The Last Stag • Game of Thrones

36.

Chapter Thirty-Six.
Ours is the Fury

Storm's End was just as grand as she remembered it.

As Ren had grown, she had realized that most places only had appeared big to her because she had been small. Taller and taller with each passing year, the grandiose of her youth had shrunk. 

But not Storm's End. Not her ancestral home. 

As they approached on horseback, Ren, Tyrion, and ten Unsullied, a horn blew from the peak of the grand tower in the center of the castle, announcing their arrival. Whether it was friendly or not was yet to be seen.

Panic set in as the gates drew nearer, the guards eyeing them peculiarly. What on earth was she even doing? Ren had fought before, she had even advised a King, but she had never taken command. Never stood at the head of an army. 

"Tyrion." She whispered as they approached the gates. "I don't think I can-"

"You can." He interrupted, his eyes flickering to her. "You have to. We need all the help we can get."

They reached the gate. The guards looked to her, hands on the hilts of their swords.

Renfri cleared her throat. Silently, she rolled up her sleeve, revealing the leather Baratheon bracelet that her father had gifted her all those years ago.

"I am Lady Renfri of House Baratheon." Her voice rang strong. "The rightful Lady of Storm's End. I am here to see my people."

"We know." One of the guards answered. "They've been waiting for you for a long time. Welcome home, Lady Renfri."

The other guard pulled open the gates, revealing to her the path to Storm's End.

Ren took a deep breath, and then rode into her home.

The courtyard inside was lined with people, who stared at her with a mixture of curiosity and awe. She forced herself to meet their eyes, to acknowledge them, to let them know that she was here for a purpose. She would not hide from them.

As her horses hooves hit the dirt, she felt light. 

There was old blood here. Spirits of Baratheon's past. Ren could feel them pulling her toward the castle, their only heir, the last stag.

She dismounted, her boots hitting the hard soil. Overhead, clouds began to swirl around the early evening sun, thunder rumbling in the distance, shaking the ground beneath her feet. 

Ren resisted the urge to fiddle with her short braid, swishing between her shoulders, holding her hands in front of herself as she climbed the steps. 

Storm's End was as old as the eroded cliffs it sat upon, the battered blackstone seeming to inhale and exhale on its own. She wiggled her toes in her boots, closing her eyes to take a breath as she tried to shake off the overwhelming nausea that washed over her. Pushing thoughts away of every Baratheon that had ever stood in this spot. If she listened hard enough, the rain began to sound like the footsteps of dark-haired children running about, wooden swords clashing. Brothers sharing a pint of ale, laughter of storm-weathered women built as tall and braw as the men. 

In another life - another world, even, this would be my home. 

The guards swung open the doors for her, forcing her eyes open. Her breath caught in her chest.

This sense of belonging was unfamiliar to her. The feeling was indescribable, pulling her further and further into her ancestral home. Her boots padded quietly onto oak floors, a hallway lined with yellow banners. Portraits of Baratheons past, portraits that she wished she could stop and examine. She could feel their eyes on her.