Chapter Text
Cassana had loved Storm’s End since she was a small girl. They did not visit there often, for though it was the place of her father’s birth, and the ancestral seat of his house, Robert Baratheon had spent the better part of his life living in other places; up in the mountains of the Vale, or at the Red Keep after he had won his crown. Storm’s End had been passed on to his youngest brother, Cassana’s uncle Renly, who was at court with the rest more often than not anyway.
The rare visits were a precious, hard won prize for Cassana. Though her father was the King, and his word was final, the Queen still held sway over so much of the movements of the court, and Cersei Lannister hated Storm’s End. To petition her father for a visit was to risk her mother’s wrath, who had little enough patience for Cassana, and stubborn as she was, she was rarely in the mood for those kinds of fights. It was no pleasing thing, to be reminded of her mothers so singular displeasure in her. But sometimes she was bold, and sometimes she was successful, and sometimes she got to crack open the windows of her chambers and let the rain kiss her fingertips while the sounds of wind and thunder made the whole drum tower boom.
She drifted between waking and sleeping, unaware of any change overcoming her, for her dreams were as full of storms as the world beyond her window, as full of storms as ever. Within her dreams the curtain wall below her played host to many shades of the castle’s past; to her grandfather Steffon and namesake Cassana, to Ormund and the Princess Rhaelle, to the Four Storms, to the bold Argella Durrandon, the last Storm Queen, and sometimes even to Durran Godsgrief and his wife Elenei. Those dreams she met with both eagerness and apprehension, for alone of the figures in her dreams, Elenei seemed to regard her.
Unlike other women of the stormlands, who wore their hair in elaborate braided styles, or contained within cauls and crispinettes, Elenei’s hair was unbound, whipping round her in a mass of black curls, caught up in the wind. Her eyes were a piercing blue, the blue of the sea, of the sky after storms, and her voice was like the crashing of the waves against the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay. Transfixed, Cassana watched her, unable to turn away even as a fever began to consume her and she pressed her forehead against the cool metal of the window frame for some relief. She could feel herself shaking, her body slackening against the window seat, and yet she could not stop looking. Elenei was trying to tell her something, she was sure. Perhaps if she just leant a little further out, strained a little harder to hear over the storm, she would know what it was.
There was a cry of surprise, a noise of concern from somewhere close and yet far away. Cool, dry hands pressed against her forehead, pulled at her arms, dragging her away from the window. The moment broken, Elenei vanished from the curtain wall. Cassana turned to attempt some admonishment, but managed no more than a quiet, mournful moan. An unfamiliar voice spoke, laced with worry, but she could not hear it over the ringing in her ears. Her bed seemed to rush up to meet her. The kind hands vanished, and though she tried to follow them, the dark enveloped her and she knew no more.
There was no sense of time, no anchor to the passing of the days that Cassana could latch herself to. There were only the brief periods of wakefulness, with its revolving cast of characters, interspersed with strange dreams of sea and sky and stone. She was on a boat, sailing across an endless sea. She was a stag in the Kingswood, watching the stars above. She was a Queen, a septa, a maidservant in the Red Keep. She was falling through an eternal storm cloud.
Somewhere a maester’s chain clinked rhythmically as she was encouraged to drink bitter potions, and cooling poultices were placed against her skin. There was singing too, her septa’s high, clear voice calling on the Mother and the Maiden both. Cassana attempted to join her, to bring in the harmonies she had always loved to learn, but managed no more than garbled noise. The singing stopped briefly, before resuming. She thought Septa Anwyn must have moved closer. She thought she felt her hands stroking her hair as she drifted off back to sleep.
Through it all, she strained to hear her parents. Her father’s booming voice had always brought her comfort and courage. In her mind, Cassana had likened it to the noise of the drum tower, both the excitement of the wild world beyond and the knowledge you were safe within. Even her mother’s voice, in turns soft as silk and hard and sharp as iron would have been welcome, and yet she heard neither. There was only the steady rotation of maester, septa, servants. Between the medicines she wished she could spit out, someone fed her broths she assumed to be chicken but that she could not taste. She swallowed them only for the sake of the gentle, coaxing voice. If she kept her eyes closed she could imagine it to be her mother, come with the gentleness she reserved for Cassana’s younger siblings, that Cassana dreamed her mother had once shown her.
Her fever broke to sunlight streaming through the windows. It was not the thin light, creeping through the clouds, that was most common in the stormlands, but rather those vivid, spectacular sunrises that followed a particularly violent storm. Those were Cassana’s favourites, they were why she always requested an east facing room, that she might wake early and watch from her window. Still weak and shaky, she pried herself out of her bed, uncertain on her legs as a newborn fawn, making for the window again as though a glimpse of light, a touch of fresh air, might heal her entirely.
She made it halfway across the room before her legs gave out beneath her and she nearly collapsed to the floor with a shout. The door to her room was thrown open, and a stranger, a chambermaid, Cassana guessed, by the look of her dress, was pulling her up off of the floor, and pressing her to return to bed. The maid was stronger than she seemed, Cassana noted, for despite her slender frame she didn’t appear to struggle overmuch lifting Cassana back to standing, even though Cassana was tall for her age, and fast growing taller.
“You ought to stay in bed, the maid muttered, the irritation in her voice softened by concern, her voice strangely familiar.
Cassana stared up at her, eyebrows furrowed as she sorted through fevered memories, seeking out the source of the recognition. She had her father’s face, and could manage a fearsome little frown when she wanted to, and often when she wasn’t even thinking of it. The maid backed up several steps and dipped into a curtsy.
“Your Highness,” she added, “it’s only that Maester said you had to rest in bed for the day even after your fever broke.”
Cassana waved her hand towards the window she had attempted to reach.
“Wanted to see the sun,” she said, more a whine than the order her mother would have preferred she’d given, “It’s so nice after storming.”
The curtains were thrown open, the light painting the lattice pattern of the window glass over the room. Cassana sighed and smiled and sank fully into the bed, tracing the diamond shadows on her skin and sheets. The maid approached once again, this time to lay a gentle hand on her forehead, humming happily when she found Cassana’s skin no longer fever hot. Still, her hands were cool and dry in comparison, and Cassana turned her face to press into them. Memories of her illness stirred and fell into place, and finally she recalled why these hands, this voice, were so familiar to her.
“You were here before,” she said, her voice quiet but certain, “It was you at the window, when I was dreaming of Elenei.”
The maid nodded her assessment, and when Cassana didn’t speak again, only stared at her, she answered the unasked questions.
“I’d come to change the rushes when I found Your Highness. You didn’t seem well, so I helped you to lie down and went to fetch Maester. He had me keep the room clean and the fires stoked while he and the septa saw to your health. He didn’t want too many people coming and going, and the Queen agreed.”
Cassana’s stomach sank at that. Of course her mother wouldn’t want to risk her health to visit her on her sickbed, no matter how much Cassana had hoped she would be there.
“I should go fetch Maester,” the maid continued, “He’ll want to see you.”
She turned to leave, curtsying as she went, but Cassana called out for her to wait, and she stopped, face expectant.
“What’s your name?” Cassana asked.
“Meg, if it please you, Your Highness,” she responded.
“Meg. That’s nice. Thank you,” Cassana said, and smiled at her, and Meg smiled back.
After the Maester had poked and prodded her sufficiently to judge her well, and prescribed her a day’s more rest before she was allowed to roam around the castle again as she pleased, she was left in the company of her septa. Maester Jurne had insisted against any activities requiring her to sit upright for extended periods of time, or exert herself overmuch, so the day was split between reading, sleeping, and singing, her embroidery and instruments and lessons set aside. She saw no guests, her mother’s influence no doubt. It ached more than she was willing to let on to Septa Anwyn, for had she been well, and Tommen and Myrcella ill, their mother would have had no concern for Cassana slipping into their rooms to keep them company. No Joffrey though. He was a monstrous little brat at the best of times, and worse still when he was ill.
There was, however, one consolation. Her waking and wellness had come mere days before her name day. Her uncle Renly had assured her upon her arrival that she was to have a great feast upon it, the last night, and indeed very purpose of their visit. There would be a troupe of musicians and dancing and plenty of good food and she, for once, would be at the centre of attention.
Plenty of stormlords had flocked to the castle for the royal visit, vying for favours, and it was no secret that her hand was one of the greatest prizes of all. All the lords with an heir anywhere near her age had been hoping for a match, and some part of her hoped one succeeded. It would be some years before any marriage took place, but a life settled in the Stormlands was a dream to her. Perhaps it would be announced that very night. Ten was not too young to wed, but plenty old enough to be betrothed, especially for a royal princess, and certainty of escape from under her mother’s thumb would be gifts enough for her.
She was permitted to rejoin the rest of the family on the morning of her name day. The day dawned bright and clear, the sky empty of clouds and as blue as her own eyes. She dressed swiftly in a pale green and gold gown, with its wide sleeves and layered skirts made to match the stormlands style, where, no matter the season, there always seemed to be some damp chill in the air. Her hair was put up in two long braids, wrapped with white silk ribbons, while Cassana tapped her feet impatiently, eager to slide out of her seat and hurry downstairs to break her fast.
Waiting for her at the door was Septa Anwyn in her familiar blue robes and white habit, a slim book clasped in her hands. Cassana smiled widely at her as she approached, ready for her septa to give an appraising look over her clothing, bless her, and then accompany her down to the morning meal. Instead, Anwyn took the book she held and pressed it into Cassana’s hands. She looked down at it, furrowing her brow in confusion. Usually Septa Anwyn carried a prayer book with her, but Cassana had no need for one of those. She had a large and elaborate collection of her own, gifts from over the years, including one with a gilt cover she’d received from a Lannsiter cousin the year prior, and another written out by Septa Anwyn herself from the year before that. Septa Anwyn seemed to know where her thoughts had led her, for she laughed gently, and squeezed Cassana’s hands.
“It’s a collection of folk stories,” she explained, “tales from the Age of Heroes, and of the First Men, from before the Andals crossed the Narrow Sea. I know how well you love the stories of Elenei. I thought you might enjoy some of the others like it.”
Cassana opened up the book to find Septa Anwyn’s own careful script within, and her brightly inked illustrations around the header and lining the margins. Her septa had always had a talent for the artistic. She had once told Cassana that it was a septa’s artwork on display at her family’s sept that had prompted her to take her own vows, and it was that septa that she had learned her own art from.
“It’s beautiful,” Cassana breathed, tracing the path of a lightning strike down the side of one page.
“I’m glad,” Septa Anwyn said, her smile warm, as she let go of Cassana and placed a hand on her head, murmuring a blessing, “May the Maiden protect you in this coming year.”
Cassana closed her eyes briefly and then withdrew to tuck the book away amongst her other most prized possessions, her best gowns, prettiest jewel, and her good yew bow, in the trunk at the end of her bed. There it would be kept safe on their way back to King’s Landing, guarded against any harm or danger. The oaken lid thumped closed as she stood again, dusting rushes off her skirts and made her way down to the hall where they were to have breakfast.
It was a small, private meal, especially when compared to the feast already being prepared for that evening, being held in the rooms adjacent to the Great Hall. Cassana passed through the castle to a flurry of bows and curtsies and well wishes from all present, from the highest of the visiting lords to the maids preparing the tables. She spied Meg amongst them, who winked at her, Cassana smiled back, remembering her gentle hands and kind voice.
The rest of her family had already assembled at the table, the food laid out ready — porridge with honey, soft white bread, boiled eggs, sliced ham, and half a dozen other foods Cassana loved. She curtsied to her father and mother in turn, sat at opposite ends of the table, before sliding into her own seat between Myrcella and Tommrn, who swiftly descended upon her with questions about her illness, and if she was well enough now to come play with them again. Laughing, she kissed their round, smiling cheeks, and let them press their presents into her hands, undoubtedly ones selected for her by their mother, or, perhaps more likely, their nursemaid, but beloved all the same.
There were other presents, of course, those fit for a young princess. New gowns, to replace the ones she was swiftly growing out of, new jewellery and hairpieces, chiefest among which was a silver circlet made to look like a stag’s antlers that her uncle Renly had had commissioned for her. Best of all her presents was to come later, though, when her father had her summoned to the stables near midday.
Cassana was always pleased to have her father’s attention, for it was him she felt the closest kinship to out of all her family. In the nursery she had been the black sheep amongst a pride of golden lion cubs, but when she stood next to her father, Cassana knew she belonged, both of them broad and tall, with thick black hair and striking blue eyes, strong jaws and sharp tempers. Certainly you could find some similarities between Cassana and her mother if you sought them out, but anyone who saw her remarked how much she looked like her father. Surrounded, as she so often was, by Lannisters, those moments when her father seemed to truly look at her, and take pride in their similarities, gave her an unmitigated sense of joy.
Upon receiving her father’s summons, she rushed down to the stables, barely giving a thought to the grace and elegance expected of a princess, caught up in hope that her father may have set some time aside for her. Instead of Robert Baratheon, however, there was only a horse she did not recognise tied up in the place of the pony that she had been permitted to travel to Storm’s End on, whenever the weather was suitable. Her little brown mount had been sweet tempered enough to start, but grew more and more stubborn as Cassana grew increasingly too tall and heavy for either of them to comfortably ride. This horse was full grown and well trained, a palfrey, if she had to guess, a proper ride for a noblewoman, all black but for the white blade of her forehead. The horse nickered as Cassana approached, nosing at her for food while she absentmindedly stroked its neck and scanned the stables for her father.
“Well, what do you think of her?” his booming voice sounded from behind, startling her, “Sired by my own riding horse, so there’s no chance you’ll outgrow her.”
“I love her,” Cassana responded, smiling, and she meant it. This was just the kind of horse she had dreamed about riding when she was old enough, and to know her father had recognised those wishes would have been gift enough, even without the gorgeous palfrey he had had readied for her, “I’m going to call her Elenei, after the goddess.”
At that her father laughed and mussed her hair, before striding off, to do what, Cassana did not know and almost did not care. In that moment, there was only her, the horse, and the joy born out of her father’s rare affection.
The feast was all that Renly had promised her, and she told him so as they danced across the floor of the Great Hall. He was far from her first partner of the evening, as she’d been nearly swept off her feet by an Estermont cousin when the tables were pushed back for the dancing, and had been happily in demand ever since. Renly had only had the chance to join her after his handsome, young squire Loras Tyrell swapped partners with him, leaving Cassana with her uncle as he took up the next dance with Lord Morrigen’s pretty daughter. It was almost a shame, she thought, for Loras Tyrell had such nice eyes, but it was her uncle she had come this far to see, not his Reacher squire.
“I’m glad you’re so pleased with it all, Cassana,” Renly said, smiling cheerfully at her, “After all the effort I put into suiting it to your tastes, I should have hoped you would be.”
“Well I wasn’t going to be unhappy with any feast, so long as it was happening here,” Cassana responded.
“Ah, so I should not have bothered?”
They both laughed at that, and Renly spun her round to the music so fast she thought she might collapse into some undignified heap before the song ended and he escorted up to the high table, where Septa Anwyn was waiting for her.
“Septa, I return my niece to your care,” he said, winking at Septa Anwyn, who rolled her eyes even as she smiled in return, “I trust you will see her fed and watered before her next eager suitor steals her back to the dancing?”
“You need not fear for the princess when she is under my supervision, my Lord,” Septa Anwyn replied, and Renly gave them both a dashing bow before retreating from the dias and immediately seeking out Loras Tyrell among the dancers.
Septa Anwyn spoke truthfully. As Cassana took a moment to savour some tarts and a small cup of honeyed wine, her septa kept watch over crowds, her face, usually so bright and animated, now serious and stoned. Cassana watched her so-called suitors approach her before thinking better of it.
Despite the many dance partners, and Renly’s japes, the topic of a marriage amongst the stormlords never came up, and Cassana’s quietly held hopes were dashed. Likely her parents meant for her to wed among the Lords Paramount, or perhaps her mother wished to set her with some Lannister allied family in the Westerlands. Cassana preferred the former option, her mother cast a long shadow over the Westerlands, but as a great lady she’d near enough have her own realm, beyond the strength of her mother’s influence. And if it was the Tyrell’s, continuing to strengthen the alliances with the Reach that began with her uncle Stannis’s marriage, well they were building friendships with Renly, so perhaps they would let her travel to visit the stormlands every so often.
Her father was in a jovial sort of mood, between the wine and the women, the perfect sort of mood to wheedle requests out of him, and Cassana had two particularly in mind. The first that she be allowed to ride Elenei on the way back to King’s Landing, was granted easily enough. The second, that she wished for the chambermaid Meg to be employed at the Red Keep as a part of her household, was met with a good deal more confusion and disagreement, her mother joining the conversation to express only her disappointment that Cassana had enjoyed the company of a servant girl. In the end, it was Renly, reading the distress on her face from across the room who managed to disarm the conversation with a laugh and an easy acquiescence.
“One maid is a small thing to ask,” he declared, “when it would clearly make my niece so happy.”
Her mother scowled at him, but Cassana, once more, had only smiles.
The following morning, feet aching from all the dancing, and accompanied by the newest member of her household, Cassana mounted Elenei, and set off down the Kingsroad for the home she did not long for, turning again and again in her saddle to catch final glimpses of Storm’s End as it retreated into the distance.
There was no way to know it then, but the next time she would see that castle, she would be titled Queen