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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The forge had always been her sanctuary, a place where heat, metal, and focus drowned out the rest of the world. The roar of the furnace was her only companion, the rhythmic strike of her hammer the heartbeat of her existence. Storm, Robert's bastard, found solace here, in the glow of molten steel and the quiet crackle of the flames. It was the one place where her lineage, her name, didn't matter. She was not the bastard of the Usurper or the hidden daughter of a dead king. Here, she was a blacksmith. And in her hands, the world could be remade.
But as the door to the forge creaked open, the familiar comfort of the heat and flame seemed to falter. Rhaenara straightened, wiping the sweat from her brow, her hands still blackened with soot. A figure stepped into the dim light, and she instantly recognised the sigil on his cloak-a lord, a Baratheon bannerman. His presence sent a ripple through the air, a tension she couldn't ignore.
"Rhaenara," the lord said, his voice heavy with grief. "I bring news. From the North."
Her stomach twisted. She set her hammer down carefully, her heart already pounding as if it knew what words would follow.
The lord took a breath, his eyes dark with the weight of his message. "Your uncles, Stannis and Renly, have fallen. The battle at Winterfell... it was not kind to the Baratheons. And Shireen..." His voice faltered for a moment, but then he pressed on. "Shireen is dead. Killed by her own father, in an act none of us can understand."
The words hit her like a hammer to the chest, the breath leaving her lungs all at once. She could barely process it. Shireen... sweet, gentle Shireen. Killed by Stannis? Her hands gripped the edge of the anvil, the hard, cold metal grounding her, though her mind was a whirlwind of grief and disbelief. Renly had been the first to go, his death shrouded in mystery and shadow. Stannis, driven by his relentless need to claim the throne, had lost himself along the way. And now Shireen... the one bright, innocent soul in the storm of blood and ambition.
Her vision blurred as she tried to steady herself. The lord's voice broke through her thoughts.
"There's something more," he said softly. "Come with me. Outside, to the courtyard."
Rhaenara hesitated. She wasn't ready. How could she face anyone right now, when her world had been shattered once more? But something in the man's eyes urged her forward. She pulled off her heavy leather apron, setting it aside as she followed him out of the forge. The air outside was cooler, the sun beginning to sink behind the trees, casting long shadows across the courtyard.
What awaited her took her breath away.
There, gathered in a solemn line, were the remaining Baratheon lords, men who had served her father, men who had fought beside her uncles. They had seen her grow up, the wild girl who worked the forge with a determination that surprised them all. They had watched her shape steel as if it were clay, as if fire and metal were her truest companions. And now, they stood there, waiting for her.
In the centre of them, resting on a wooden pedestal, was the sword she had forged for Stannis-the reforged blade from Stormbringer, the Baratheon ancestral sword that had been found and returned from Essos. Its dark Valyrian steel gleamed in the evening light, a cold and beautiful reminder of the legacy she was tied to, whether she wished it or not.
The lord beside her gestured toward the sword, his voice low and reverent. "We give you our allegiance, Rhaenara. The last of the Baratheon blood. We've seen your strength, seen your skill. You were born of the storm, and you carry the weight of it with you. We swear to follow you."
Rhaenara blinked, the words sinking in slowly, painfully. Her mind swam with memories-her father, Robert, wild and strong, laughing in the great hall. Renly, with his charm and his effortless smile. Stannis, grim and resolute, never swaying from his path. And Shireen, dear Shireen, her innocent heart snuffed out in a cruel twist of fate.
They were all gone.
She felt a pressure building in her chest, but she forced herself to focus on the present, on the lords standing before her, offering their loyalty, offering their lives. They had chosen her, not because of her name, but because they had seen her. Seen the woman she had become, forged in fire like the very blades she crafted.
But what did she have left to give? She was no ruler. She had spent her life in the forge, in the heat and the flames, not in the halls of power. Yet here they were, waiting for her to step into a role she had never asked for.
Rhaenara stepped forward, her gaze falling on the sword she had made. Its weight was not just in its steel but in the history it carried, the blood it had seen spilled. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing the hilt, feeling the coolness of the Valyrian steel beneath her skin.
"I don't know what to think," she admitted quietly, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. "Renly is dead. Stannis is dead. My father... gone. And now Shireen." She shook her head, her vision blurring once more. "All I ever wanted was to make swords. I never wanted this."
The lords remained silent, their gazes respectful, waiting.
"But it seems the gods don't care what I want," she continued, her voice growing steadier. "They've left me to carry the burden of my house. And if that's what I must do, I'll do it. But I won't be like my father, or my uncles. I won't be ruled by pride, or fear, or ambition."
She lifted the sword, its weight familiar in her hands, and turned to face the gathered lords. "I am Rhaenara Baratheon," she declared, the fire of the forge still burning in her voice. "Daughter of Robert, born of the storm. And if you would follow me, know this: I will not seek the Iron Throne. I will not lead you into war for the sake of conquest. But I will defend what remains of our house, and I will do so with every ounce of strength I have."
The lords bowed their heads in unison, their allegiance given, their respect earned.
Rhaenara felt the weight of their expectations settle on her shoulders, heavy and unyielding, but she did not falter. She had been forged in fire, after all. She had been tempered by loss, by pain, by the heat of the forge. And now, she would wield that strength not just for herself, but for the memory of those who had fallen.
As she stood there, the sword gleaming in her hands, a shadow crossed the courtyard, and a chill ran down her spine. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if this was what Melisandre had seen when she had looked into the flames. A future she could neither predict nor control.
But the future was hers now. The storm would rage, but she would stand at its heart, unbroken.
A/N - From now on she'll be refered to as Rhaenara Baratheon. She and her banermen have essentially legitimised her as the last Baratheon.
I know Gendry is out there on his own journey but the lords don't know him and most of Robert's bastards were murdered on Joffrey's orders.
Besides, Rheanara grew up at Storm's End with Renly, eccassionally seeing Stannis. She largely stayed away from her father, he didn't want to see her and she didn't want to cloud her image of him in her head. Cersei knows she's Robert's bastard but not about her Targaryen mother, thus doesn't see her as much of a threat.
