The Conquest

Argella

Everyday, after sundown, Argella visited the sept to light seven fires to the seven Gods, as was her ritual. She heard stories of her mother praying at the sept and giving out alms to the poor. Argella kept her mother alive by following her tradition. Her father, however was never fond of Gods. "Men make their own destiny, not Gods." He had claimed but would still light the alter before going off to war.

But tonight was tense; anxious murmurs whispered through the stone passageways and into her head. No God could push those away. It is time, the wild wind howled, it is time.

A great storm is coming, one eyed Sigurd who slept by the door of sept had told anyone who passed by. He had a sinister malice in his tone that gave his unhinged muttering more spine-chilling tone. No matter what the bravest soldiers claim, Argella did not doubt Sigurd's wheezy voice rang in their nightmare.

The door to her chamber opened with a heavy drag of iron door. Zoya, her flaxen-haired Pentoshi handmaiden stepped in. Argella could tell she was keeping an eye on the princess on her father's command. She sighed to herself.

"Would like me to send for the singer, princess?" She asked.

"No." Argella replied curtly and gazed out into the dusk. The rosy sky had blended into the mist of night and had taken an azure hue.

"Perhaps the court fool will have something amusing for you?" She suggested.

"No, thank you, Zoya. I am not in mood. You can leave." She said dismissively but Zoya hung back, clearly torn between her anger and the Storm King's command. Argella would pity her if she wasn't so determined to escape the cell of her chamber.

"Just get me something from the kitchen, a lemon cake, preferably." She commanded and Zoya left. In her place, an elderly maid and even more unrelenting, stood vigil. 

By the time Zoya returned with lemon cake and other delicacies, Argella was tugging at the sleeve of her robe, vexed from her father's inflexible orders. She understood her father wanted to shield her from awful rumors and talks of war as maidens should be, but Argella would rather hear them and be satisfied then wait in nervous tension for the worse.

She finished her cake and told the maid to share the leftovers among the guards. "I'd like to retire to bed."

"Now, princess?"

"Yes." She snapped. Zoya nodded and with the help of some other servants, made her bed.

"Close the door behind you Zoya and Tyene" She addressed the other girl, almost her age, "help me with these."

Tyene nodded obediently and proceeded to take out her night robes. As soon her robes came off, Argella whirled around and stuffed the fabric into Tyene's mouth. She thrashed and tried to scream but Argella muffled her efforts by fastening the robe around her mouth and hands. The girl almost gauged hey eyes out but she managed securing her.

"I am sorry for this but I will free you as soon as I get back. It won't be long." She dragged her beside her chamber-pot hidden behind her tub.

"I would require your clothes." She did not wait for her answer and tugged it off her. Slipping into the threadbare blouse and skirt, Argella took off all her ornaments and laid down her hair into tangled mess. Due to the chilly weather, they wore a heavy cloak and Argella hid herself under the soiled woolen cloak.

She closed the door firmly behind her and tried to slip past Zoya who guarded her way.

"The princess is off to bed, she wishes not to be disturbed." Argella said in her best common folk imitation.

"But the king told me not to leave her out of my sight." Zoya argued.

"Would you rather the princess complain that she could not sleep with you looming over her?" Zoya gave in with a frustrated grunt. Argella trusted she would not dare to disturb the 'sleeping princess'. 

Maids were ghosts, no one noticed them coming and going. Argella took care not to look anyone in the eye. When she reached the throne room, it was bursting with throng of people: his father's advisers, all of Stormland's warriors lords, high and lowborn, captains and generals of his army, all of them crying out their opinions in raucous uproar that may very well match the roar of dragon. 

Argella snaked through the crowd; several grunted in annoyance as she tried to slip past them, some muttered "cunt" and turned to scream again.

Huge stone columns held up the throne room that glowed with large fires burning high up in iron stands. A sublime throne of teak sat atop an elevated platform and was adjoined by several similar, but smaller seats for those closest to the royal highness. In front of them, there were rows of granite benches where people awaited the king's verdict.

Argilac Durrandon was perched atop the throne which could barely hold his gigantic physique, slumping to his left and clenching and unclenching his right fist, his usual indication of his vexation. Before him, a kneeling messenger waited with head hung low.

"Silence!" The Chief Steward's voice boomed.

"Read on." Her father commanded.

The elderly maester adjusted his bronze chain fastened around his neck and with a hint of mild amusement and much mockery, read on.

"I am well acquainted with your daughter's beauty and aptitude and I have no doubt of her virtue and purity."

Argella flushed as she recognized who it must be from. Her father had sent the proposal only few days ago; she had not expected answer so soon. She had heard maid talk of the Dragonlord's grace, his prowess as a warrior and dragon-rider. Argella wondered what he must be truly. His sister-wife Visenya was not a very kind and pleasant lady and she carried the infamous Targaryen pride.

"I am bound to my sisters by law and affection and I can not spite them for their devotion. Orys, my most trusted adviser and my lifetime companion, however, remains unmarried and he is..."

The storm king cut him off. "I do not know this Orys he speaks of."

"His bastard half brother, your grace." Kegan Penrose said. "Spawn of some fishwife, no doubt."

The hall vibrated with wild laughter; Argella sunk with heavy heart. Argilac was not laughing however. Within moments he had gone from red to vibrant purple with anger. Argella could see the messenger cower by the aggressive hostility, a sheep among wolves.

"That pretentious bastard. The nerve of him!" Argilac's voice silenced the bustling chaos. "I promise him lands and my daughter's hand and this is what the arrogant cunt offers in return. A bastard! Never will my daughter marry such a lowborn scum!"

Thundering claps broke with loud cheers.

"Penrose! Bring the rider forward." The Lord of Parchments got up, followed by three of his guards who seized the whimpering envoy and shoved him to the foot of the platform.

Argilac rose from his throne and made his way down; his heavy steps mingled the sound of his iron chainmail jingling with swish of his golden cloak.

With a click, he unbuckled his sword and raised the naked steel high in the air. The messenger's sob was washed by the waves of cheer of exited crowd.

Argella could stand no longer. Tripping and jostling through the crowd, she ran to her chamber, completely forgetting her disguise.