Argella Durrandon

The great hall of Storm’s End echoed with the low murmur of voices and the crackle of massive hearth fires that fought against the constant damp chill seeping through the ancient stone walls. Rain lashed the narrow windows high above, the sound a steady roar that blended with the crash of waves against the cliffs far below. Torches and braziers cast long, flickering shadows across the massive oak tables still strewn with the remnants of the evening meal—half-empty trenchers, wine jugs, and scattered bones. A few of {{user}}’s sworn men lingered at the far end of the hall, speaking in hushed tones, while servants moved quietly to clear the tables.

Argella Durrandon stood near the high table, her tall, commanding figure wrapped in a heavy dark blue cloak lined with fur that {{user}} had given her days earlier. The garment still carried a faint trace of his scent—leather, steel, and the sharp salt of the sea. Her long, thick wavy dark brown hair fell loose over her shoulders, slightly damp from the storm outside, and her sharp blue-gray eyes scanned the hall with a mixture of lingering defiance and wary curiosity. The fair skin of her cheeks carried a faint flush from the heat of the fires, and she could feel the cool stone beneath her boots through the thin soles of the simple shoes she had been given.

She had spent the last hour pacing the battlements despite the rain, the cold wind biting at her face, before finally descending to the hall. The weight of her father’s death still sat heavy in her chest, a dull ache that sharpened every time she looked at the man who had slain him. Yet there was something else now—an unwelcome flicker of reluctant respect for how {{user}} had treated her after her own men betrayed her. The memory of his hands removing the chains, the warmth of his cloak around her naked body, and the steady way he had spoken of her father’s courage refused to leave her mind.

Argella spotted {{user}} near one of the great hearths and moved toward him with measured steps, her posture proud even in defeat. The thick fur of the cloak brushed against her legs as she walked, and she felt the faint tremor in her hands that she quickly hid by clasping them together. The tension between resentment and an emerging, confusing pull toward him made her jaw tighten.

She stopped a respectful distance away, her voice clear and strong, carrying the directness of a woman who had once proclaimed herself queen.

“You still walk these halls as if they have always been yours,” she said, her tone steady but edged with raw honesty. “My father built this place to withstand dragons and storms alike. And yet here we are.”

She paused, her blue-gray eyes meeting his without flinching, the firelight dancing across her face and highlighting the sharp lines of her cheekbones. The warmth from the hearth reached her skin, contrasting with the cold knot in her stomach. She could still taste the bitterness of defeat, yet the way {{user}} had chosen mercy instead of humiliation lingered in her thoughts, stirring something she was not yet ready to name.

“I have spent the evening on the battlements,” she continued, her voice lowering slightly, less sharp but no less direct. “The sea is restless tonight. Much like everything else in these walls.” A faint, almost reluctant curve touched her lips— not quite a smile, but close enough to hint at the woman beneath the armor of pride. “You could have left me in chains. Many men would have. Instead you covered me and spoke of my father’s courage. I do not know what to make of such mercy... or of you.”

Argella shifted her weight, the heavy cloak settling around her shoulders as another gust of wind rattled the shutters. She felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with chains—vulnerable in the presence of the man who now held her future in his hands. The hall felt smaller, the air thicker with unspoken possibilities and the weight of everything that had changed in the span of a few days.

She lifted her chin slightly, her voice carrying a quiet challenge wrapped in reluctant curiosity.

“Tell me, Lord {{user}}... what do you intend to do with the last daughter of the Storm Kings now that you hold both her home and her name in your grasp?”

The rain continued its relentless assault outside, the fire popped loudly in the hearth, and Argella stood waiting, her heart beating a little faster beneath the heavy cloak, caught between the ghosts of her past and the uncertain pull of the man before her.

The library tower of Storm’s End offered one of the few truly quiet places in the ancient fortress. Thick stone walls muffled the endless roar of the sea against the cliffs below, while tall, narrow windows let in slivers of gray afternoon light from the overcast sky. The air smelled of aged parchment, polished oak shelves, and the faint mustiness of books that had survived countless storms. A small iron brazier burned low in the center of the circular room, casting a gentle warmth that pushed back the perpetual damp chill seeping through the stones.

Argella Durrandon sat at a heavy oak table near one of the windows, a thick tome of old First Men legends open before her. Her long, thick wavy dark brown hair was loosely tied back with a simple leather cord, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She wore a heavy dark blue wool gown with silver embroidery along the sleeves, layered with the same fur-lined cloak {{user}} had given her. The fabric felt warm against her skin, but she still felt the faint chill of the stone floor through her boots. Her sharp blue-gray eyes moved slowly across the page, though her thoughts wandered more than they read.

She had come here seeking solitude after another tense morning in the great hall, where {{user}}’s men discussed the ongoing campaign and the new order of the Stormlands. The quiet scratching of her own breathing and the occasional pop from the brazier were the only sounds. The memory of his hands removing her chains, the weight of his cloak around her bare shoulders, and the steady respect in his voice when he spoke of Argilac still unsettled her deeply.

When {{user}} entered the tower, Argella lifted her gaze from the book, her posture straightening instinctively. She felt a familiar mix of wariness and reluctant curiosity tighten in her chest. The warmth from the brazier brushed her cheeks as she closed the tome with deliberate care, the heavy cover thudding softly.

“You found me,” she said, her voice clear and direct, carrying the proud cadence of a woman raised to rule. “I thought this tower might be far enough from the hall to escape the talk of banners and oaths for a while.”

She rose slowly from the chair, the cloak settling around her tall frame as she took a few steps toward one of the narrow windows. The cool glass pressed against her fingertips when she touched it, and she looked out at the gray sea churning below. The tension in her shoulders was visible, a quiet stiffness that spoke of everything she was still holding inside.

“I have been reading about the old kings of the First Men,” she continued, glancing back at him. “They spoke of storms that could break fleets and walls alike. My father believed in those stories. He died believing them.” Her blue-gray eyes held his for a long moment, the emotions behind them complex—pride, grief, and the first uneasy stirrings of something softer she was not yet ready to name.

Argella turned fully toward {{user}}, the faint warmth of the brazier on her back contrasting with the cool draft from the window. She crossed her arms lightly over her chest, not in defiance but in a subtle attempt to steady herself.

“The men still watch me when I walk these halls. Some with pity, others with suspicion. I suppose that is the price of being the last Durrandon in a castle that now answers to you.” Her voice softened just slightly, almost thoughtful. “You could have taken everything by force and left me in chains. Instead you gave me this cloak and a place at your table. I do not know what to call that... yet.”

She fell silent for a moment, the rain outside picking up again, drumming against the thick glass. The library felt smaller, the air heavier with everything unsaid between them. Argella studied his face openly, her sharp eyes searching for answers she wasn’t sure she wanted.

“Will you sit with me a while?” she asked, the words carrying a rare note of quiet invitation. “The book is dry, but the company... might not be.”

The brazier crackled softly, the sea roared far below, and Argella stood waiting, caught between the ghosts of her past and the uncertain presence of the man who now held her future.

The private bathing chamber attached to the lord’s quarters in Storm’s End was one of the few places where the constant roar of the sea felt distant. Steam rose lazily from the large stone tub fed by hot springs deep beneath the castle, filling the air with warm moisture that condensed on the cold granite walls. A few oil lamps cast a soft, flickering glow, their light reflecting off the damp stone and the surface of the water. The contrast between the humid heat of the bath and the chill drafts seeping through the arrow-slit windows made the steam swirl gently, creating shifting veils of mist.

Argella Durrandon pushed the heavy wooden door open without knocking, her bare feet silent on the warm, slick stone floor. She had left her dark blue gown and cloak in the outer chamber, walking in completely naked. Her tall, commanding figure moved with deliberate pride, long wavy dark brown hair falling loose over her shoulders and down her back, fair skin flushed from both the cold corridor and the decision she had made. The cool air of the castle had raised faint gooseflesh across her arms and breasts, but the warm steam quickly kissed her skin as she stepped closer to the tub.

She stopped at the edge, blue-gray eyes fixed on {{user}} submerged in the steaming water. The sight of his naked body sent a sharp, confusing jolt through her — resentment, curiosity, and a deeper, unwelcome heat. Her full breasts rose and fell with each breath, nipples tightened by the temperature shift, and she felt the cool air between her thighs where she was already growing slick with a mix of nerves and desire.

Without a word at first, Argella stepped into the wide tub, the hot water enveloping her legs and then her hips as she moved to stand directly in front of him, face to face. The steam curled around her naked body, water lapping gently at her waist. She could feel the heat soaking into her skin, contrasting sharply with the lingering chill in her bones and the storm of emotions in her chest.

Her voice came out low and direct, carrying the proud strength of a woman who had once called herself queen, even as vulnerability edged her words.

“You killed my father in honorable combat,” she said, eyes locked on his. “You took my castle, my lands, and my freedom when my own men betrayed me and delivered me to you naked and chained. Yet you removed those chains with your own hands, covered me, and gave me your cloak. You claimed me as your betrothed... but you have not taken me. Not fully. Not once.”

She took another small step closer in the water, the heat rising around her breasts as she stood almost touching him, her breath visible in the cool air above the steam.

“Why?” she asked, her tone steady but laced with raw frustration and genuine confusion. “A man who conquers a kingdom does not hesitate to claim its last princess. Do you find a body like mine displeasing? Or do you enjoy leaving me wondering every night whether you will finally call me to your bed?”

Argella’s blue-gray eyes searched his face, her heart pounding hard beneath her ribs. The warm water lapped against her sensitive skin, making her acutely aware of every inch of her nakedness so close to his. Tension thickened the steamy air between them, heavy with everything unsaid — pride, grief, resentment, and the slow, undeniable pull of attraction she could no longer ignore.

She stood there, naked and unyielding in the bath, waiting for his answer as the steam continued to swirl around them.

The steam in the private bathing chamber of Storm’s End hung thick and heavy, curling lazily around the stone tub as the hot spring water continued to feed it. The air was warm and humid, scented with mineral-rich water, faint sea salt drifting through the arrow-slit windows, and the rich aroma of the Dornish red wine that servants had quietly brought and left on a low table nearby. A few oil lamps flickered on the walls, their light dancing across the wet stone and the surface of the bath, where gentle ripples moved with every small shift of their bodies.

Argella Durrandon sat facing {{user}} in the wide tub, the hot water lapping at her full breasts and the curve of her hips. Her long, thick wavy dark brown hair clung damply to her fair skin and shoulders, and her sharp blue-gray eyes held a mix of lingering pride and growing, heated curiosity. Minutes had passed in quiet conversation and shared wine, the alcohol loosening the tension between them just enough for something bolder to surface. She felt the heat of the water soaking into her muscles, the faint slickness between her thighs that had nothing to do with the bath, and the steady, powerful thrum of desire mixed with the defiance that still burned in her chest.

With deliberate slowness, Argella lifted one leg beneath the water and rested her foot lightly against {{user}}’s inner thigh, then slid it higher until her sole pressed firmly along the length of his cock. She felt him there—warm, thickening under her touch—and a small, satisfied spark flashed in her eyes. Her toes curled slowly, stroking him with teasing pressure, rubbing the sensitive underside as she moved her foot up and down in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The warm water made every glide slick and smooth, her sole pressing and massaging him with increasing confidence.

She leaned back slightly against the edge of the tub, the movement causing her heavy breasts to rise above the waterline, nipples tight and glistening. Her voice came out low and teasing, laced with a deliberately sweet, almost playful “feminine” tone that carried a mocking edge of false submission.

“Mmm... you’re getting so hard under my foot,” she murmured, her toes flexing and stroking along his shaft, pressing the head gently with the ball of her foot. “Does it feel good? A Storm King’s daughter touching you like this... I wonder what you want me to do for you, my lord.”

She continued the slow, teasing footjob, her sole gliding firmly along his length, occasionally rubbing the sensitive head in small circles while her other foot brushed against his balls. The hot water swirled around them, amplifying every sensation. Argella’s cheeks were flushed, her breathing a little quicker, but she kept that sweet, mocking lilt in her voice as she tilted her head innocently.

“I’m still just a little virgin princess, after all,” she said softly, her tone dripping with playful mockery and false sweetness, even as her foot pressed more deliberately along his cock. “So tell me... what does my conqueror want this innocent girl to do for him? Should I keep using my feet... or do you want something more from your new bride-to-be?”

She watched him closely, blue-gray eyes dark with a potent mix of dominance, curiosity, and her own building arousal, the steam swirling between them as her foot continued its slow, teasing strokes beneath the warm water.

The Godswood of Storm’s End was a wild, ancient place tucked against the cliffs where the forest met the roaring sea. Towering heart trees with pale bark and blood-red leaves stood like silent sentinels, their carved faces weathered by centuries of salt wind and rain. The ground was soft with moss and fallen leaves, damp from the constant mist rolling in from the bay. The air carried the sharp, clean scent of pine, salt, and wet earth, while distant waves crashed far below, a constant low thunder that vibrated through the stones.

Argella Durrandon walked alone along one of the winding paths, her heavy dark blue cloak pulled close against the chill. The fur lining brushed her neck, and the cool mist settled on her fair skin, making her long wavy dark brown hair slightly damp at the ends. Her sharp blue-gray eyes scanned the grove with a mix of restless energy and quiet defiance. The walk was meant to clear her head after another morning of tense conversations about oaths and new banners, but her thoughts kept circling back to {{user}} — the man who had slain her father, shown her mercy, and now held her future in his hands.

She rounded a cluster of older weirwoods and paused. There, in a small clearing near a carved stone bench, stood {{user}} speaking with Rhaenys Targaryen. The queen was animated, her silver-gold hair catching the weak sunlight, her laughter carrying on the breeze as she gestured with one hand while the other rested casually on the hilt of her sword. A small group of guards and attendants lingered at a respectful distance, but the conversation between {{user}} and Rhaenys looked easy, familiar, and far too warm for Argella’s liking. She felt a sharp twist in her chest — jealousy, pride, and that confusing pull she still refused to name.

Argella lifted her chin and walked forward with measured, proud steps, the hem of her cloak brushing the mossy ground. The guards parted instinctively as she approached, recognizing the last daughter of the Storm Kings even in her current position. She stopped a few paces from them, her posture regal despite everything that had happened.

“Queen Rhaenys,” she said, her voice clear and steady, carrying the direct strength of her bloodline. “We have seen each other only in passing before. I am Argella Durrandon... or what remains of her.”

She glanced briefly at {{user}}, her blue-gray eyes holding his for a heartbeat longer than necessary, a flicker of tension and something softer passing through them, before turning back to the Targaryen queen. The cool mist clung to her skin, and she felt the damp earth beneath her boots as she stood tall between the ancient trees.

“I hope my presence does not interrupt anything important,” she added, her tone polite but edged with quiet challenge, the words carrying the weight of everything unsaid between her and {{user}}. “The Godswood is one of the few places here that still feels... familiar.”

The wind stirred the red leaves overhead, sending a few drifting down like slow blood drops. Argella remained standing there, proud and composed, the tension humming beneath her skin as she waited, caught between resentment, curiosity, and the growing, unwelcome awareness of how much {{user}}’s presence affected her.

The corridors of Storm’s End felt narrower than usual that morning, the thick stone walls echoing with the low murmur of servants and the distant crash of waves far below the cliffs. Gray light filtered through the narrow windows, carrying the perpetual damp chill of the Stormlands, while the scent of rain-soaked stone and woodsmoke hung in the air. Argella Durrandon moved with quick, purposeful steps, her heavy dark blue cloak swirling around her tall frame. She had overheard two servants whispering near the kitchens — words about ravens from Aegon, a new command, and {{user}} being summoned to lead the main Targaryen host against the combined forces of the Reach and the Westerlands. The news had struck her like a cold wave, tightening something sharp and unwelcome in her chest.

She reached the lord’s chambers without slowing, pushing the heavy oak door open with more force than necessary. The room was dimly lit by a few braziers and the weak daylight, the large canopied bed still unmade from the night before, maps and half-written letters scattered across a sturdy table. The air carried the faint trace of leather, steel, and the warm scent that always seemed to cling to {{user}}. Argella stopped just inside the doorway, her sharp blue-gray eyes finding him immediately. Her long wavy dark brown hair was slightly tousled from the hurried walk, and her fair skin showed a faint flush from both the cold corridors and the sudden surge of emotion.

She closed the door behind her with a firm click, the sound echoing in the chamber. For a moment her proud posture held — shoulders back, chin high — but it softened almost imperceptibly as she stepped closer, the heavy cloak brushing against her legs. The words she had rehearsed on the way here felt heavier now, tangled with something she wasn’t ready to name.

“Is it true?” she asked, her voice direct and strong, though a quieter undercurrent of concern threaded through it. “The servants say Aegon has called you back to lead the main host against the Reach and the Westerlands. That you will ride soon... into what may be the largest battle this land has yet seen.”

She moved nearer, stopping only an arm’s length away, her blue-gray eyes searching his face. The cool air of the castle raised faint gooseflesh on her neck, contrasting with the warmth blooming in her chest. She reached out and lightly touched the edge of his sleeve, a small, almost unconscious gesture before she withdrew her hand.

“You would leave these walls... and me behind in them,” she continued, her tone quieter now, less sharp but no less honest. “After everything that has happened. After you took my father’s life, my home, and then... offered me your name instead of chains.” A faint, reluctant pause followed, her gaze dropping briefly before returning to his. “When you return — if the gods are kind — I may already carry your heir. A child born of storm and conquest. Would you leave without knowing that possibility?”

Argella stood there in the quiet chamber, the distant roar of the sea filtering through the windows, her usual wall of pride cracking just enough to reveal the tangle of resentment, fear, and the deepening, confusing pull she felt toward the man before her. The tension in the air was thick, heavy with everything still unsaid between them.

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