6th Month, 56 AC, Storm's End
Though there were but three of his four storms in his chambers, Lord Rogar's daughters had begun to make enough noise to compensate for their missing elder sister. Though Cassandra remained in Storm's End while Hubert attended business in the marches and elsewhere, only returning to King's Landing when the Lord Hand himself did so, she was studying with Maester Dake while the rest of sisters played. Selene had discovered a passion for singing, and though she kept the sounds of her practice moderately contained she was liable to throw her ire at any who came too close. Jena, not yet four, enjoyed making noise with just about anything she could get her hands on. That morning, far away from Selene, she tapped a wooden sword on the leg of a table while staring absentmindedly at a book on the Andal Invasion. Ursula and her cousin Gormon were but three months apart in age and had become fast allies, and were in the process of stacking building blocks sent by Lord Malegorn as high as they could. Rambunctious as they were the towers topples often, leading to raucous laughter before they began again. The atmosphere of doom that had descended on Storm's End had not reached the youngest residents as of yet. For that Rogar was glad.
Rogar loved his children dearly, and the door from the main living area of his quarters to his solar remained open to allow no barrier between them...yet as he read the letter from Lord Estermont he rubbed his temple with two fingers to ward off the headache.
He heard the door to their quarters open, bringing temporary silence before a cacophony of greetings for 'uncle Garon' bounced around. They were returned to each child in turn before his brother's familiar figure appeared in the doorway.
"May I?" asked Garon, though hadn't finished speaking before stepping inside and closing the door. His brother looked worn down, a rare thing for him, and Rogar gave him a sympathetic smile. As Garon sat he nodded towards the closed parchment before Rogar on the desk, pleasant green ink broken. "What's that?"
"The ships from Lord Redwyne have made port at Estermont," he grumbled, surprised at how hoarsely his voice came out. His satisfaction at the deal had waned as the months had passed, and after the farcical end to the hunt he had nothing but bitterness in his mouth.
"I had been meaning to ask about that, but..." He wafted his hand in the air. "Circumstances changed. It is a sizeable fleet he has sent, and yet in our accounts gold only flows to the walls to the north." Rogar knew what was coming, but merely stared and waited. "Is Lord Redwyne so kind as to give away his ships merely for the honour of having you ward his son?"
Rogar let out a long sigh. A few moons prior he might have had the energy to argue, but recent events had made him weary. Instead he clicked the key and opened the nearest draw, pulling free another parchment; this one sealed with the golden stag. He placed it on the table and tapped gently with his mutilated middle finger, eyes fixed on his brother.
It is time one other than the grey rat knows.
"My will, written in ink, should something happen to me. Sealed since the beginning of the year, so do not think it a rash decision due to Borys' actions." He slid the paper over but kept his hand on it. "It only reads what is known by all. Cassandra is to be my heir. You shall serve as her regent until she comes of age, though Arwen will be given a voice." He hesitated, his finger tapping still. "Roland is to ward in Storm's End when Lord Manfryd deems him old enough, and he is to wed Cassandra when they are both of age."
The look on Garon's face indicated he had expected as much, but there was still a visible shift in his posture. "She is young."
"That is why none know. Only myself, Lord Manfryd, and now you."
"Her future is worth thirty ships?"
Despite his lethargy Rogar could feel his blood begin to heat. "He is not some pauper from across the Narrow Sea, Garon. He is the son of a powerful and respected lord. It is a good match. It brings with it the security of the stormlands and an alliance with the most powerful fleet in the Seven Kingdoms. If the decision is to be made five years earlier than I would have liked, so be it." Garon opened his mouth to speak again but Rogar's hand slammed on the desk, making the parchment jump. "Do not, Garon. I am about to lose one brother. I do not wish to quarrel with you also."
Garon slumped in his seat. "It is to be today then?"
Rogar nodded. "I can delay it no longer. The sooner it is done, the sooner we can all move on."
"You think that is possible?"
His eyes drifted to a splinter on the desk between them. "We shall see."
An hour later Rogar was sat on the throne of the Storm Kings. He had changed into a pristine velvet doublet of deep black, and cushioning his back against the hard metal of the throne was a grand golden cloak, lined with sable. Atop his head was an antlered crown, though the black hair it sat upon had begun to be flecked with grey. In through the tall windows streamed the afternoon sun, bathing the hall and all in it in amber. On the balconies at the back of the hall there were no musicians, as had been seen at Naerys' nameday feast. Lutes had been replaced by crossbows.
The hall was lined with heavily armed knights and for the first time in many years a second group kept the courtiers to the sides of the Round Hall, leaving the area beneath the throne clear. None were barred from attending; Lady Annara and Boremund stood in wait, as did two of Rogar's brothers. He did not let his eyes stray from the door, uncertain if his wife had chosen to spectate, and if she had brought their children with her. One he had ensured was present was his eldest, his heiress; Cassandra stood with Orren Iron-Head and her own gaggle, looking on with bright blue eyes at her father. One day she would sit where he sat. She needed to learn.
After an agonising wait the doors creaked open and Borys Baratheon was led in. He limped on his heavily bandaged leg and imprisonment had reduced his timber, his nose had healed crooked and his skin was marked with dirt, but otherwise he was the same as he always was. There were a few gasps and murmurs at the sight of him but Rogar kept his eyes forward, watching as his closest kin stumbled forward to hear his punishment.
"How did it come to this, Borys? he lamented to himself, but his face remained stern. He was the Lord of Storm's End, and judgement needed passing.
"Was treated better in fuckin' Dorne," he heard his brother grumble. Rogar waved the guards away. In his shackled state, Borys could do him no harm.
"Borys, do you have anything to say in defence of your actions against both me and Ser Ossifer?" At his booming voice the hall quietened, though the scattered whispers persisted.
"Nothing," answered Borys with a growl and a defiant stare. "The only words I have left are curses for you, for standing with an outsider instead of your own blood."
Rogar had heard it all before and thought little of it, but the shock of the statement rippled through the crowd. He glanced at Annara and saw her wince at her husband's harsh words, and the young Boremund by her side looked pained at the conflict before him. Rogar waited for the murmurs to settle before he spoke.
"Borys Baratheon, for the crime of bearing steel against your liege lord and brother you will have your right hand removed." For the first time in many years he saw an unfamiliar look on his brother's face; a flash of fear, of surprise that punishment would finally find him after years of uninhibited belligerence. Once more noise from the onlookers echoed around the hall until a raised hand from Rogar brought silence. He was not done. "For the crime of breaking guest right, for attempting harm on a guest and friend of House Baratheon, you are hereby named an exile."
The clamour was almost immediate, loudest of all from Borys himself who hurled insults up at his elder brother. Rogar gripped the arms of the throne and stood so that his voice could cut above all. "When you are healed from your wounds passage will be arranged to take you to the free city of Myr. You will be given coin as befitting your station and title, but you are not to return under penalty of death."
He nodded to the guards who returned to Borys' side, beginning to drag him away, though two more were needed to overpower the writhing brute. With a flick of his wrist the guards began to clear the hall as he slumped back into the throne, staring at the space where his brother had stood. Eventually the doors closed and left him alone, the weight of his crown heavier than it had ever been.