Rhaenara Storm, the bastard daughter of Robert Baratheon, is thrust into leadership as the Lord of Storm's End, wielding her unparalleled blacksmithing skills and the ancient Valyrian sword Stormbringer.
Meanwhile, Ryon Sand, the secret son of Ober...
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Rhaenara worked in silence, the rhythmic clinking of metal on metal filling the forge. Her hands were steady, the motions precise-each strike of the hammer was a well-practised dance. It was the only thing that kept her mind focused these days, the only place where her thoughts didn't spiral into the chaos outside these walls.
She didn't look up when the heavy oak door to the forge creaked open. It wasn't unusual for men to come and go, seeking her work. But this step was familiar, heavier than most, and without the hesitation that usually accompanied first-time visitors.
"You're still at it, I see." The voice was deep, edged with a sense of weariness.
Rhaenara's eyes flicked up from her work to see Stannis Baratheon standing at the entrance, his broad shoulders dark against the morning light. Her uncle had always been a hard man, but now, as she saw him in his blackened armour, his face seemed even more weathered by the weight of the world's burdens.
"Uncle," she greeted him with a nod, though her voice held little warmth. Their relationship was one of necessity, not affection. Stannis had acknowledged her only when it became convenient, once Robert's rebellion had been won and the crown had settled on the Baratheon brow. Even then, she was just a bastard, a shadow in the background.
Stannis stepped inside, his heavy boots thudding on the stone floor as he moved closer to the anvil. "I've come for my sword. The Boltons will march soon, and I'll not face them without the steel you promised."
She paused in her work, eyes narrowing slightly. "You'll have it by the end of the day. Rushing won't do you any good. Valyrian steel isn't a thing to be hurried."
Stannis grunted, but he didn't argue. His eyes roved over the forge, the weapons hanging on the walls, before finally settling on her. His gaze lingered longer than usual, and she could feel the tension thickening in the room.
"You've heard the news, then?" he asked, his voice a mixture of command and question.
Rhaenara wiped her hands on a rag, knowing full well what he meant. "If you mean the death of Joffrey Baratheon, the bastard king, then yes, I've heard." She spat the name with a bitterness that matched the black iron in her forge. "I can only imagine you didn't grieve long."
Stannis clenched his jaw. His hatred for Joffrey had been clear to everyone. "Joffrey was never a Baratheon," he said coldly. "He was a Lannister through and through. Tommen now wears the crown, but it's the same falsehood, the same deception."
She met his gaze, her dark eyes searching for a flicker of doubt in her uncle's usually unshakable demeanour. "And what do you think will happen to Tommen?" she asked quietly. "The Lannisters aren't about to give up the throne. Not while the twins still breathe."
The mention of the Lannister twins-Cersei and Jaime-hung heavily between them. The incestuous rumours had plagued the realm for years now, though few dared speak of it openly. Rhaenara had heard them all, the whispers of the golden-haired siblings who ruled through lies, betrayal, and their unnatural bond.
Stannis's expression darkened further. "Tommen is no more rightful king than Joffrey was. He's an abomination born of incest. But people will follow him because the Lannisters hold the capital, and power-real or false-breeds loyalty."
Rhaenara didn't respond immediately. Instead, she returned to her forge, the hammer ringing out again as she brought it down on the glowing metal. Each strike was a release of tension, a means to push back the noise of the world. But the silence between them was thick, and she could feel Stannis's impatience growing.
"You have something to say, Rhaenara," he finally said, his tone as sharp as the steel she was forging.
"I do," she said, her voice level. "I want to know why you're doing this. You've never been one to care for the people. You've always been about duty, law, order. But now you're marching north to fight the Boltons, to take Winterfell. Is it truly for the throne? Or are you chasing something else?"
Stannis's eyes blazed, his fists tightening at his sides. "You think I want this war?" he asked, his voice hard. "I never wanted the crown. But it is mine by right, by law. And if I do not take it, the realm will crumble under the weight of false kings and their lies."
"And yet," Rhaenara said, her voice quieter now, "the people still whisper about you, Uncle. They call you harsh, unforgiving. They say you lack what Robert had-the charm, the fire that made men follow him. Even now, after Joffrey's death, they do not rally behind you as they once did for him."
"Robert," Stannis spat the name with a venom she had rarely heard from him. "Robert was a fool. A drunkard who cared more for his wine and his women than for the realm. The people loved him because he gave them nothing to fear. But look where his love left us-with a kingdom ruled by Lannister bastards."
Rhaenara felt a familiar stab of resentment at the mention of her father. Robert Baratheon had been larger than life, a force of nature who had toppled kings and taken the crown, but he had never been a father to her. She was the reminder of a love he should never have pursued, a product of a fleeting affair before his heart belonged to Lyanna Stark.
"Perhaps you're right," she said, her voice soft but bitter. "Robert wasn't fit to rule. But he wasn't the monster Joffrey was. Joffrey... he was something else entirely."
She saw a flicker of something in Stannis's eyes-perhaps agreement, perhaps regret. Joffrey had been a terror, a sadistic boy who had ruled with cruelty and spite, and his death had brought some measure of relief to the realm. But the danger was far from over.
"Cersei will not rest," Stannis said, his tone dark. "She will fight for Tommen, as she did for Joffrey. And the Lannister twins will protect their secret until the end. But the truth will come out. And when it does, it will be the end of them."
Rhaenara glanced up from her work, meeting her uncle's gaze. "And what of us?" she asked. "What of the Baratheons? Tommen wears your father's crown, and you say the throne is yours by right. But the people have grown weary of war, and weary of claimants. Do you think they will choose you, even if you win?"
"I don't care if they choose me," Stannis growled. "I will take what is mine. The throne is not a prize to be won by popularity or charm. It is a duty, a burden. And I will bear it because no one else will."
She studied him for a moment, seeing in him the same unyielding resolve that had driven her father to rebellion all those years ago. But there was something different in Stannis-something colder, more rigid, a man driven by duty and law rather than love or passion.
"And what of your duty to your family?" she asked quietly. "To me? I was born before all this, before the war, before the rebellion. But I've always been cast aside, a shadow of what could have been."
Stannis's expression softened, just for a moment. "You were born in the wrong time, Rhaenara. Robert had his sights on the throne, and there was no room for anyone else. But now..." He trailed off, his eyes distant.
She didn't need him to finish. She understood. She had been a casualty of Robert's ambition, born in the time of kings and rebellion, but never truly part of either. A bastard with no name, no claim.
But the blood in her veins was as strong as the steel she forged.
"I'll finish your sword," she said, her voice steady. "But remember this: when you take the throne, if you take it, you do not fight alone. The Lannisters, the Boltons, all of them-they will come for you. And when they do, you will need more than just steel."
