The Last Stag • Game of Thrones

Storm's End.

Stannis had been a fool of a man. 

Maybe he had been clever, once - long before her father had sat the Iron Throne, before he had been cast off to Dragonstone without a second glance. When he was still young and warm, when he still was the rightful Lord of Storm's End and had great dreams of glory and sons and war. 

But in the end, he had died a fool. A fool who, in the entire time she had known him, had only been right about one thing.

Renfri really did look like Cassandre Baratheon.

Her damp, tangled curls sat in a gnarl against her back, her arms wrapped around herself as she stood in her black night robe in the bedchamber, eyeing the portrait on the wall. 

Her grandfather, Steffon, stood in the center, one arm wrapped around a pretty woman with black curls just like hers. Her grandmother, Cassana of Estermont Island. His other hand rested on the shoulder of a tall, skinny boy with thick brows and a diamond-cut face. Stannis. Next to Stannis was another boy, this one with broad shoulders and a goofy grin. Robert. A toddler, no older than four or five, sat on the ground by their feet. Baby Renly.

On Renly's side, standing just below her mother, was the aunt that Renfri had never known. They had their differences, it was true - the late Lady Cassandre had softer cheekbones, skinnier shoulders, and the wide, cutting smile of a stranger. Her nose was rounder, her lips fuller.

But in her face, Renfri saw her own. They shared untamable dark curls, arching eyebrows, pointed chins. A widows peak hairline and eyes the color of firelight. Stannis' wonder at seeing her was no surprise, now. Renfri herself would be wondered to meet Cassandre. 

Was she happy here? That girl with the stranger's smile and soft features. Was she loved?

A knock at the door only dully broke into Renfri's stupor. Her eyes never left the painting as she called for them to enter. 

"Ah," Tyrion smiled in a tired, warm way as he closed the door behind him. "Taking in the artwork?"

Renfri cast a glance towards him as he made his way further into the room.

"The old Baratheons." Her voice was hoarse, burnt out from the days activities. "This room belonged to them once."

"Hm." Tyrion mused, coming to stand beside her in front of the painting. "Yes, many of them indeed. But it is yours now. Do you want this painting removed?"

"My great-grandmother was Rhaelle Targaryen before she was Rhaelle Baratheon." She ran her tongue along the roof of her mouth, seemingly incapable of tearing her attention away from the painting completely. "A Targaryen slept in these chambers."

"A history lesson, then?" Tyrion cocked an eyebrow, choosing to ignore the disguised dig at Daenerys. He looked away from the painting, eyeing his niece curiously. "Yes, I suppose she was. Do you know of the Queen who Never Was?"

Renfri nodded, finally tearing her eyes away from the painting.

"Rhaenys Valeryon." Renfri looked to the ground. "During the dance. I know the story."

"And did you know that her mother was Jocelyn Baratheon?"

Renfri's eyes flicked up. Tyrion raised his eyebrows, turning away from her and crossing to the table on the far side of the room. He poured himself a glass of wine, nodding slowly.

"Jocelyn Baratheon, sister to Lord Boremund. Actually, not many people know this, but Lord Boremund hosted a young Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen in this very hall while she was on her betrothal tour. Scouring Westeros for a suitable husband." He laughed in a half-assed way, turning back to her. "He wrote in his journals how amusing he found the girl. Said she was a spit-fire, that she mocked every suitor who came to propose and left this hall snickering with a glass of ale in her hand. Reminds me of another Princess I once knew."