Deep within the bowels of the Citadel, in chambers accessed through passages known only to a select few, six Archmaesters met.
Six leaders of a secret order that boasted of having controlled Westeros for millennia. An order that claimed to have rid the world of magic, to have guided the realm away from the unnatural practices that had once plagued it, to have steered kings and lords toward proper governance through careful manipulation and, when necessary, selective elimination.
Theomore, the Archmaester of Ravenry, sat at the head of the table. To his right sat Quenton, Archmaester of Faith and Theologies. Moryn, Archmaester of Economics and Trade, sat across from him. Yarrick, Archmaester of Healing and Medicine, was next. Eddard, Archmaester of Astronomy and Astrology. And finally, Tyrek, Archmaester of Law and Governance.
All six sat around a circular table of weirwood. Upon it rested a glass orb, perhaps a foot in diameter, perfectly smooth and seemingly filled with swirling mist. It was a thing they should have despised, an artifact of the very magic they claimed to oppose. It had been given to them by their temporary ally, one they should have been enemies with, but with whom they had made an alliance to destroy an even greater threat.
"Why can't we see into the castle?" Theomore said with frustration, leaning forward and glaring at the orb.
The glass sphere showed the castle of Cyrodiil in all its glory, white marble gleaming even within the orb's mystical vision. Around it spread the city that was being formed.
The buildings were constructed in concentric circles descending from the castle on the hill. From the foot of the hill, the circular pattern continued outward in expanding rings. Districts were already forming, carefully planned and organized: a merchant quarter here, residential areas there, workshops and forges in another section.
"Remarkable," Moryn murmured, leaning closer to study the layout. "The efficiency of this design, the way the roads connect, the placement of the market squares to maximize—"
"Focus!" Theomore snapped. "We are not here to admire the Anathema's work!"
Moryn jerked back, chagrined.
Tyrek spoke up, his voice measured and calm. "Theomore, the Prince of Knowledge did warn us. He said the Anathema would have defenses on the castle itself, wards and protections that would prevent scrying into its inner chambers. We are fortunate we can see this much."
Anathema. That was what they were calling their greatest enemy, the man who represented everything their order had worked for centuries to prevent.
The man who had brought magic back in full force to a world the order believed they had purged of it. Who commanded powers not seen since the Age of Heroes. Who had defeated the Ironborn, liberated the Riverlands, conquered the Blackwater, and built a kingdom that threatened to upend the careful balance they had maintained for generations.
A man who was actively destroying their hold on Westeros.
"Flowers' newest correspondence worries me greatly," Yarrick said, his sour expression deepening. "It is exactly why we must move ahead with the plan now, especially with King Loren and King Torrhen both in the Heartlands. The opportunity may not come again."
"The Anathema is mad if he thinks he can rival the Citadel," Moryn said, his voice rising with indignation. "This 'College of Cyrodiil.' Bah! We have stood for thousands of years! We trained the maesters who built the Seven Kingdoms! We preserved knowledge through the Long Night itself!" He was working himself into a proper rant now. "And these traitor maesters and acolytes who have joined his endeavor? Fools! Short-sighted fools who cannot see that they are being manipulated by a sorcerer with delusions of grandeur!"
"The Citadel will endure long after this upstart kingdom crumbles to dust," Moryn continued, his hands gesturing wildly. "His 'college' will produce nothing but charlatans and hedge wizards, while we continue the true work of learning and—"
"I am not sure, brothers," Eddard interrupted quietly, his eyes still fixed on the orb, "about this creature we have made a pact with."
Quenton snorted. "Oh please, Eddard. It is a god of knowledge, or so it claims. All it asked of us was what we had learned, and we did not even share our most guarded secrets." He grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "And in return, it gave us this." He gestured to the orb. "It is now gone and will never come back to darken our lands. We used it, brother, not the other way around."
"And so it says," Eddard replied softly, doubt evident in his voice.
"Enough," Theomore said sharply. "What is done is done. We needed the advantage, and we took it. The pact served its purpose."
He stood, placing both hands on the table and leaning forward. "Morris has gifted the ring to the strongest of the Starks whose blood still carries the strongest magic. The preparations are complete."
The others nodded, understanding the implications.
"And to think we almost had that one killed," Tyrek said with dark amusement. "Thank the gods that Morris argued we should wait."
"Morris assures me that the prince and the princess have been turned against the Anathema," Theomore continued. "Brandon despises everything the sorcerer represents, sees him as a threat to Northern traditions and the purity of the Old Gods. The girl, Serena, follows her elder brother's lead in this. She has ambitions that could cause instability in the North, yes, but we can deal with that afterward. The youngest wolf presents a problem, one I am sure we can resolve later as well."
"This plan…" Eddard began, his voice trailing off uncertainly.
"It will work. I am sure of it," Theomore said with absolute conviction. "If by any chance he survives the attempt, it will still discredit the Anathema in front of both kings and even the throneless Stormqueen as well. The entire world will know of his evil, of the dark powers he traffics with. And even if he survives, he will be weakened enough that we will be able to strike a final blow to finish him. One way or another, Harald Stormcrown dies in this tourney or by the end of this year."
The others nodded, grim satisfaction on their faces.
"I do not like involving the Faith," Quenton said, and there was genuine discomfort in his voice despite his earlier enthusiasm.
Theomore looked at him. "We need them. We need them to destroy this foolish Covenant, to turn the faithful of Westeros against the heretic king." He turned to Tyrek. "Meet with the High Septon once more. Make sure their plans align with ours. Make sure there are no issues that could jeopardize what we have set in motion."
Tyrek nodded. "It will be done."
"We also need to make sure Baldric Durrandon wins the Stormlands civil war," Theomore continued, his mind working through the larger strategy. "He can have the Blackwater once the Heartlands fall to chaos."
He began to pace now, hands clasped behind his back. "We need to carefully choose a new king for the Riverlands. We cannot have the West and the Vale carve it up between them. The balance of power must be maintained. Perhaps one of the Tully or Mallister line, someone we can control properly."
"Bah, Tully is a lost cause now," Moryn chimed in.
"Loren needs to be dealt with as well," Theomore added almost as an afterthought. "His friendship with the Anathema is problematic. Perhaps he will die along with the sorcerer. Two birds, one stone."
"We can only hope," Tyrek said with a grin that did not reach his eyes.
Theomore stopped pacing and turned to face them all, his voice rising with passion. "We will win, brothers. The Anathema will be purged from this continent. The world will be put to order once more. Magic will be driven back into the shadows where it belongs. The proper hierarchy will be restored. Lords will rule their lands, maesters will guide them with wisdom, and the realm will prosper under our careful stewardship."
"Hear, hear!" Quenton said, slamming his hand on the table. The others followed suit, their voices joining in agreement.
"And now," Theomore spoke loudly, "we must discuss the matter of the missing Hightower."
.
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Argella walked through the gardens of Castle Cyrodiil, her footsteps soft on the gravel paths that wound between beds of freshly turned earth.
The gardens were almost bare, only just being planted, but even in this nascent state, Argella could see what they would become. The layout was exquisite, carefully designed with an artist's eye and an engineer's precision. Beds had been prepared in sweeping curves that would one day overflow with flowers of every color. Young trees stood like sentinels along the pathways, their branches still thin but placed with clear intent, saplings that would grow into a canopy of shade and beauty. Stone benches had been positioned at perfect intervals, each offering a different view of what was to come.
The garden was situated high within the castle's inner ward, built on a broad terrace that overlooked the city below. At its center stood a large fountain, already operational, water cascading from a sculpture of intertwined figures, Old Gods and New united in stone. Streams had been channeled to flow from the fountain through carefully constructed channels, feeding the garden beds and creating the pleasant sound of running water that filled the space with life.
It was beautiful even now, in its infancy. In a few years, when the flowers bloomed and the trees matured, when the vines grew along the trellises and the herbs filled the air with their scent, it would be one of the most beautiful gardens in the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps the most beautiful, if the care being put into its creation was any indication.
Argella found herself stopping at the terrace's edge, her hands gripping the stone balustrade as she looked out over the city.
From this height, she could see everything. The burgeoning city below spread out like a map, buildings rising in those precise concentric circles she had noticed before. People swarmed like ants from this vantage point, thousands of them, workers and merchants and craftsmen all contributing to the growth of this new capital.
The city was growing before her very eyes at a massive speed, a speed she could not even imagine. New buildings seemed to appear daily. Streets that had been muddy paths last week were now properly paved. A market square that had been an empty field was now filled with stalls and shoppers.
Everything around her, everything about her current situation, made her want to scream out loud.
She turned away from the view, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. Nearly two weeks she had been here, in this perfect castle, in this perfect kingdom with their so-called perfect king, and every day something in her grew like a festering wound.
Resentment.
Jealousy.
Anger.
It was a feeling she did not wish to have, did not want to feel every day, but she could not stop it from building inside her like pressure in a sealed vessel.
He has everything, she thought bitterly. Everything I should have had.
She remembered how much better the food had tasted this morning, and every other day she had been here. Cuisines she had never even heard of before, exotic spices and preparations that made even simple bread seem like a delicacy. Fresh fruits that should not exist this early in spring, meat cooked with techniques her own kitchens had never mastered.
From her knights she had heard stories of how abundant everything was, how the smallfolk spoke of never going hungry again, how even the poorest could afford to eat well. Children who would have starved in previous winters were healthy and strong. Elderly who would have succumbed to cold and deprivation were thriving.
All of this, of course, she knew was due to Harald Stormcrown's magic. His miraculous potions, his ability to make crops grow in any soil, his power to ensure prosperity even in the harshest conditions.
The thought of him once more made her anger rise, hot and bitter in her chest.
When she had the most disloyal lords in the Seven Kingdoms, he had the most loyal. Lords who followed him not out of fear or obligation, but out of genuine devotion. Who believed he was chosen by the gods, who saw his magic as divine blessing rather than heretical sorcery.
Just yesterday she had watched from a balcony as Harald settled a dispute between Lord Rosby and Lord Staunton. Some disagreement about the new royal fleet being constructed for the eastern coast of Blackwater Bay. Both lords wanted the shipyards placed in their territories, both arguing that their ports were superior, their craftsmen more skilled, their strategic positions more advantageous.
There had also been disagreements about a new city being planned, to be named Asgard, which both lords feared would negatively impact their own cities and trade.
But she had seen how King Harald handled it. He had listened to both sides patiently, asked thoughtful questions, and then proposed a compromise that neither lord had considered. The shipyards would be split between both territories, with Rosby handling warship construction, as his lands had the town with natural harbors, and Staunton focusing on merchant vessels. The new city of Asgard would be positioned to complement their ports rather than compete with them.
Both lords had left satisfied.
She felt a stab in her heart then. Would she have been able to do that? To convince two stubborn lords to make peace while also increasing the crown's power and influence? Because that was what she had witnessed there: a masterful display of statecraft that left the king stronger and the lords content.
She had even seen him placate the old and implacable Lord Mallister, who wished to wage war upon the Ironborn for their generations of raiding and reaving. Mallister had been calling for blood, for vengeance, for the utter destruction of the Iron Islands.
Harald had told him to give the new Lord Reaper and King, Aeron Greyjoy, a chance. That wiping out islands full of people would only darken their souls and perpetuate cycles of violence that had already consumed too many lives. That strength was shown not just in the ability to destroy, but in the wisdom to choose mercy when you had the power to be merciless.
That had made Argella even more angry. That he could afford such magnanimity. That he was secure enough, powerful enough, confident enough in his position to refuse what many would call justice.
Her thoughts turned to the smallfolk who worshiped him.
Her smallfolk did not love her. How could they? Her cousins were spreading lies about her throughout the Stormlands, calling her a heretic, a whore, a witch, a woman corrupted and unfit to rule. They could be painting her now as a puppet of the sorcerer king, as someone who had abandoned the Faith of her fathers for dark powers.
By now, many of her smallfolk probably believed those lies. They probably celebrated the idea of a "proper" king taking her place. Men cheering in taverns as they discussed which cousin would be best. Women gossiping in market squares about how improper it was for a girl to rule. Septons preaching from their pulpits about the natural order being restored.
He had thousands of warriors who would gladly give their lives if he asked. She had only six knights and her two handmaidens left. Six loyal men who had followed her into exile, abandoning their own lands and families out of genuine devotion. And Cassandra and Maria, her dearest friends, who had chosen to share her fate rather than remain in safety.
It is not fair, the childish part of her mind whispered. None of this is fair.
She knew she was being unreasonable. She knew that Harald had built this, had earned this loyalty through his actions and his power. She knew that comparing herself to him was pointless and self-destructive.
But she could not stop.
Every day she felt the weight of her failure pressing down on her. And every day, that weight transformed into anger at the easiest target available.
Harald Stormcrown, who had everything while she had nothing.
I hate him.
I hate his perfect castle and his perfect kingdom and his perfect face and his—
She stopped that thought before it could finish.
Harald was handsome. Objectively, undeniably, unfairly handsome.
Strong jaw, high cheekbones, a nose that managed to be both masculine and elegant. Sandy blond hair that caught the light in ways that seemed almost deliberate. And his eyes, gods, those shifting green-gold eyes that seemed to see right through her whenever they spoke, as if he could read every thought in her head.
Stop it, she told herself firmly. You hate him. Remember? You hate everything about him.
This is stupid, she thought immediately, shaking her head and turning away from the city view.
There was no reason for her to shift all her frustrations onto him. He was not the one who had killed her father. He was not the one who had turned her cousins into usurpers. He was not the one who was spreading lies about her.
When he had refused to invade the Stormlands for her, he had done it for reasons that, damn him, actually made sense. He had explained his reasoning clearly, had shown genuine sympathy for her situation, had offered her sanctuary and protection even though she could offer him nothing in return.
He is not perfect. He cannot be. Everyone has flaws. He is just hiding them well.
Lost in her thoughts, Argella found herself walking deeper into the gardens, following a path she had not explored before. The gravel gave way to packed earth, and the carefully cultivated flower beds transitioned into something wilder.
She emerged into a grove of weirwood trees.
There were six of them, their bone-white bark and blood-red leaves standing out starkly against the greens and browns of the surrounding garden. They had been arranged in a rough semi circle, creating a natural temple of sorts.
The vegetation here was unnaturally grown.
Of course. Magic, she reasoned with a touch of bitterness.
Then she heard it. Harald's voice, coming from within the grove.
"Feel the magicka flowing from your core," Harald was saying, his voice patient and encouraging. "Do not force it. Let it move naturally, like water finding its path."
Argella stopped walking, suddenly uncertain. She should leave, should respect their privacy, but curiosity held her in place.
She moved quietly to the side, hiding behind one of the larger weirwoods, and peered around its trunk.
Harald was there, standing in the center of the grove. And with him was that Tully woman.
Oh, Argella knew of the rumors. Servants talked, and walls had ears. Elsa Tully was the king's lover, they whispered. They would be married soon enough, and Elsa would be queen. She was beautiful and clever, of good birth, and clearly had the king's favor.
But Argella, along with Cassandra and Maria, had come to a different conclusion after observing the court for nearly two weeks. There were no plans for marriage between them, at least not any that were apparent. Argella believed Harald would seek a Lannister bride, or perhaps a Stark, cementing alliances with powerful kingdoms, and keep Elsa as a lover. A comfortable arrangement that served everyone's interests well, other than his future wife, of course. Then again, all ladies had been taught that their husbands would stray.
Argella looked at Elsa and felt something uncomfortable twist in her chest.
The Tully woman was beautiful. Red hair like the leaves around them. Blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence and mischief.
Argella felt a stab of something she did not want to name. Not quite jealousy, she told herself. She stopped herself, shaking her head slightly. This was ridiculous. She had more important things to worry about than some Riverlander lady's relationship with Harald Stormcrown.
She tried to focus on what they were actually doing.
Harald stood behind Elsa, his hands hovering near her shoulders but not quite touching. "Now, visualize the spell structure. See it in your mind like I showed you. The flow of energy, the pattern it needs to take."
Elsa's hands were extended before her, her expression one of intense concentration. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed together.
"I… I think I have it," she said, her voice tight with focus.
"Good," Harald said encouragingly. "Now release it. Gently."
Argella's eyes widened as a faint golden glow appeared around Elsa's hands, and she gasped. "I did it! I actually did it!"
"Good," Harald said, and there was genuine pride in his voice. "Now focus it. Remember what I taught you. Imagine the energy knitting tissue together, closing wounds, easing pain."
The golden glow intensified slightly, then flickered and died. Elsa's shoulders slumped.
"I almost had it," she said, frustration evident in her voice.
"You did have it," Harald corrected gently. "For a moment, you were channeling restoration magic. That is incredible for your third lesson, Elsa. Most people take weeks to get even that far."
"Really?" Elsa brightened, looking up at him.
"Really," Harald confirmed. "With practice, you could become quite skilled."
From her hiding place, Argella felt a spike of something she refused to identify as jealousy. Harald was teaching Elsa magic. The intimacy of it, the way he stood so close to her, the pride in his voice when she succeeded.
Stop it, Argella told herself firmly.
"Do you think there are others?" Elsa asked, lowering her hands. "Other people in the Heartlands and in other kingdoms who could learn?"
Harald considered the question. "There could be a small number of people with the potential for magic. The gift runs in certain bloodlines more strongly. I could teach them the basics of restoration magic."
"The lightning and fire you use in battle?" Elsa asked.
"No," Harald said firmly. "I will not teach destruction magic to anyone except a very trusted few, perhaps never if I cannot find anyone suitable. The healing arts can only help people. Destruction magic in the wrong hands…" He shook his head.
Argella was surprised by the conviction in his voice, the genuine concern about the consequences of his power being misused.
Another thing to add to the list, she thought with bitter humor. Responsible with power.
How dare he.
Elsa and Harald talked for a few more minutes about magic, about potential students, about the future of magical education in the Heartlands. Then Elsa made some crude joke about Harald having fucked the magic into her, which made Argella's face flush hot and nearly caused her to gasp loudly enough to reveal her position.
Elsa excused herself shortly after, citing duties she needed to attend to.
After she left, there was a moment of silence in the garden.
Argella was about to leave, to slip away quietly and pretend this had never happened, when Harald spoke.
"You can come out now, Your Grace. I know you are there."
Argella froze, her heart lurching in her chest. For a moment, she considered running, fleeing deeper into the gardens like a caught child. Then she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and stepped out from behind the weirwood tree with as much dignity as she could muster.
"Your Grace," she said, her voice cool and controlled despite the embarrassment of being caught eavesdropping.
"Queen Argella," Harald replied with a slight bow of his head and a smile that seemed more amused than mocking. "How are you doing?"
"I am well," she said.
"Well enough for a person in my circumstances," she added, unable to resist the slight edge of bitterness.
"Well, I am glad you seem to be in good spirits, at least."
Good spirits? Good spirits?!
The words echoed in Argella's head, and she felt a rant building inside her like a storm. I am the opposite of good spirits. I am a queen without a kingdom, a ruler without her subjects, a woman with nothing but six knights and two handmaidens to my name. Good spirits? I want to break something. I want to—
She stopped the internal tirade when her eyes caught his, and for a moment she was lost in them. Those shifting eyes that seemed to change color with the light. Gold one moment, green the next, sometimes both at once. What magic was it that made them do that? Was it the dragon blood he supposedly possessed? Some spell or enchantment? Or simply a trick of the light that her desperate mind was reading too much into?
She realized she was staring and forced herself to look away, heat rising in her cheeks.
She found her voice and answered, "I would not say that."
Harald's expression softened slightly. "I have some new information from the Stormlands. I thought you might want to hear it."
Argella's carefully controlled expression cracked slightly, interest flickering across her face. "You have?"
"Yes." Harald motioned ahead along the garden path. "Shall we?"
Argella nodded, and they began to walk together through the grove of weirwoods and back toward the main gardens.
"The war we all expected to start has not started yet," Harald said as they walked. "And it seems Lord Swann is wroth over your disappearance. Quite beside himself, from what my sources tell me."
"I care not what Lord Swann thinks," Argella said sharply. "But why have they not fought? Ormund planned to march on Storm's End as soon as winter ended. Baldric as well. They should be at each other's throats by now."
She had thought Baldric would have been king in Storm's End by now. He was the strongest of her cousins, beating out Ormund by a bit, with control of the southern coast and its fleets. He should have struck quickly, taken the castle before the others could consolidate their positions.
"It might have something to do with the hostages I have here with me," Harald said casually.
Argella stopped walking and turned to face him. "You have not…?"
"Ransomed them off?" Harald finished. "Some, yes. The minor knights and lesser lords. Their families paid, and I sent them home. But I kept the most valuable ones. Lords' heirs, important knights, men whose absence weakens your cousins' positions considerably."
You tell me this now? she thought, gobsmacked, but she managed not to show it on her face.
"I had a lapse in memory you could say," Harald said, and there was a touch of sheepishness in his voice. "As you can see, I have been pulled in many different directions this past week. The tourney preparations, the establishment of the College, meetings with others." He shook his head. "But yes, I should have told you sooner."
He resumed walking, and Argella fell into step beside him. "It seems word has reached your cousins that you have come to me for aid. And the lords who support them are now hesitant. Worried about what it might mean. Worried that their sons and brothers might pay the price if they move against you too openly."
This was good, she thought, feeling something loosen in her chest. A smile formed on her face before she could stop it.
"This is good," she said, her voice carrying more warmth than she had expected from herself. "Excellent, even. It gives me more time."
"I cannot be sure how long it will last," Harald cautioned. "Eventually they will have to make a move, hostages or not. But for now, yes, it is keeping them off balance."
Argella was quiet for a moment. I should apologize, she thought, remembering how their last conversation had ended, how she had stormed out in anger and wounded pride.
She looked at him and found herself losing herself in his eyes once more.
Stop it, she thought again, forcing herself to focus.
"I apologize for our earlier meeting," she said, the words coming out more easily than she had expected. "For how I acted. I was desperate. Angry. I said things I should not have."
"It is nothing," Harald said, waving a hand dismissively. "You were in an impossible situation. I understood your frustration, even if I could not give you what you wanted."
"I suppose you did help me, though," Argella continued. "Indirectly. You had a hand in my escape. If Edmund had lived, then I am sure I could not have escaped Swann's clutches so easily. The news of his death allowed me to wrest some power from him."
Harald laughed, a sound of genuine amusement. "Oh, Edmund is dead, is he?"
Argella's expression darkened with confusion. "Edmund is… not dead?"
Harald shook his head, still smiling.
"But the letter…" Argella's confusion was evident, her mind racing to reconcile what she had believed with this new information.
"It was a ruse," Harald explained, his grin widening. "Tarth and Dondarrion wanted to help you, and I suggested keeping Edmund's survival a secret. Tell Swann his prized son, the one he had planned to marry you to, had died in the battle. It would cause chaos in Storm's End and weaken Swann's position, which Tarth and I were sure you could exploit for your escape."
Argella looked at him in shock, her hand rising to her mouth. "I… I…" She could not find the words. Suddenly some of the jealous anger she felt toward the king vanished. Well, only a small part. Well, maybe a lot more than she wanted to admit.
She took a breath, steadying herself.
"Thank you. Truly, thank you."
"It is nothing, like I said," Harald replied with a slight shrug. "Edmund is in Whitemore with the other prisoners. He is recovering well from his injuries. Broken ribs, mostly, and some internal bleeding that my healers took care of."
He paused, his expression growing more serious. "I do not remember who suggested it first, Tarth or Dondarrion. They were both so worried that Swann himself would try to marry you…"
She felt a shiver run down her spine as Harald said it, as she remembered that day when Swann had come to her chambers.
His offer to her.
The lust in his eyes that she now saw clearly, that could have always been there but she had never noticed, had never wanted to see in a man old enough to be her father.
"He was going to," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Harald looked at her with a bit of shock, his expression shifting to something darker.
"It was the reason I left so quickly," Argella continued, the words coming out in a rush now that she had started. "He came to me the evening after the letter arrived, offering himself as a replacement for his son. Saying that the marriage alliance between our houses was too important to abandon, that he could still give me heirs, that he would be a proper husband where Edmund…" She shuddered and did not speak any further.
"No need to relive those memories, Argella," Harald said softly, and there was genuine sympathy in his voice.
She nodded, grateful that he did not press for details.
"Some delegations have been sent from the Stormlands," Harald continued, smoothly changing the subject. "Representatives from various houses, trying to negotiate for the release of their captured men. Perhaps you would like to be there when they come? Show them that you are very much alive and very much still the queen."
"Yes," Argella said immediately, her eyes brightening at the prospect. "Yes, I would like that very much."
Harald smiled. "Then I will make sure you are informed when they arrive. It should be within the next few days, if my information is correct."
"If you will excuse me, Your Grace, I have some matters to attend to before the evening meal."
"Of course," Argella said, returning the gesture.
Harald had taken perhaps three steps when Argella called out, "Your Grace."
He turned around, his expression curious.
She was silent for a while, the words catching in her throat. Her pride warred with her desire, her sense of propriety battling against the opportunity before her. Finally, she forced herself to speak.
"Could I… could I learn magic? Like Lady Tully did?"
Harald's smile widened. "You are descended from a goddess, are you not?"
Argella nodded. "Yes. Elenei. That is what the stories say."
"Then you likely have the potential," Harald said. "The blood of gods runs thin after so many generations, but it does run. Meet me here tomorrow morning. Early, before the castle fully wakes."
"I will," Argella said, her heart beating faster at the prospect.
Harald nodded and turned away once more, this time continuing down the path without interruption.
She watched him leave, his form growing smaller as he walked back toward the castle.
For a moment, doubt crept in. What was she getting into? How was she proving her cousins right about her being a witch, about being corrupted by the heretic king and his foul sorceries? The High Septon had already condemned her. Lords throughout the Stormlands believed she had fallen to the Leonite Heresy. And now she was actively seeking to learn magic from the very man.
But then she steeled herself, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
She imagined herself summoning storms like her ancestor Elenei had supposedly done. Imagined calling down lightning upon her enemies, her traitorous cousins who sought to steal what was rightfully hers. Imagined walking into Storm's End wreathed in divine power, untouchable, undeniable, a queen who commanded the very elements themselves.
The Faith be damned. The lords be damned. Her cousins and their lies be damned.
She was a Durrandon, and hers was the fury.