282 AC
Stannis POV
The two hundred and eighty-first year after Aegon's Conquest was marked in every chronicle and court ledger as a year of contradictions, one where joy and celebration walked beside creeping foreboding. Even now, as I sat in the council chambers with the pale morning light filtering through the high windows, it felt as though I could still hear the distant echoes of that year. A year that had begun with colour, music, the roar of cheering crowds, had ended beneath a sky of iron.
Two events defined it more than all others.
The first,the Tourney of Highgarden, grander than anything the Reach had hosted in generations. The great lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms had descended upon Mace Tyrell's meadows like a flock of bright-feathered birds. Banners snapped in the wind, gold and green and silver dancing beside one another; the smell of fresh-cut flowers had lingered in the air for days. Laughter, songs, wagers, rumours, every corner of the Reach had pulsed with life.
And at the heart of it all stood Prince Daemon Targaryen, marrying Lady Janna Tyrell in a ceremony that left the entire realm buzzing. I had attended many weddings in my life, but none felt quite like that one. None had struck as deeply. For though Robert was my brother by blood, it was Daemon, fierce, unyielding, sharp-tongued Daemon, whom I had come to regard as my true brother. A sentiment that had taken root slowly at first, and then all at once, like a ship's sail catching sudden wind.
I remember watching him on that day as he took Janna's hand. He had worn a smile rare for him, mischievous, triumphant, almost boyish. A smile he had never hesitated to direct at me when he made some jest at my expense. And though such moments should have irritated me, I realised then, as I do now, how they had warmed parts of me I had long forgotten could feel warmth at all.
But the second event of that year engulfed the first like a shadow swallowing light.
The Year of the False Spring.
The maesters, aye, even those grey, parchment-skinned men of the Citadel, had misjudged the seasons. They had proclaimed winter's end too easily, too eagerly. They had celebrated the first thaw as though it heralded the return of gentle summers. Spring had come, yes: buds blooming, snow melting, the air soft with promise.
And then, just as swiftly, it had died.
The cold returned fiercer than before, as though angered at being denied. Fields that had greened with hope were buried again under frost. Many lords, believing the maesters' foolish declarations, had thrown open their granaries, distributing grain, feasting, spending coin as if abundance would last the year. By the time the chill crept back, their stores were nearly bare. What should have been months of cautious rebuilding became a desperate scramble for survival.
Now the crown bore the burden. Only six moons into the year, and already ravens arrived daily, each bearing the same plea: Send aid. Send grain. Send anything.
I rubbed my temples, weary in a way no physical exhaustion could explain. The council chamber was quiet for a rare moment, giving me time to drown in thoughts I seldom voiced. The weight of the Hand's pin on my chest felt heavier than any armour I had worn.
Footsteps from outside echoed as the door opened.
I straightened before I even realised I had done so, habit tightening my spine.
Grand Maester Luwin, robes trailing behind him, entered first. His chain clinked softly with each step, the rings of his order reflecting the dull morning light. Behind him walked Lord Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships, every inch the sea lord his house had produced for centuries, tall, composed, with eyes that missed little.
I nodded to them both, curt and formal. They returned the gesture.
As they took their seats around the table, my gaze drifted, not to them, but to the pin resting above my heart.
The Hand of the King.
And beneath it, the second pin Daemon had insisted I wear, Master of Laws.
Daemon Targaryen had named me Acting Hand before leaving on his travels with his new bride, taking the Redwyne fleet and half a hundred retainers with him. The memory of that moment, strangely enough, tugged at my mouth, not into a full smile, no, but something softer. Something only Daemon ever managed to wring out of me.
I could still hear his voice, clear as if he stood beside me now.
"You will rule well in my absence, Stannis."
He had spoken those words without hesitation, without doubt.
"You are dutiful and loyal, but most importantly, you are my brother."
My brother.
Not a title given lightly. Not one I had expected to hear from a man like him, famed for his sharp tongue, feared for his temper, respected for his will. Yet he had said it plainly, sincerely. And the warmth those words had stirred in my chest had taken me by surprise.
Robert had always raged, feasted, laughed, fought, lived with a storm's ferocity. Daemon, in contrast, burned like a steady fire, controlled yet scorching. Where Robert had seldom understood me, Daemon often saw more than I wished anyone to see. That was the difference. That was why the words mattered.
Another memory followed, unavoidable.
Daemon's grin, wide, wicked, infuriating, just before he boarded his ship.
"Don't let the Seven Kingdoms burn in my absence, Stannis the Mannis."
I had scowled at him then, as anyone would when mocked so openly, but even in that moment I had felt the affection beneath his jest. He had clasped my shoulder before leaving, a rare gesture of closeness and I had found myself thinking, absurdly, that the warmth of his hand lingered long after he withdrew it.
Now, seated in the council chamber with Luwin and Lucerys settling into their places, I let out a quiet breath I had been holding without realising it. The room was still cold despite the fire in the hearth. Outside, the chill wind rattled against the windowpanes, a reminder of the false spring that had betrayed us all.
Yet, even with the responsibilities piled upon me,even with the realm wavering under the weight of winter, Daemon's words returned, steadying my resolve.
"You will rule well."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to prove him right.
But doubt was a thing that crept like frost, no matter how often one swept it away.
Could I truly rule in his stead?
Could I take on this burden without faltering?
Was I enough?
I clenched my jaw, forcing the uncertainty aside. Doubt was a luxury. Duty did not bend for fear.
Luwin cleared his throat gently. Lucerys sat with hands folded before him, waiting.
I looked at the two men, at the empty chairs around the table, at the great carved map of Westeros painted across the floor. A kingdom resting on a fragile balance, entrusted, however briefly, to my care.
Perhaps Daemon had seen something in me that I struggled to see in myself.
Or perhaps he simply trusted me in a way no one else ever had.
My fingers brushed the Hand's pin once more.
A storm beat steadily inside my chest, not of anger, but of purpose.
Whatever my doubts, whatever the burden, I would honour the faith Daemon had placed in me.
My eyes drifted toward the two empty seats at the small council table. The Mistress of Whisperers, Lady Olenna Tyrell, and the Master of Coin, Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell, were both absent once more.
Lady Olenna Tyrell, better known throughout the realm as the infamous Queen of Thorns, had returned to the Arbor after the death of her younger brother, the last of her surviving siblings. Duty and grief had called her home, and she had made it clear she would not return for many moons. The council was quieter without her. Less sharp. Less honest.
Prince Oberyn's reasons were different, though no less pressing. He had gone to Casterly Rock to attend to his sister, wife to Ser Jaime Lannister, heir to the Westerlands. The birth of her child had left her dangerously weakened, and Oberyn had declared, without apology, that he would remain with her until she recovered her strength. And so, two of the sharper minds at the table sat empty, leaving a void that felt far larger than the carved chairs they occupied.
I turned toward the window. A faint shroud of snow was settling over the city, unusual for King's Landing. White flakes drifted past the stone, melting as they touched the warmer panes, yet signalling that winter truly was approaching. The city looked muted under the grey sky, as though holding its breath.
The chamber door creaked open.
Bootsteps echoed. A servant hurried forward to pull the door fully aside.
King Aerys II Targaryen swept into the room, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold Hightower, close behind him. The White Bull moved with the vigilance of a man ever ready for battle. The king did not.
I rose with the others, bowing my head briefly. My father's cousin. My king. And by blood, my uncle.
Aerys's long silver-gold hair hung in tangled, matted strands, unwashed and uncombed, though his beard had been trimmed recently. The contrast made his appearance stranger. A man trying to look regal while neglecting the parts of himself that mattered.
He looked like a king, perhaps. But his actions, they said otherwise.
"Ahh, Stannis," Aerys said with sudden cheer, waving a careless hand as he made his way toward his chair. "I had a wonderful night."
He lowered himself into his seat with a pleased sigh, fixing me with a grin that did nothing to hide the wine on his breath.
"Those whores from that Summer Islander's brothel were quite vivacious," he continued. "Absolutely delightful."
Around the table, several councillors shifted uncomfortably, eyes downcast. No one dared interrupt him. No one dared react. This was the king we served, a king who shirked his duties as easily as he discarded his clothes.
Ever since I had been inducted as Master of Laws and joined the small council, I had barely seen him take any interest in ruling his realm. He almost never attended meetings, and when he did, his mind lingered elsewhere, on bottles, brothels, and the sound of his own voice.
I looked around. The others felt the same discomfort that coiled in my gut as the king spoke openly of the women he had bedded the night before.
"You may begin, Stannis," Aerys said with a flick of his fingers, as though granting a child permission to speak.
I inclined my head. "Your Grace, the first pressing matter is the renewed absence of the crown prince. He has not been seen for the past two moons." Silence fell over the table. "In addition, Lady Lyanna Stark, my brother Robert's betrothed, has disappeared from the North."
The king leaned back, lips pursed as though this were a minor annoyance.
"The knights dispatched to search for the crown prince have found nothing," I continued. "We do not know where he has disappeared to, nor why Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard vanished alongside him."
I did not speak of Robert's fury. How he had departed the Vale for Storm's End the moment he heard Lyanna was missing. How the bellowing rage of my elder brother shook even the Eyrie. That was not for this room.
"Rhaegar must be enjoying himself," Aerys said suddenly, laughing, of all things.
A ripple of unease spread around the table.
The king's grin widened. "She must be quite the good fuck."
My jaw tightened as I grit my teeth.
"It has been many years," Aerys went on with casual obscenity, "since I fucked a woman from the North."
I stared at him silently. The man before me wore the crown of the Seven Kingdoms. The blood of Aegon the conqueror ran through his veins. And yet this, this was what the realm was ruled by.
Aerys waved a hand. "Do not trouble yourself, Stannis. Once he is done fucking her, he will come back."
My fingers curled against the table, nails digging into the wood,but I forced my face to remain still. It was not my place to speak the words burning inside me. I wondered how Daemon was born to such a man. How a prince with honour, fire, and steel in him could emerge from this hollow shell of a king.
But duty bound my tongue.
It was my responsibility to serve the throne, even when the man who sat upon it treated the subjects of the kingdom as though they were another whore to sample and discard.
"Your Grace," I said quietly, keeping my voice steady, "the realm grows anxious. The absence of the prince, the disappearance of Lady Lyanna, these matters require decisive action."
Aerys waved the concern away like an annoying gnat. "Rhaegar will return," he said dismissively. "He always does."
He looked around the table, as though expecting applause for his reassurance.
But the silence that followed was heavy, filled with dread, frustration, and the unspoken fear that the realm was slipping toward something none of us could name.
"Next," Aerys said with a lazy flick of his fingers, already growing bored of the matters of his own kingdom.
I forced myself to remain composed. "Princess Cersei is on her way to the Red Keep, Your Grace, alongside her mother, Lady Joanna, and the Queen."
It had been two moons since the princess had given birth, and the toll on her body had been far heavier than the court dared to whisper aloud. Rumours drifted through the halls, complications, loss of blood, near–death, but none dared speak too openly.
Aerys chuckled, uncaring. "They named my grandson Aegon. Or rather, I believe the lioness did." His lip curled in amusement. "My son must have been busy sowing his seed in that Stark girl."
He burst into laughter, sharp and graceless. The chamber echoed with it, yet none of us joined him. I kept my face still, though inside I felt a familiar tightening in my chest. Disgust, perhaps. Or something colder.
The king of the Seven Kingdoms laughed about his son's disappearance and a northern lady's fate as though discussing a bawdy tavern tale.
I pressed onward.
"The Golden Dragon trading fleet will reach Dragonstone within the week, Your Grace," I said. "The letters sent ahead speak of a fortunate voyage to Yi Ti."
At this, Aerys finally perked up. His grin sharpened. "Good."
The greed in that single word was unmistakable. Gold, foreign luxuries, tribute from across the Jade Sea, such things drew his attention in a way governance never had. The small council could debate famine, winter, rebellions, or the crown prince's disappearance until our tongues turned to ash, but speak of treasure and the king suddenly cared.
"This calls for a feast", he said
"Your Grace, it is the middle of winter, it will not be suitable to throw a feast," Grand Maester Luwin ventured again, voice soft but firm.
Aerys scoffed loudly. "Bah! Let the smallfolk complain."
The words hung in the air like a frost that refused to melt. Luwin's mouth tightened. Lord Velaryon shifted in his seat. Even Ser Gerold's posture stiffened. But no one spoke. No one ever did.
I cleared my throat. "My king, perhaps we might host a small celebration for the arrival of the trading fleet and a grander one once Prince Daemon returns."
At that, the king's face brightened, a boyish grin stretching across it. He responded far more warmly to the name of his younger son than he ever did to the responsibilities of his crown.
"Aye he deserves it. After all, my son sacked a Free City," he said proudly, almost gleefully.
It was true. Daemon had travelled across the Free Cities with his new wife, and when they had stopped in Astapor, the slaver city famed for its Unsullied and he had done the unthinkable. He had purchased the entire Unsullied armyin exchange for Solarys his dragon and then slayed every slaver and magister in the city with the help of the unsullied.
He had written to me detailing it with his usual bluntness: how he had beheaded some of the Good Masters and burnt the rest with his dragons flame, how he had ordered the fighting pits torn down, how he had freed every man, woman, and child. Half the gold seized from the magisters he distributed among the freed slaves. The other half, he kept. As was his right.
It was a shocking act. A bold act. A righteous act. Only Daemon would dare it.
"Prince Daemon will arrive in three moons' time alongside the Unsullied," Lord Lucerys Velaryon said, breaking the brief silence. His voice always steadied the chamber.
I nodded. "And from his latest raven, it seems Princess Janna is with child."
Aerys's eyebrows rose in genuine delight. "That is wonderful," he said, and for once his joy was sincere, not the careless laughter he used to mask boredom. For a heartbeat, he looked almost kingly.
But the moment passed quickly.
"We will celebrate their arrival with more wine, more women, more food!" Aerys declared, clapping his hands together.
Of course. Wine, women, food. The only things that ever stirred enthusiasm in him. Not the famine creeping through the Crownlands. Not the disappearance of his heir. Not the unrest beneath the snow-covered streets.
But feasts? Whoring? Excess?
That the king understood very well.
"Ser Gerold you had something to discuss", I said as the lord commander of the kingsguard nodded his head.
"Your grace have you thought of the names I have suggested for the post of the kingsguard", he said.
The kingsguard had fallen to just six members when Ser Harlon Grandison had passed a year ago and the vacant position had not be filled.
Of the six remaining whitecloaks, Ser Barristan Selmy also known as "The Bold" was with Daemon. Prince Lewyn Nymeros Martell the Dornish kingsguard would be accompanying Princess Cersei alongside her children when they would depart for Casterly Rock.
Ser Oswell Whent was on Dragonstone alongside the younger princes , Prince Daeron and prince Viserys leaving only Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Jonothor Darry alongside his grace as Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning had gone missing alongside the Crown prince.
"I have thought about the names that you have given me", the king said.
"The one who will win the melee at the feast that I throw once Daemon returns will become a member of the kingsguard", he said.
"Very well, you grace", Ser Gerold said.
"This is all I can handle for a day," the king muttered, voice thick with wine and contempt, as he dismissed the last petition and slouched back in his chair. It was barely midday, yet the Small Council chamber already smelled of sour Arbor red and stale breath.
Ser Jonothor Darry entered, helm tucked beneath one arm.
"Your Grace," he announced, bowing low, "the Princess Cersei has arrived with her children and the Queen accompanies her, along with Lady Joanna Lannister."
Aerys's head snapped up. His lips curled into a smile that held not a shred of warmth.
"Ahhh, wonderful," he drawled, stretching the word, savoring some private malice.
The council rose at once, eager to escape the king's temper while it seemed pointed elsewhere. I had taken two steps toward the door when his voice cut through the hall like a drawn blade.
"Stannis. You must stay."
"You are family, after all," he added, though the word sounded closer to an accusation than affection.
I stiffened. "As you command, Your Grace."
He snapped his fingers at a servant. "More wine. Quickly. And do not spill a drop."
The poor boy scrambled forward, hands trembling as he poured. It was barely midday.
The heavy doors creaked open.
Princess Cersei entered first, walking slowly beside her mother, Lady Joanna. Queen Rhaella followed behind them, cradling the older child.
I had seen Cersei Lannister many times before, but never like this.
She looked, drained. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, her lips dry, her steps wavering. Even holding her spine straight seemed to tax what remained of her strength. Her golden hair, once the pride of the Rock, hung dull and flat around her face. She looked like a woman who had been hollowed out from the inside.
Grand Maester Luwin, upon returning from Dragonstone, had quietly informed the council that Princess Cersei would not survive another pregnancy. The birth of the boy had nearly killed her. That truth clung to her like a shadow.
My eyes shifted to the queen. In her arms sat the elder child, Princess Visenya, two namedays old and blissfully unaware of the darkness that surrounded her family.
The little girl played cheerfully with her grandmother's silver hair, giggling as she tugged at the strands. She was a perfect blend of the Targaryen line: soft silver-blonde curls, luminous violet eyes, round cheeks flushed pink. When she spotted me, she pointed with her fat, chubby fingers and laughed, delighted by something only a child could understand.
Her innocence was a brief, fragile light in the suffocating gloom of the chamber.
In Lady Joanna's arms was another bundle wrapped in black and red, the infant prince Aegon, though he was not yet revealed to the room.
But all my attention lingered on Cersei. Once proud, once radiant, once certain of her future, now she looked as though even the air in King's Landing pressed too heavily upon her.
And the king, watched her with hungry cruelty.
"How wonderful to finally see you again, Joanna," the king said, his voice instantly brightening, far too bright. He did not so much as glance at the queen or at the princess who had nearly died bringing forth his grandchild. His eyes were fixed solely on Lady Joanna Lannister.
He rose from his seat with unsettling eagerness and crossed the room. When he bent to kiss Lady Joanna's cheek, his lips lingered for a heartbeat too long, long enough to draw the room's breath taut.
I saw the queen's face pale, her expression stiffening into something between hurt and resignation.
"You look truly beautiful," Aerys murmured, his gaze sweeping over Joanna with a hunger that made my jaw clench. "No one would ever believe you are a grandmother."
"You are too kind, Your Grace," Lady Joanna replied softly, though the polite smile she wore was strained. Even she seemed to feel the impropriety of his attention.
My eyes drifted to Queen Rhaella. She said nothing, but the pain in her expression was unmistakable, a wound reopened for the thousandth time.
"And this must be my grandson," the king said at last, turning toward the infant in Joanna's arms.
Lady Joanna gently peeled back the black-and-red blanket. A tuft of golden hair appeared first, bright as sunlight, the same shade as his mother's. The child was tiny, his features delicate and soft. When his eyelids fluttered open, two small violet eyes stared back at us, curious and uncomprehending.
Aerys studied the babe for barely a heartbeat.
He nodded, dismissive, and returned to his seat.
"His hair resembles piss," he muttered under his breath.
I heard him. So did half the room.
"So, good-daughter," the king said loudly, settling back into his chair with the gracelessness of a man sinking into filth. "What was the reason for delaying your journey to King's Landing?" he asked, though we all knew he was perfectly aware of the truth.
Princess Cersei's fingers tightened around the fabric of her skirts. Despite her exhaustion, she forced herself to stand straight.
"I was greatly weakened after the birth, Your Grace. I apologize for the delay," she said, voice soft but steady.
"Bah. It is fine," the king said, waving a hand, surprisingly magnanimous, though the reason became clear a moment later.
"Well then," he continued, leaning forward with a grin that made my skin crawl, "where is your husband? My son. The crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms."
Cersei swallowed. "I do not know, Your Grace."
Her eyes lowered, uncertain. Afraid.
Aerys barked out a laugh.
"From what my good Hand here tells me, and from what whispers through every brothel and winesink in the realm, it seems my noble son is busy fucking that northern harlot," he said, relishing each word.
Cersei flinched. Even weakened by childbirth, she fought to keep her composure, her chin lifting ever so slightly.
"Oh, come now, good-daughter," Aerys continued, leaning back with cruel amusement. "Tell me truly, did your cunt loosen so much after birthing my grandson that Rhaegar had to stuff his princely cock inside that northern wench instead?"
The king laughed, delighted by his own filth.
Heat surged through me, anger sharp and sudden, crawling beneath my skin. I forced my jaw shut before the words rising in my throat could escape.
"Aerys," Queen Rhaella snapped, her voice louder than I had heard in years.
The king turned to her, grinning.
"Am I wrong, Rhaella?" he asked, spreading his hands mockingly. "Tell me if I have spoken falsely."
The queen had no answer. Her silence was punishment enough. for her, not for him.
Princess Cersei's tears began to fall then, silent, shimmering trails down her pale cheeks, yet she kept her head high. There was strength in that, even if no one cared to see it.
"I do not know where my husband is, Your Grace," she whispered. "But he knows that I will be at Casterly Rock, alongside our children."
Aerys smiled lazily, as if her pain amused him.
"You Lannisters are proud creatures. Still proud, even as my son humiliates you. Gods, I really do love Rhaegar," he said, laughing to himself.
"You may take your leave. I am famished," he declared abruptly.
Then, as he rose to go, he added, "Lord Hand, tell that Summer Islander to fetch me some northern whore tonight. I want to see for myself what delights my son found between their legs that made him abandon his southern wife."
He left the chamber laughing.
Only when the doors closed did the sound of Princess Cersei's sobs fill the hall, fragile, broken, unable to be contained. Queen Rhaella and Lady Joanna moved to her at once, embracing her, murmuring soft comforts as she trembled.
"I am returning to Dragonstone," the queen said after a time, turning to me. "I wish to be with my children."
I nodded. We both knew the truth: she wished to be anywhere the king was not.
Because winter roads were treacherous, Princess Cersei and her children would be escorted to Casterly Rock by her uncles, Ser Tygett Lannister and Ser Gerion, along with a full Lannister guard.
As Queen Rhaella bid farewell to her grandchildren, I found my gaze drifting once more to the princess.
I had never favoured her, she had broken her betrothal oath to Prince Daemon to wed the crown prince, abandoning duty for ambition.
But now, looking at her as she clung to her newborn, abandoned by the husband she had fought so hard to win, mocked by the king and the realm at large.
All I felt was pity.
Pity for a woman who had been used, discarded, and left to suffer alone.
The moon shone brightly above me as I walked through the Street of Silk, its pale glow spilling over shuttered windows and perfumed doorways. Even at this late hour, the district lived and breathed like some great decadent beast. Voices laughed behind silk curtains; music drifted from balconies; the smell of spiced wine, sweat, and incense clung to the air like mist.
I cut through a narrow alleyway, one hidden from the eyes of drunks and wandering sailors. My boots echoed against the damp cobblestones. I stopped before a small wooden door and knocked, three firm raps, then two lighter ones, just as Daemon had taught me.
Moments later, the door creaked open.
A girl barely ten years of age stood before me. Her gaze swept over me from boots to brow with the practiced caution of someone who had learned to measure danger in men far too early. She said nothing, merely stepped aside and gestured me in.
I entered.
I was not like the other young nobles and lords who frequented these brothels for pleasure or escape. I had not come to drown myself in wine or flesh. I was here for duty, here because the Hand of the King had responsibilities that extended into the shadows where the Crown's eyes could not reach.
The girl, no, the child led me down a dim corridor. Candlelight flickered through thin curtains, spilling glimpses of the rooms beyond. In them, I heard men losing their wits, surrendering themselves to their basest instincts. Laughter, moans, drunken muttering, all of it felt distant to me, like the echoes of a world I had never belonged to.
I followed silently, ignoring the sights and sounds as best I could. It was not disgust I felt, though disgust would have been easy, but something colder, quieter. A refusal to let such distractions touch me. Duty did not leave room for indulgence.
At last, the corridor widened, opening into an elegant chamber draped in rich fabrics. The air here smelled of warm oils and exotic flowers. And standing near a low table of carved ebony was the woman who controlled nearly every brothel in King's Landing.
Chataya.
A Summer Islander by birth, tall and graceful, with skin the colour of polished teak and hair like black silk cascading down her back. Prince Daemon had found her many years ago, though found was too simple a word. He had plucked her from the streets of silk, elevated her, and shaped her into both a person he could trust and a paramour, one who saw and heard things no courtier ever could.
It was Daemon who had given her the gold with which she purchased her rivals' brothels and united them under her rule. In return, she provided him not only coin,double what he invested, always, but something far more valuable.
Information.
"Knowledge is power, Stannis. Remember that," Daemon had once told me.
Those words echoed in my mind as Chataya turned toward me, her full lips lifting in a knowing smile.
"I hope you're doing well, Lord Hand," Chataya said in her soft Summer Islander accent, her voice warm against the coolness of the night. She rose gracefully from her cushioned seat, her gold-ringed braids catching the glow of the lanterns.
"Especially on this chilly night," she continued with a teasing smile. "Mayhaps you need some company? I could call one of my girls?"
I felt my jaw tighten. Many men would have taken the invitation as flattery or promise. For me, it was merely a reminder of where I stood and why.
"I have no need for the kind of warmth your establishment offers, my lady," I said, meeting her eyes without flinching. I made sure my voice held neither insult nor shame. Just truth. "I am here for duty. Nothing more."
She laughed lightly, a sound like warm wine sliding into a cup.
"It seems Prince Daemon will win the wager, Lord Stannis," she said as she rose more fully to her feet.
My gaze drifted to her hands as they moved to rest upon her stomach as she caressed it. She was with child, six moons was what she had told me. I knew that it was Daemon's child. He must have spent the night with her before leaving for the free cities.
"He told me," she went on, stroking her stomach, "that I would never be able to make you sleep with one of my girls."
She shrugged playfully. "Do they not interest you, my lord?"
"My duty matters more than my baser instincts," I replied, my voice low, steady. "I will not let lust impede my responsibilities as Hand of the King."
"Ah," she said with a knowing tilt of her head, "but we still have time, Lord Hand. And the prince is still three moons away."
I let out a controlled breath. Daemon and his damned bets.
"So," I asked, folding my hands behind my back, "what was the wager, exactly?"
Chataya smiled at the memory, her dark eyes softening. "The prince said that if I ever had a child, the one who won the wager would name the babe."
I nodded slowly. "And Daemon believes it is a girl you're carrying."
"He does," she whispered, touching her belly again as though trying to feel the child respond beneath her palm. "What do you think, Lord Hand?"
"Only time will tell," I said. It was the safest answer, but also the truest one. "The seven make such decisions, not I."
Silence settled for a brief moment, a warm, gentle silence. Then I straightened, pushing aside sentiment.
"Now," I said firmly, "let us discuss the real reason I'm here."
Her expression sharpened; the brothel-keeper vanished, and the informant took her place.
"Any news of the Crown Prince?" I asked.
Chataya shook her head, frustration flashing across her features. "I have asked my contacts. None have seen or heard the prince traveling with the Northern lady."
I clenched my teeth. The man was heir to the Seven Kingdoms and behaved like a sellsword chasing skirts.
"The people, both nobles and smallfolk, speak openly," Chataya continued, "of how Crown Prince Rhaegar seems to have an inclination for women already betrothed to other men."
I expected as much. The words still stung.
"I expected as much," I muttered, jaw tight as I grit my teeth. The anger simmered beneath my ribs, not for myself, but for duty, for order, for the realm.
Where in the Seven Hells has he disappeared to? I thought.
Chataya watched me in silence, then cleared her throat delicately.
"I do have some information about the other matter, my lord."
I looked up sharply. "Go on."
"Duskendale," she said softly. "The Alchemists' Guild storehouse that was broken into a few moons ago,the one from which barrels of wildfire were stolen."
I nodded.
"My sources tell me", she continued, "that a portly bald man was snooping around. He had hired sellswords to break into the guild."
"Bald?" I echoed, narrowing my eyes. "Is he the same eunuch that was sighted in King's Landing?"
She nodded. "I believe so."
Rumors had circulated for moons, whispers of a bald, soft-spoken man from Essos, a eunuch who trafficked in secrets instead of steel. He lived in shadows and moved only at night. People called his informants "little birds," though they were not birds at all. They were children, maimed, tongueless, used in ways I could not stomach to imagine.
A cold anger rose in me. I swallowed it down.
"I believe it is the same one, Lord Hand," Chataya said.
"Keep me informed about his whereabouts," I told her.
"Yes, Lord Hand."
I studied her for a moment longer, her poise, her clarity, her quiet strength. Whatever her profession, she was no lesser woman than any noble who strutted through the Red Keep.
"Do take care of yourself," I said finally, my voice softening despite myself, "and the babe, my lady."
Her smile bloomed slowly, genuine, warm.
"Prince Daemon was correct," she murmured.
I frowned. "About what?"
"That you are a good man, Lord Hand."
I felt heat rise to my cheeks, rare and unwelcome.
"Unlike the others," she went on, "who deride us for the kind of work we do, yet use them in secret, you do not."
She stepped closer, studying my face with a gentle honesty that made me shift slightly in place.
"Prince Daemon said you judge a man or a woman by their actions, not birth," she said.
"I do what is right," I replied stiffly.
She smiled wider. "You do not look down on me for being a whore, as your peers do. You call me my lady, even though no lord ever has or is required to."
I said nothing. My throat felt strangely tight.
"Now," she whispered, placing a hand over her heart, "I know why Prince Daemon trusts you so much."
A warmth spread through my chest, unwanted, but not unpleasant.
"My lord" she said suddenly, her eyes widening.
I looked at her sharply. "What?"
"You are smiling," she said, almost in disbelief.
I froze.
And only then did I feel it, the faint pull at the corners of my mouth.
Seven hells.
I was smiling.
A week passed before the feast, yet the memory of Chataya's words stayed with me longer than I cared to admit. You are a good man, Lord Hand.
I had not thought of myself as such. Duty was not goodness; it was obligation. But perhaps, in a city drowning in rot and indulgence, even duty looked like virtue.
The Red Keep's great hall glittered, golden chandeliers, dragon banners, polished marble, and overflowing goblets. The smallfolk would think this spectacle meant peace and prosperity. They would see a king hosting a celebration. They would not see the fractures beneath the gilded surface. They never did.
The Golden Dragon Trading Company's fleet had returned from its far voyage, though its famed captain, Ser Davos Seaworth, remained on Dragonstone and would arrive within the next days. The other captains, merchants, and minor Crownlands lords filled the hall, laughing too loudly at jokes not worth laughing at, stuffing themselves with food they had not earned.
Wine flowed, red, gold, spiced, sweet. Roast boar, baked fish, lemon cakes, sugared fruits, Dornish peppers, even a great platter of Eastern noodles the Yi Tish ambassadors had brought. Music thrummed like a living heartbeat. Young nobles pranced, old ones schemed, knights boasted, maidens giggled.
And presiding over it all was the king.
Aerys II Targaryen lounged at the center of it like a man drowning in pleasure. His fingers brushed the thighs of passing serving girls, he whispered obscene nothings into the ears of startled young ladies who pretended not to hear. He laughed too loudly, too long, too freely. His crown sat crooked on his head. His beard was matted with wine and grease.
I watched him with grim displeasure. This was the man who ruled over the seven kingdoms.
A man who did not even rule himself.
But judgment was not my place. I had duties, and they did not include wishing for a better king.
From the far end of the hall, I saw a man-at-arms stride stiffly toward Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Gerold listened to the whispered message, his face, a statue carved of marble, unchanged. Then he stepped toward the king.
"Your Grace," he murmured, bowing.
Aerys perked like a child getting lemon cakes. He exchanged a few low words with Ser Gerold, then grinned, wide, sharp, unhinged. He rose, snatched a goblet of wine from a passing boy, and ascended the steps to the Iron Throne.
He looked almost, excited.
A bad sign.
I moved toward him, wanting to know what new madness had arrived at our gates, but then, before I could do anything, the great doors of the hall slammed open.
A howl ripped through the festivities raw, feral, northern.
"WHERE IS SHE?"
All laughter died. Goblets froze midair. Minstrels faltered into silence.
And through the doors stormed Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell, flanked by hard-faced northern companions. Men who looked like they carved their way through snowstorms and wars equally.
Brandon's voice cracked through the hall again, like a whip of winter wind.
"WHERE IS MY SISTER?!"
I stiffened.
The wolf had come south.
And he had come enraged.
He stormed past nobles who scrambled out of his path. His grey eyes burned like a man on the brink of bloodshed. His hand rested on his sword hilt. His whole body trembled with fury.
I stepped forward, placing myself between him and the king, standing beside Ser Gerold and Ser Jonothor. My hand hovered over the dagger Prince Daemon had given me, its black hilt warm under my palm.
The king smiled.
Aerys loved a spectacle.
"You have travelled far from your lands to seek your sister, Lord Brandon," he said lazily. "Quite far."
Brandon's voice cracked.
"Your son kidnapped her!"
His rage filled every corner of the hall.
"Where is she?" he thundered, stepping forward.
The Kingsguard unsheathed their blades instantly. The Red Keep's men-at-arms surged around him. His own companions grabbed his arms, trying, failing, to restrain him.
I felt the famed Baratheon heat rise in me.
"Do not dare raise your voice at the king, Lord Brandon," I said coldly. "Know your place."
His eyes snapped to mine, storm-grey and full of rage. For a moment, I thought he might draw his sword on me.
Aerys laughed.
A horrible, delighted sound.
"I do not know where my son is," he said softly.
Then his smile sharpened.
"But I do know where he likely is."
Brandon leaned forward, breath trembling.
"And where is that?"
Aerys' grin widened.
"Inside your sister, most likely."
The hall gasped.
"I heard she has spread her legs from the Wall to Dorne. She is not only your sister, Lord Brandon she is the Whore of Winterfell," the king said.
Brandon went pale. For a heartbeat I thought he had not understood.
Then his face twisted with unfiltered fury.
"You, what did you say, you inbred cunt?!" Brandon roared, lunging.
The hall erupted.
Steel flashed everywhere, Kingsguard, men-at-arms, northern swords all bared in an instant. Brandon's companions tried to shield him. The crowd screamed. Servants scattered. Ladies hid behind their lords. The smell of fear washed through the hall like smoke.
Aerys blinked.
Then he laughed harder than I had ever seen before. nearly choking on his amusement.
"Cunt," he repeated, slapping his knee. "He called me a cunt!"
He got up from the throne, arms spread to the crowd.
"No one, no one in the history of my Seven Kingdoms has dared insult their king to his face!"
His laughter spilled over the hall, mad and echoing.
"Tell me, Lord Brandon," Aerys said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes,
"Are you simple-minded? Did your mother drop you on your head as a babe? Or is this just the Northern way of greeting kings?"
Brandon thrashed against his captors like a wolf in a snare.
"Liar!" he roared. "You lie! You've hidden them, both of them!"
Aerys covered his ears.
"Seven hells, enough of your screaming," he groaned. "Take this moron and his pack to the dungeons. I've had my fill of your northern nonsense."
The Kingsguard moved as one. Brandon Stark and his men were dragged away, still snarling, still shouting curses at the king.
A sick feeling coiled in my stomach.
What the king might do to a man who insulted him so openly?
The thought turned my blood cold.
The king's smile, his laughter, they were masks. Masks that hid something dangerous and unpredictable beneath.
I shuddered.
As Brandon's screams faded, Aerys descended from the throne, drinking deeply from his goblet as he walked.
He took one step down.
Then another.
And on the last step, his foot slipped.
He pitched forward violently.
"Your Grace!" I lunged toward him as he collapsed onto the marble floor. The Kingsguard rushed forward, shouting.
The king groaned. He was bruised but alive.
Until he spat.
A dark stream of red splattered across the floor.
Not wine.
Blood.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
The king clutched his gut, face twisted in agony.
"D…Daemon", Aerys gasped. "Daemon…"
His fingers curled like claws.
I shoved back a lord who came too close.
"CALL THE GRANDMAESTER!" I thundered. "NOW!"
Panic exploded. Nobles fled. Servants screamed. Wine spilled. Plates shattered. Half the hall stampeded for the doors. The musicians dropped their instruments and ran.
Aerys writhed on the ground, veins darkening beneath his skin.
"Poison" I whispered, kneeling beside him.
This was deliberate, this was calculated, this was treason.
And the great hall of the Red Keep, once full of revelry, had transformed into a chaos of terror.
I looked at the blood spreading across the stone, felt the madness, the tension, the fear swallowing the air whole.
And for the first time that night, I felt a cold certainty settle over me.
The realm had just crossed a line it would never return from.
The wolf's arrival, the king's insult, the prince's disappearance.
And now poison.
This was not chance.
This was the beginning.
I clenched my jaw, staring at the Iron Throne towering above us all.
Seven save us.
The hours of the wolf bled into the cold stones of the Red Keep as I paced outside the Grand Maester's chambers, the torches flickering low, throwing long, restless shadows across the walls. The corridors had never felt so vast, so hollow, nor the silence so accusing. Somewhere inside, Grand Maester Luwin bent over the king, muttering, praying, stalling. The man might yet die. Or live. The gods alone knew.
Beside me stood Ser Gerold Hightower, rigid as a drawn blade, his white cloak stained with the king's spittle and wine. Ser Jonothor Darry lingered opposite him, pacing in short, sharp steps, his hand fixed around the hilt of his sword as if it alone anchored him.
"How could the king be poisoned?" Ser Jonothor muttered, voice shaking with the effort to sound calm. "How does such a thing happen inside the Red Keep?"
Ser Gerold's jaw tightened. "Every noble present remains confined in the great hall. Their servants as well. No one in or out." His eyes flashed with barely contained fury. "I will find who dared this."
"For all we know," I said quietly, "the one responsible has already escaped the Red Keep."
Both knights turned toward me, and for a moment neither spoke. The possibility lingered like smoke in the torchlight, unsettling, heavy, undeniable.
It was then I noticed movement at the far end of the corridor.
A small figure. Barefoot. Thin. Moving through pools of torchlight as though afraid each flame might bite her.
A girl. No older than ten. And I knew her face.
One of Chataya's little runners.
My chest tightened, suspicion flaring, but so too did a strange sense of dread. Why would Chataya risk sending a child to the Red Keep, tonight of all nights?
The girl approached hesitantly, her eyes darting from the Kingsguard to me. She stopped two paces away and extended her small hand, clutching a folded, sealed piece of parchment.
"For you, m'lord Hand," she whispered.
I took the note and broke the seal. The handwriting was unmistakable, bold, flowing, slanted with Summer Islander flourish. Chataya's hand.
"Lord Hand,
I have caught a man. He claims he worked in the Red Keep's kitchens and was forced into the deed.
He says a member of the small council gave the order.
You must come at once.
Trust no one.
You are the only man I trust.
- Chataya"
A member of the small council? One of the kingsguard?
Seven hells.
My eyes rose slowly, scanning the darkened corridor, Ser Gerold, rigid as ever, unreadable. Ser Jonothor, tense, pale, sweating. Grandmaester Luwin hidden behind the heavy oak door. Lord Lucerys Velaryon was nowhere to be seen. Even the Hand's own steward was missing from his usual post.
The walls suddenly felt too close.
Too quiet.
Too watchful.
"Lord Hand?" Ser Gerold asked.
I folded the note, letting none of the shock touch my face.
"Lord Commander, I will go down to the great hall and question the nobles," I said evenly.
He nodded. "Good. I shall remain with the king."
His expression was sincere, controlled. Yet now, because of the letter, anyone could be guilty. I could feel my heart beating against my ribs with a new, unwelcome truth.
I could trust no one inside these walls.
My jaw tightened.
And if Chataya was right, then every man around me could be suspect and guilty. The Kingsguard, the small council, half the nobles in the realm.
I had to move quietly.
Alone.
I turned away, the letter burning hot in my palm, and walked with purpose toward the stairwell, toward the night air, toward Chataya's brothel.
Toward the truth.
As to who gave the order.
I entered the brothel and immediately felt something was wrong.
The halls were silent. Not a whisper. Not a footstep. Not a single laugh behind a curtain.
Empty.
"Good," I told myself as I moved deeper inside. The fewer people, the better. Fewer eyes. Fewer ears. Safer.
But the silence said otherwise.
The silence felt planned.
I pushed open the carved door to Chataya's private chamber, where we always met. Her window looked toward the Red Keep, and she loved sitting there, watching the lights of the castle flicker like fireflies.
She sat there now.
"My lady," I said gently.
Nothing.
I stepped closer, the smell reaching me first. Something Ihad smelt many times. Heavy. Wrong.
" Lady Chataya?" I tried again.
Still nothing.
I walked around her chair and froze.
Her throat had been cut open in one deep, merciless stroke. Blood had soaked the front of her dress, running down her stomach, pooling on the floor. Her eyes were wide, frozen in the last moment of terror she'd ever felt.
But the worst part, her hand rested on her belly.
Chataya had been pregnant. She would have given birth in a few moons
My breath shuddered out of me, and for a moment I felt the world tilt. She hadn't deserved this. Not her. Not the child inside her.
I turned, and the sharp twang of a crossbow split the air.
Pain exploded in my side as the bolt punched into my ribs. I staggered back, nearly falling over her chair. The breath ripped out of me in one wet gasp. My knees hit the carpet, and blood smeared across my fingers as I clutched my wound.
The shadows shifted.
A man stepped forward.
Short. Bald. Pot-bellied. Robes rustling like silk dragged across stone.
"You" I growled through my teeth. "You did this."
"Aye," he said, voice soft and melodic, as if we were discussing wine. "I did."
"You poisoned the king," I hissed.
His eyebrows lifted, delighted. "Aye. And I am quite proud of myself for that."
"You"
"But do not fret," he cut in smoothly. "The king will not die. Not yet. Oh no, no, no."
He wagged a finger almost playfully.
"He will get what is due to him. Just not tonight."
A sound like the world tearing apart thundered through the night.
The brothel shook. Dust fell from the ceiling. I twisted toward the window and saw smoke rising from the Red Keep, but not ordinary smoke.
Green fire. Wildfire.
Flames crawled up the dark sky like emerald snakes.
My breath hitched.
The eunuch smiled wider.
"The heir of the North is dead."
My eyes widened.
Brandon Stark.
"No" I breathed.
"Oh yes," he whispered. "He died very quickly, chained in the cells beneath the keep. Wildfire burns fast, so fast."
He leaned down slightly, his shadow falling over me.
"I am not a monster, Lord Stannis. I do not make people suffer unless I choose to."
His tone dropped very sharply.
"The crown prince Rhaegar poisoned the king," he said calmly.
"He burned the heir of the North alive while kidnapping the same mans sister."
"And he murdered the Hand of the King, Stannis Baratheon."
I spat blood. "Lies, you did it all"
"I?" He pressed a hand to his chest theatrically. "Oh, I didn't do any of that."
He smiled gently.
"I merely lit the spark."
"You think anyone will believe this?"
"No one must think," he said. His voice hardened suddenly. "I have already sent the ravens."
My blood ran cold.
"The Grand Maester was busy trying to save the king that I poisoned for this very purpose. No one watched the ravens. No one questioned the seal."
He crouched beside me, face inches from mine.
"The letter written in the crown prince's hand demands the head of your brother, Lord Robert Baratheon."
His smile sharpened.
"It states House Arryn will be torn from its perch and ground into the dirt."
"It commands the Stormlands to kneel or burn and for the Riverlanders to rise up against House Tully."
"And it speaks of Brandon Stark's execution by wildfire."
"You forged..."
"I," he hissed quietly, "have proclaimed the downfall of House Targaryen."
He rose slowly, stretching his arms as though embracing the flames rising from the distant castle.
"I will burn their world. Their legacy. Their name."
His voice grew harsh, almost unhinged.
"He burned my sister. He heartlessly killed the ones I loved. Now I burn everything he ever touched."
"I will put you out of your misery shortly, Lord Stannis," he said, eyes gleaming. "A mercy."
He stepped towards the window, staring toward Dragonstone.
"And then," he whispered, "I shall go to Dragonstone."
He turned back to me with dead, pitiless eyes.
"I will kill the little princes, Daeron and Viserys, while they sleep. Slowly, quietly."
His lips curled into a cruel smile.
"I will kill Daemons mother too. A gentle cut across the throat, like his dear Chataya."
The room around me swayed like the deck of a ship in storm-tossed seas. My vision pulsed in and out, my blood warming my lips as it trickled down my chin. My legs buckled, dragging me to one knee. The torchlight above blurred, melting into streaks of green and gold.
Across from me, the man who had ruined everything, the man known as Varys looked down at me with an expression I had never seen on his face before.
Pity.
"Why, why do all this?" I forced the words out past the metallic taste in my mouth. My hand pressed to the blood pouring out due to the crossbow bolt, but the blood would not stop. It oozed between my fingers, slick and hot.
The man who had played kingmakers and puppeteers for decades gave a soft, almost mournful smile.
"Because I am the last Blackfyre," he said.
The air in my lungs froze.
"I am, the last Blackfyre," he repeated gently, as if explaining to a child. "People know me as Varys, yes. But my real name," His strange lavender eyes, long hidden behind artifice and deception, glimmered. "is Daemon Blackfyre."
The world tilted.
He stepped closer, his voice lowering into a tone that felt ancient, hollowed out by loss.
"I only had two people in the entire known world whom I could trust. My sister, Serra and my closest friend and only true friend, Illyrio."
His gaze drifted off as if he were looking at a memory that only he could see. Something inside him trembled. Something angry. Something broken.
"Call it fate," he whispered, "or irony that the one who brought their end too was a Daemon."
My heart lurched.
"Daemon Targaryen," he said, voice tightening into a snarl, "burnt my pregnant sister on a pyre."
My breath caught. The anger radiating off him was no longer masked by his usual softness.
"He killed my best friend." His fingers curled slightly, shaking. "From my sister and her unborn child's blood, he brought the dragons back to life."
A solitary tear slid down his cheek. It was the first time I had ever seen Varys or Daemon, if that was his name show something like true grief.
"I saw my sister burn alive writhing in pain," he whispered. "I watched her scream. I watched her beg for mercy."
His voice began to crack.
"And that demon, that monster laughed at her misery."
His words echoed through the room, vibrating in my bones. A cold heaviness settled over my chest, deeper than the wound.
"So I made a promise," he said, voice steadying into a terrifying calm. "I would take everything from Daemon Targaryen."
His lilac eyes snapped back to mine, hard and merciless.
"I will kill everything he ever loved."
A shiver raked through me as more blood rose in my throat. I coughed, the dark red splattering onto the stone floor.
"But I will let him live," he continued softly. "For he will learn how lonely it truly is. He will feel the helplessness I felt as I watched the ones I loved burn."
He leaned closer, his face inches from mine.
"He and I," he whispered, "are two sides of the same coin."
I tried to speak, but another wave of pain tore through me, and I fell forward onto both hands. Blood dripped to the floor in slow, rhythmic drops. My vision trembled.
He studied me with quiet resignation.
"You were the only piece on the board who could have stabilized the kingdoms before Daemon returned," he said softly. "That is why I had to kill you."
I blinked slowly, fighting consciousness, fighting the darkness pulling at me.
He knelt in front of me, placing two fingers under my chin to lift my face toward his.
"You are a good man," he whispered, genuine sorrow in his voice. "Truly."
"You are my good boy," I heard my mother's voice whisper, soft and clear, yet echoing through the deepest darkest part of my mind. It was both a memory and a presence, pressing against me with warmth that made the cold stone walls around me feel unreal. "He will be a strong stag after all, he is my boy."
I saw my father lifting me into the air, spinning me around with laughter spilling from both of us, the scent of the sea wind whipping around Storm's End, the banners snapping like thunder in the wind. That boy, that small version of me, was laughing with abandon.
I had read somewhere in the Red Keep's libraries' brittle tomes that when a man dies, his life flashes through his eyes. It was said to be like a river of fire, moments cascading all at once, from birth to this final instant. I had scoffed at it once. I had not believed. But now it came crashing in, every memory burning into me with crystalline clarity.
I saw my mother sewing my first cloak, humming a song I barely remembered. I saw my father teaching me to swing a sword, hands steadying mine, guiding me until I could strike true. I saw the first storm I stood in, rain pelting my face, wind whipping my hair, my mother's voice shouting over the roar to keep me safe. I saw Robert and Daemon, my brother and my friend, faces full of promise, eyes shining with youthful fire.
And then I saw her. Chataya. Her eyes wide, her body still, her blood pooling across the floor. Her unborn child, the weight of it inside her, gone. And I felt the rage, the raw, animal, unrelenting rage.
Varys stepped closer, his lean form an oppressive shadow over me. His eyes, those pale lilac eyes that had started unnerving me for there was madness in them, flicked with that same cold calculation.
"Any last words, Lord Stannis?" he asked, voice soft, almost teasing, like he was a spider leaning over a fly trapped in its web.
I tried to speak, but the sound was caught in my throat. Blood coated my tongue. My lungs struggled. I could barely see straight.
"I can barely hear you," he murmured, leaning lower, bringing his ear almost brushing my lips. His smirk was faint, knowing, and infuriating. He believed me broken. He believed the stag already dead.
But in that moment, something primal ignited. Something fierce. Something that had been buried beneath years of discipline, suffering, and relentless duty.
"MINE IS THE FURY!" I thundered, the sound tearing through my chest, shattering the silence.
My dagger plunged into his eye with sudden, terrible precision.
The scream that followed was a raw, guttural scream that made the walls of the brothel shake. His hands clawed at the blade, scrambling, trying to wrench it from his skull, but it was too late. The steel pierced deeper, shattering bone, crushing the delicate cavities, bursting into his mind with the finality of an executioner's blow. Blood spurted, warm and red, splattering across my hands, my arms, and the floor beneath us.
His eyes bulged in shock and disbelief. He convulsed once, twice, thrashing with the suddenness of pain and terror. The master manipulator, the architect of the seven kingdoms impending destruction, the whisperer of secrets and lies, fell. His body toppled beside mine with a wet, sickening thump, twitching in death's grip, and then, silence.
I sagged against the wall, my body trembling violently, the effort of that strike leaving me utterly spent. Blood poured from my wounds. My lungs screamed with every ragged breath. Darkness pressed in from the corners of my vision, clawing at me. My mind teetered on the edge of nothingness.
And then, light.
Warm. Golden. Gentle.
I lifted my head as best I could. My mother was there, standing before me. Not the pale, distant memory I had kept in my heart, but fully alive, radiant, bathed in light that seemed to chase away the shadows and the death around me.
"Mother" My voice broke, hoarse and trembling. The sound carried all the years of fear, grief, rage, and longing.
She knelt, drawing me into her arms. I collapsed against her chest, my body limp, my bloodied hands clinging to her cloak. I felt her heartbeat against mine, steady and warm, her presence anchoring me to a world beyond pain.
"I, I did my duty," I whispered, voice choked, "didn't I?"
"You did your duty, my son," she said softly, her voice trembling with love and pride, holding me like she did when I was a boy, terrified of storms, clinging to her skirts. "My brave, loyal stag."
The walls, the blood, the darkness of the brothel, they dissolved in my mind. Storm's End rose around me in memory, its towers bathed in the twilight glow of a sky streaked with purple and gold. I saw myself standing in the courtyard, looking up at her face, seeing the same serenity and warmth she had always given me.
"Now let us go home, my dutiful stag," she whispered, extending her hand, eyes shimmering with light, a beacon guiding me through the darkness.
I nodded. Hand in hand, we walked toward the light. And as we did, the rage, the pain, the death, and the betrayal receded behind me, leaving only warmth, love, and a peace I had thought impossible.
And in that golden light, with my mother's hand in mine, I felt the weight of my life lift. For the first time in over a decade, I felt whole.