on the marble table, taking a long breath and wiping his brow. "I would allow you to make a choice of your own. To any daughter of any house in the realm-"
"I would sooner open my own throat and have my blood pour across this floor than mix it with the common sheep we rule over."
The eldest Prince stared at his younger brother. Full of such rage. It was hard to tell when he had possessed such zeal. 'Blood of the dragon', Father would often say to them in their youth, 'burns hot and destroys all.'
"If that is your will," Aemon nodded. "Take no wife. Father bastard sons or no sons at all. But Rhaenerys will marry Durran Baratheon and preside over the Stormlands."
"If that happens, I'll see the realm gains another Harrenhal," Aerion growled, "a smoking pile of burnt stone that reminds the realm what happens when one defies the dragon."
"You are fifth in line to the throne," Aemon reminded him. "You will forge an alliance with a Great House – Lannister, Stark, Tyrell- even take the Greyjoy girl. But you will marry and help our House rise."
Aerion stared at his older brother. Regal and proud, his doublet fastened with rubies, his long silver hair, just like their father, falling in long waves to his chest. Aemon looked like their father, if he had set down a cup of wine and picked up his crown from time to time. But Aemon was a slave to the lords and ladies that peppered their realm. Lessers – Andals and First Men.
"Have you forgotten who protected this realm from Myrish corsairs?" Aerion asked in a hiss. "Thousands of men bore witness to my strength – to the glory I brought to House Targaryen!"
Aemon rolled his eyes as he poured another cup of wine – his brother loved to crow about the only battle he'd ever fought. One at sea, where less than two thousand pirates (though Aerion described there to be at least twice that) had assailed upon the Isle of Tarth. Aerion, in all the wisdom of a twenty-year-old man, had mounted his gargantuan goliath of a dragon and soared south, burning the ships still in the water. His dragon, Gaelithox, devoured a dozen men before the battle was done.
"A great victory," Aemon murmured, growing bored of revisiting the same tale, "Gaelithox, one of the largest dragons ever to live against some wooden ships."
Aerion smacked his hand against the cup of wine his brother had just poured. "Don't mock me."
"Rhaenerys marries Durran. You will not interfere, or else we'll have to marry Jaeghar do their daughter as further recompense for your blunders…"
Aerion gritted his teeth and flared his nostrils as he stood before Aemon, his hands balled back into fists as he glared at the man before him. Aemon had never lost his temper – something that infuriated Aerion. He turned around and stormed out of the small council chamber, dragging the back of one of the chairs and hurling it away from the table. Aemon sighed and picked up his cane, hobbling over to the chair and leaning down to grip the back of it.
"Allow me, your Grace," Ser Connas said as he swept around the table, picking up the chair and stowing it beneath the table.
"Damn Aerion…" Aemon muttered as he stared through the open doors, watching his younger brother storm away.
"His Grace hoped to marry Princess Rhaenerys?"
"I think Aerion presumed he would also carry Blackfyre and wear the Conqueror's crown," Aemon said in a sigh. "Ever since he claimed our grandsire's dragon, he's thought himself Aegon reborn." He sighed. "Were any of your brothers like that?"
"My brothers and I are not Targaryen, your Grace," Ser Connas replied in a grunt as he lifted Lady Jeyne's chair back to the table, "we are not Kings."
Aemon nodded. "Neither is Aerion," Aemon murmured. "Come, let's gather the Small Council once again. And apologise to good Lady Jeyne…"
Storm's End, the Stormlands
Arrec was still in bed, watching Maester Rickard examine his leg with a long, steel instrument. He would occasionally tut under his breath and murmur something to himself before looking back up at the boy. He was every inch like his father – dark-haired and intense cerulean eyes – out of all of Arlan's children, Arrec looked the most like him.
His hair had been shorn short since the Tourney at Bronzegate the year before – they'd cut his long hair short to examine his scalp for any other injuries, and found only a small scar which had healed very quickly. After they had dragged him out from beneath his horse and placed him on the Maester's table, they had discovered only one injury on his right leg, though it was severe.
In the corner of the chamber was Cassandra, pacing back and forth with her blue-green handkerchief pressed to her lips as she bombarded the Maester with questions. It was hard for him to ignore her – it was hard for any man to ignore her. After all, Cassandra was renowned for her beauty: long curls of red hair, a sun-kissed complexion, and the wide hips of a woman who had birthed three Baratheon children. Each had been birthed by Maester Rickard – a short and thin man, his face always graced with a smile. Every day, except that third day of the third moon.
"Maester Rickard?" She asked, her full lips pursed together in worry as her seafoam eyes ran over the fading scar on Arrec's leg.
"The wound seems to be healing remarkably well – another few months, and I believe there shan't even be a scar. A testament to your constitution, my Lord." Maester Rickard's dark eyes twinkled as he smiled at the boy of ten-and-five years, who glanced over to his mother, lips spreading into a wide smile. Cassandra let out a long sigh of relief and let out half a laugh.
Arrec sat up and shared his mother's smile. "Will I be able to ride for my nameday next week?"
Maester Rickard's brow was heavy as he looked up at Arrec. "Have you heard of the gentle stride, my Lord?" Arrec shook his head. "Your wound… the muscles of your leg responsible for swift movement- running, swimming, and the like… I believe it was damaged in the fall." He reached to the end of the bed and picked up Arrec's cane, thick and straight with a gold bauble for a handle. "I'd advise you not push yourself, for fear of wounding your leg-"
"I'll never ride a horse again?" Arrec asked. "Or swing a sword?"
Maester Rickard took a long breath before shaking his head. Arrec closed his eyes, trying not to focus on his mother covering her mouth. "But many men have fared worse. They've lost the leg- even died from such a wound."
"I know," Arrec nodded. He should never have tilted against Aerion Targaryen. The Black Prince was formidable – Arrec hadn't even wanted to joust… Before he could fixate, another figure appeared at the door to his chambers.
Ardan Storm, Arrec's half-brother, a mere two months older, stood there, dressed in a thick, woollen black jerkin over his gold woollen doublet. Unlike Arrec, his waves of black hair were long and tied back from his face. As broad-shouldered and tall as Arrec, the bastard hovered at the door – having clearly seen Cassandra inside. However, Arrec's mother had made no mention and taken no notice of the boy.
"Arrec, I came to see-"
"You will wait outside until you are called to enter," Cassandra said tersely. Ardan paused before turning around to stand outside the chamber, and Cassandra swung the door shut in the boy's face.
"Mother!" Arrec frowned.
"Will he need milk of the poppy?" She asked the maester.
"Do you suffer any pain, my Lord?" Maester Rickard asked.
"Not in my leg," Arrec responded, his cerulean eyes running up to land on his mother's seafoam green. "I'm quite tired now, if you would both leave me."
"Of course, rest is paramount," Maester Rickard said, standing up and bowing his head as he walked towards the door, followed by Cassandra. The second that the door was opened, Arrec called out to his brother, who had been leaning against the wall outside, picking at the pommel of his sword.
"Ardan, come you in!"
Cassandra halted at the door, turning back to Arrec. "You need your rest, son."
"Talking with my brother helps me rest," Arrec responded. Cassandra watched Ardan stand outside, wrists crossed on the grip of his sword. His mouth was firmly closed, and he dared not look up at Cassandra, who took a step closer to him, talking just loud enough for Arrec to hear.
"If the Gods knew any justice," her green eyes bored into him, "it would be you in that bed-"
"Mother!" Arrec called from his bed, reaching down to pull his britches back up.
"-and my son walking." With that, Arrec's mother walked down the stone corridor, her footsteps echoing against the sounds of lightning outside, while her husband's bastard stood there, blue eyes on his feet.
Ardan walked inside, closing the door behind him as he stepped closer, watching his half-brother sit up in his bed and begin to pull on his dark britches.
"Forgive me for her," Arrec said as he swung his legs off his bed and gripped his cane, standing up to try and fasten the drawstring with one hand.
"Forgive you?" Ardan frowned.
"Blasted…" Arrec muttered as the strings slipped between his thumb and forefinger again. Ardan rolled his vibrant blue eyes and crossed the chamber, batting Arrec's hand away and tying the drawstring of his britches tighter. "Did you hear? What Maester Rickard said about my leg?" Arrec saw his brother nod and began to worry, thinking he mayhaps begun to see him as sad and weak.
"What a pair we make," Arrec said finally, trying to sound light-hearted and forcing a chuckle, "the bastard and the cripple."
He had expected Ardan to laugh with him, but instead, his half-brother's face went dark. At first, Arrec assumed it was for naming him a bastard – a term they had always shied away from. But Ardan straightened up and glared into his younger brother's eyes.
"Never say that about yourself."
"I am though. A cripple."
"You're not, you can still walk. You can still-"
"I'll never ride a horse again. I'll never swing a sword again."
"That's not important," Ardan said, though he couldn't meet Arrec's gaze.
"I can't even fasten my own britches," Arrec murmured. Silence fell between the two, and Arrec found a moment of satisfaction – as though there was some truth to how he was feeling. Then, Ardan said something Arrec would have said, in those darkest moments of their childhood.
"A good thing you have many servants to do that for you," Ardan said, a slight grin on his lips.
Arrec tried to smile as he picked began to hobble around his chambers, glancing out at the storm that hammered their keep. It was not uncommon to have harsh storms – it was what the kingdom was known for. Because of this, at Storm's End, there was one large tower that loomed over Shipbreaker Bay and reached up towards the heavens and Storm God of old. One of a few structures built by Brandon the Builder.
"Ravens were sent out today," Ardan informed his brother. "We're to war with Dorne."
"Father would be upset at that…" Arrec murmured. Their father had been the only Stormlander to call a Martell friend. He'd taken the time to impart the stories of his youth in Sunspear to all of his sons – before he had grown weary and been confined to bed. It seemed that Arrec had more in common with his father beyond their looks.
"I was wondering," Ardan said slowly as he looked up to his half-brother, "do you think Father would let me go?"
"Go where?"
"To Dorne. To serve as Ser Edric's squire."
The thought made Arrec's heart begin to hammer. Dorne was the last kingdom – not even Aegon himself had managed to conquer it. Yet, Durran had seen fit to try and conquer this kingdom that had evaded every Stormlander before him.
"I…" Arrec paused as he tried to think how to dissuade him – at least for a year or two. Until he was a man fully grown. "I think Father is too taken with milk of the poppy to make such a decision."
It was not a lie – their father spent most days in bed, his mind too addled to cease the pains in his head. It had been since then that Arrec had watched his half-brother be moved into smaller chambers and be excluded from the dais in the Round Hall (sometimes excluded from the hall altogether). No wonder he was thinking about leaving.
"What about Lady Baratheon?" Ardan asked. "Or your brother?"
Durran was most mercurial of the brothers – zealous and uncompromising. And, out of all of Cassandra's children, he was the one who loathed Ardan. A walking insult to his mother.
"Well, he would listen to you," Ardan pointed out.
"Durran listens to Mother, Rickard and the High Septon." Arrec said in half a laugh. He watched his brother's shoulders slump in disappointment as he wandered towards the window, staring out at the rain. "Come, Storm – we'll steal into the pantry and procure some mead and ale."
"We will?"
"Well, I seem to remember myself being an excellent watchman for such affairs," Arrec said, clapping a shoulder on Ardan and leading him out of the chamber for yet another one of their misadventures.
By the by, I think I'm gonna impose a new rule – don't suggest another character when you've not finished submitting one – I've noticed this happening a lot, and… well, it's not the best.
So, yeah. Enjoy the wiki, enjoy this chapter, and if you've not submitted a character yet, jump on it!