Storm's End stands upon the cliffs above Shipbreaker Bay.
The walls that face the Narrow Sea rise forty-five meters high, and a thousand years of waves have scoured the stone smooth as a mirror.
The castle's name is well earned: the wind never ceases here—howling, circling, threading through the arrow slits, wailing as it passes.
Yet today, the roar of the wind was drowned by the clamor of a feast.
The afternoon sun slanted across the courtyard. Aemond lifted his head and looked to the sky.
Lothorne was weaving among the clouds, the young black dragon exceedingly excited. Strange lands, strange dragons, strange scents—each set him restless.
At times he dove, the tips of his wings nearly brushing the spire of Storm's End's highest tower, only to pull up again amid the startled cries of the gathered lords and ladies.
"He is much like you."
Helaena had come to his side at some unknown moment. She had not ridden Dreamfyre, but had arrived by carriage with Alyn Rogare.
Now she wore a pale blue gown, her silver hair falling loose upon her shoulders. Her clear violet eyes rested on Aemond, and there was worry in them.
Aemond turned to look at her, and the violet of his gaze softened somewhat.
"When a dragon chooses its rider, it chooses one whose heart answers its own."
"Lothorne knows what I desire."
Helaena spoke uneasily.
"I know what you desire."
"That is why I am afraid… Aemond."
"These past days, I have seen much…"
"Blood will stain the earth red. Dragons will tear at one another."
"The gods are turning their backs on us Targaryens…"
Aemond took her hand.
It was cold, and it trembled slightly.
"The gods have never favored us."
"What of blood? What of the dead?"
He raised his hand and let his fingers brush lightly against her cheek.
"Helaena, there is no need of oracles, nor of prophecy."
"I need only that you live—and live better than any other."
Helaena stared at him, stunned.
At that moment, a dragon's roar split the sky.
All eyes lifted.
A blue dragon forty meters long burst through the clouds—Tessarion, the Blue Queen.
Before long, Daeron Targaryen came down to earth with steady ease. He patted Tessarion's neck, then turned and walked toward the courtyard.
The ten-year-old boy bore himself proudly, silver hair flying in the wind. His features were almost delicately beautiful, near feminine in cast, yet the valor in his brow left no room for doubt.
"Fire and Blood!" The boy looked at the family who had come to greet him and spread his arms wide with a radiant smile.
Aemond stepped forward and gave his younger brother a firm embrace. "Your riding grows ever finer, Daeron."
"It is a gift of mine," Daeron said with a wink. "Lord Hightower says I was born to be a dragonrider."
He turned to the others, greeting Aegon, Helaena, and Alyn in turn. At last he said with a grin, "I hear I shall soon no longer be the youngest in the family?"
Aegon nodded lazily. "Yes. Mother is with child again—twins this time."
"Then this comes at the right moment." Daeron drew a finely wrought wooden casket from beside his saddle. "I brought nourishing tea from Oldtown, a rare treasure from the far eastern reaches of Essos."
"A Hightower caravan returned from the Jade Sea three months past. The maesters say it is most beneficial for women with child."
Aegon accepted the casket. The sigil of House Hightower was carved upon its lid. "You have done well to think of it, brother."
At that moment, Ser Criston Cole approached with two knights of the Kingsguard, his gaze settling upon Aemond.
"Your Highness," Cole said, "the Queen bids me remind you that today is the celebration of the Lord of the Stormlands. Pray do not cause trouble."
Aemond smiled. "And what does the ser think I might do?"
"I do not know." Cole met his eyes and paused. "Lord Boremund invited you out of courtesy to a member of the royal house. It does not mean he stands with us."
"The Stormlands… remain the Blacks' ground."
Aemond's smile did not change. "I thank you for the warning, ser."
Cole gave a proper knight's salute, then led his men toward the castle's great hall—they had come by the King's command, bearing gifts.
...
Within the feast hall, candles burned bright.
Boremund sat in the high seat. Though seventy years of age, the old man remained broad of frame, laughing heartily with the lords who came to toast him.
The long tables were set in a single line. Aemond was placed to the right; across from him, fifteen feet distant, sat the faction of the Blacks.
Aemond accepted bread and salt from a serving maid and ate of them with care.
It was the ancient rite of guest right: once received beneath a host's roof, even mortal enemies must not harm one another.
Any who trampled upon that sacred protection would violate the holiest of laws and be despised and shunned by lords, smallfolk, and even the Faith itself.
He could feel the glances cast his way—some respectful, some curious, some measuring, some openly hostile.
Aemond had not appeared in public for two years. The prince who had executed Vaemond in the throne room by the King's command, who had stood face-to-face with Prince Daemon before the court—what manner of man was he now?
"Prince Aemond."
A clear voice rang out. Aemond, who had been speaking with Helaena at his side, turned to look.
A slender young maiden stood before him and extended her hand.
She was about fourteen years of age. Her lustrous black hair fell like a waterfall down her back; her features were bright, her eyes a deep blue.
She was Cassandra Baratheon, granddaughter of Lord Boremund of the Stormlands.
Behind her stood three younger girls—Maris, Ellyn, and Floris. The people of the Stormlands called them the "Four Storms."
Aemond accepted her hand with a smile and performed a proper kiss upon it. "Lady Cassandra, a pleasure."
A flush rose to Cassandra's cheeks. "Your Highness, I have long heard of your many deeds."
"You tamed Vhagar upon Driftmark, and in the throne room you upheld the honor of the royal house… I greatly admire you."
"My sister began choosing her gown yesterday," the ten-year-old Maris cut in playfully from behind. "She changed more than a dozen times."
"Maris!" Cassandra shot her sister an embarrassed glare, then turned back to Aemond. "Your Highness, after the feast… might I invite you to take a walk?"
"The glass garden of Storm's End—the roses are in full bloom."
The meaning was plain.
Helaena, seated beside Aemond, tightened her fingers slightly. Daeron lifted a brow with open interest.
Aegon and Alyn regarded Aemond with knowing looks.
Aemond released Cassandra's hand. His smile remained gentle, yet it kept a courteous distance.
"I thank you for your gracious invitation, my lady. Yet my purpose in coming to Storm's End is chiefly to offer my congratulations to Lord Boremund. I fear I shall have little leisure."
The smile upon Cassandra's face stiffened for a moment, but she soon regained her composure. "Of course… I have been too forward."
She curtsied and withdrew. As she turned, a trace of unwillingness flickered in her eyes.
Her three sisters followed behind. Ellyn whispered, "I told you the prince would refuse you."
Maris protested, "You are so beautiful, yet he would not even look at you…"
"Enough, both of you," Cassandra rebuked them in a low voice. What she desired, she had never failed to obtain.
Cassandra's gaze swept coldly across the hall, at last settling upon the three brown-haired youths seated with the Blacks.
Especially the one who wore a black eyepatch—Jacaerys.
A thought began to take root in her mind.
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