Salvation - Aemond Targaryen / Aegon Targaryen

Amity Again

Jeyne had never been to Storm's End.

The colossal drum tower housed everything a castle needed—including the granary, rookery and a massive feast hall. Within the tower, the Round Hall housed a large, stone throne made of protruding rocks that sat atop a three layered dais—flanked on either side torches burned orange flames to light the damp, dreary hall.

Lord Borros Baratheon was a man of fifty and six—four trueborn daughters born to him by his lady wife, the large and comely Elenda Caron—heavyset and brutish, Jeyne had heard rumors of his daftness. She heard of his temperamental behavior, quick to anger and slow to forgive.

He was notorious for his quarrels with the Dornishmen, and more importantly for his losses. During his tenure as the Lord of Storm's End, he had seen Stonehelm and Mistwood invaded countless times by those to the south. Though they remained under the rule of his lordship, it did little to cover his losses.

Jeyne saw him as an impulsive, overgrown child.

It was difficult for her to hide her disdain for the man—whom she had even heard rumors of his inability to read—though she masked it behind a sweet smile and false courtesies of greetings and well wishes. She focused not on the rumors that had spread through the kingdoms, but rather what she could see.

What she saw was long, dark brown hair that brushed untrimmed against a high collared tunic, colored black as night. A silver livery collar was adorned with swarming wind formations and leaping stags with sharp, thick antlers pointed toward the heavens. Breeches she was sure were designed to be loose and flowing were tightly strained at the seams against his thick, meaty legs. He had a patchy beard, watery grey eyes, and a rounded nose with a flat bridge wrinkled permanently at the brow.

"The Princes, Aegon and Aemond of House Targaryen." The man whom Jeyne assumed to be his Maester bore a long grey cloak that overflowed onto the ground, flat gray slippers shuffled around the stone floors unsurely, his multicolored chain swaying as his body did.

The lord eyed their entourage as Aemond led the charge, approaching the storm lord with an enlarged sense of self-importance oozing from his form—Jeyne at his side, far less confident as they strode across the Round Hall. Her eyes fell to his daughters, standing dutifully to his right with their hands clasped politely at their waists.

The eldest daughter, Cassandra, was a girl of seven and ten years—one year Jeyne's senior—with long black curls thick at the root and thin at the ends. Far prettier than someone spawned from that large oaf could have been, she had the signature grey eyes of House Baratheon, and the same flat bridged nose her father had. She was thin, with small budding breasts and a rectangular frame complimented nicely by a wrap dress the color of polished bronze, tied at the waist on her right side.

The second daughter, Maris, was much harder of face. Closest in age to Jeyne at a four month seniority, she had harsh grey eyes shaped like almonds and a hooked nose and full lips turned upward in a sneer. Her eyes raked across Jeyne's form, surveying the way smoke remnants curled from the lace and the way her hair fell, sopping wet from the rains.

Ellyn and Floris, twelve and ten respectively, were absorbed with whispers shared only with each other. Long dark hair on each was straightened slick like old black oil, falling down their shoulders and covering juvenile frames like waterfalls of dragonglass. Their dresses—like their sisters—were traditional wrap dresses, though their hips were adorned with bronze belts of a dozen large medallions. Their unblemished cheeks were burning red when they saw the princes, smiles revealing teeth large and white behind thin brown tinged lips.