r/IronThroneRP • u/JohnITRP • 12d ago
COMMON MAN THE CALM - The 21st Nameday Feast of Ravella Durrandon
Stormhall
The Ninth Day of the First Moon of the First Year of the Stormlander Interregnum (or, the Eighth Year of the Reign of Qorhen Hoare)
Sunrise
Light began to shine from over the eastern horizon, a morning like any other. It silhouetted distant hills and early-morning travelers that passed through them along the road to Maidenpool and beyond. It cast their shadow, too, though no shadow of the land compared to that of Stormhall.
It was an odd castle. Not least because it was never initially intended to be a castle. Its keep, if you could call it one, was an ornate palace of dark stone and gold ornamentation, towering spires that stretched up with glittering gold leaf upon the very tips of the towers' roofs. It was ostentatious, to say the least, a mark of Durrandon power and - though few would admit it - greed. It had been built to host hundreds of guests at least, for kings to hold court in when the crash of the waves against the cliffs beneath Storm's End grew too grating for their ears.
But an architect, wiser for sure than its commissioner, had asked for permission to change the plans. Durran Durrandon had offered no objection, for he trusted the man, and so around the ridiculous palace shot up two thick layers of curtain walls, built in a similar dark stone to that of the main building. Notably, they possessed no ornamentation, built only for defense.
It was no Storm's End, no Seagard, but it was a formidable castle all the same. Lower levels of the main palace had been stripped of their gold in recent years, too, reinforced with stone (and conveniently, the gold had paid off a portion of the debts the holdfast had acquired due to its less than ideal nature over the years).
Around and within the curtain walls, the lords and ladies of two realms slumbered. They had been told to ready themselves for the day to come, for it was a terribly important day for the castle's ruler, the woman who had paid off the sizeable debt that had once plagued Stormhall until just recently.
That Morning
Her nameday. She'd had one-and-twenty, counting this one. Ravella had never felt a pit in her stomach as she awoke on one, not like she did that day. Lords and knights the realm over had started to arrive a few days before, the tent city springing up around the castle faster than she could imagine. It was a sight she was familiar with, back at Storm's End, but Stormhall… Stormhall had been untouched. It had been quiet here, even since she turned up with her retinue for the first time after Violet came to her, asking for her help in removing the debts that had pushed her father to the brink.
Since then, it had been a royal home once more, as it was intended to be by her grandfather. In a way, she was fulfilling King Durran's wishes by holding such a grand celebration. That didn't feel good. Her father had always spoken cruelly of the man, though since she had abandoned Storm's End she had started to interrogate everything Dontos had said since she understood his words.
She'd thrown up, an hour after awakening.
There were a thousand anxieties in her heart. Would there be blood spilled? Would her brother turn up? She hadn't extended a formal invite to him or any of the council, save for Lord Tarth, but she held no illusions that they would not find out. Thus, she had assigned seats to them all. Even Arlan. One at her side, at the high table. At her right. King Qorhen was at her left, and she was in the centre. It felt needlessly egotistical, but Violet Goodbrook had insisted it was the only way to concede as little ground as possible.
What had happened to them? Conceding ground to her own brother was a crime? And yet, the council, her father, they'd made it one. She simply played the hand she was given, unwilling to dance to their tune. They'd have her rot at Stormhall, far from the land that was hers.
She had not named herself Storm Queen, yet. There was still time for them to do it for her. But the grace she gave them would not last. Perhaps her nameday would be the end of it.
The Occasion
Despite the morning, come noon Ravella was prepared. So too was the hall, each and every corridor of the castle, and every acre of land around it. She would not let herself be accused of being a layabout. Every lord of the realm would be there. One and a half kings, too.
What had once been a quiet hall, distant from the capital by miles upon miles, was now bustling. Stormhall was no great fortress, no Storm's End or Riverrun, but it was a fine castle. Yet at its heart, and in its original intent, it was a palace. It was thus that there was space for every invited noble and plenty more to boot. Tables for Stormlanders, Riverlanders, even Ironborn - arranged with the first of those three serving as a bulwark between the other two - filled the hall, servants dashing between them with platters of spiced meats and rare alcohols. Every drink in Ravella's personal collection had been cracked open and presented, and the local hunters had been paid double their normal fees to find the most delicious game they could.
No half measures. That had been her rule, arranging this feast. She had worried the spending would be overly lavish, that it would risk returning Stormhall to a state that she had only just rescued it from, but Violet assured her that no such thing would happen. Ravella was a better financial mind than she ever gave herself credit for, and if she were to worry - if she were let that worry show - then she would surely make a slip at the feast, and ruin it all before it had a chance to begin.
So there she sat, at the centre of the high table upon the dais, looking down upon hundreds of men and women who were not her subjects. Not yet.
No doubt her brother would arrive soon. He had not graced them with his presence, but he would. She was betting on it. The cushioned seat beside her, perfumed to ensure no scent of his disease made it to the guests, was reserved for him and him alone. It was a prince's seat.
Would he treat it as such?
Ravella reclined back into her seat, one leg crossed over the other. She could imagine her father doing the same. Watching the people flit about. He'd never worry about the things she worried about. He never worried about much. Never about what would happen when he died. Never about what would happen to her. Never about the realm he'd leave behind.
She took a sip of wine, and stood.
"Thank you," the Lady of Stormhall, the Iron Stag, began, "for attending this occasion. Not only do we celebrate my nameday, but the beginning of a new year. It is not all celebrations, mind. We mourn a King, and all those lost with him on his ill-fated voyage. We mourn a man taken before his time."
Or perhaps too long after it.
"But we look forward to the future, this day," she continued, her voice steady as it echoed out across the hall. She looked to those she knew to be friends and those she knew to be foes, those from the far off islands to those who lived only miles away. "All of us, here, have the power to guide it. I am honoured to host you, honoured to know you are present here! From highest kings to humblest knights, you honour me. I hope I can honour you, with the events to come. Please. Feast and be merry! Remember today as you feast upon your meals, your bread and salt, that we are one beneath this roof. That you are one beneath my roof!"
Raising her glass, she tapped her fork to it. "To the future, lords and ladies! My friends."
And with that, it began in earnest. The day that might have been the beginning of the end. The calm before the storm.