Dragonstone was a lonely fortress rising from the sea—a cold, damp wasteland battered by storms and harsh waters year-round. Behind it loomed the smoky silhouette of the Dragonmont volcano, casting a gloom over the island that words could scarcely describe.
The high walls of Dragonstone were crawling with over a thousand gargoyles—hellhounds, wyverns, and other grotesque creatures sculpted in the ancient Valyrian style. When Stannis first arrived, he had hated these twisted stone monsters leering down at him. Years had passed, but his resentment had not faded.
At that moment, Stannis sat in the Chamber of the Painted Table atop the Stone Drum Tower. His only companion was his most trusted man, Ser Davos Seaworth.
The chamber was famous for the massive table carved by Aegon the Conqueror. It was a slab of wood fifty feet long, twenty-five feet wide at one end and narrowing to four at the other. The surface was not flat but carved to depict the Seven Kingdoms as they were in Aegon's day—every river, mountain, fortress, city, lake, and forest raised in relief. Nearly three centuries of varnish had given it a dark, glossy sheen.
Stannis sat in the single raised chair positioned near the carving of Dragonstone, which gave him a commanding view of the entire map.
"Is there a letter from King's Landing, Davos?" Stannis asked, his voice flat.
Stannis wore a tight leather vest and coarse brown wool trousers. He was a man of iron—broad-shouldered and powerful, with a face pulled tight and hardened by the sun. Though not yet thirty-five, he had already lost most of his hair; only a thin shadow of black fringe remained, circling his head behind his ears like the ghost of a crown. His beard was cropped short, a blue-black shadow covering his square jaw and hollow cheeks.
"No," Davos said, shaking his head.
"I knew it," Stannis said, his jaw tightening. "I served my brother Robert for fifteen years. I helped Jon Arryn run the kingdom so Robert could eat, drink, and whore his way to an early grave. By rights, Jon should have retired to the Vale years ago, but he clung to that title until the end."
He looked down at the map, his eyes cold. "It is one thing for my brother not to trust strangers, but now that Jon is dead, he still hasn't even considered me for Hand of the King."
"I have thought about it," Stannis continued, his voice devoid of self-pity but heavy with bitterness. "He will give the honor to Eddard Stark. His true brother isn't me. It has always been Ned Stark."
"My Lord, this is not the time to dwell on such things," Ser Davos said gently. "Besides, staying away from King's Landing might be a blessing. Jon Arryn is dead, and the capital reeks of lions."
"True," Stannis admitted. "King's Landing is a pit of vipers, but is Dragonstone any better? Look at this place. I never wanted it. I took this rock because Robert's enemies were dug in here, and I rooted them out. I did my duty as a brother. And how did Robert thank me? He named me Lord of Dragonstone but gave Storm's End—my home, and its rich lands and taxes—to Renly!"
The old wound still bled. Stannis could never forget the slight.
Dragonstone's ancient strength had come from its dragons. Without them, it was just a barren rock. Stannis commanded only a handful of minor lords, and the island itself was rocky and sparsely populated. It was impossible to raise a real army here.
"Forget it," Stannis muttered, rubbing his temple. "The real problem is that without soldiers or gold, I cannot even protect myself."
Davos sighed inwardly. Stannis was made of iron—hard and unyielding—but iron is brittle. He lacked the warmth that drew men to follow a leader. The storm lords had flocked to Renly, and now, the bolder ones were likely looking across the Narrow Sea at the bastard rising in the East.
"My Lord, our true enemy is the Lion of Lannister, there is no doubt about that," Davos said. "Perhaps... perhaps you could unite with your own blood?"
"I will never compromise," Stannis snapped. "Not unless they first acknowledge my rightful place and do their duty as younger brothers."
"Renly is likely a lost cause," Davos admitted. "But we will need ships and swords. Many sellswords across the water look up to Commander Gendry. They have either fled to Tyrosh or joined the Free Army directly."
"He is just a boy," Stannis scoffed. "My brother's bastard. He hasn't tried to take the throne yet, but I doubt he is far from it. He keeps that Targaryen girl close, doesn't he? The last remnant of the dragon lords. If he wants her, he wants the crown. If I compromise with a bastard, it will only tear the realm apart further."
"Even so," Davos pressed, "Commander Gendry is busy governing Myr and preparing for war with the slave cities. We might still have time to negotiate."
"Negotiate?" Stannis looked at Davos with a rare expression of helplessness. "That boy has the ambition of a Blackfyre. I have no one but you, Davos. You have friends in Lys and Myr. Salladhor Saan, Monford Velaryon, Ardrian Celtigar... they are not much, but they are all my brother left me."
"I will do my best," the Onion Knight promised. "I may be older, but I still know how to handle a smuggler's ship." He preferred dealing with sellswords who only cared about gold; at least they were honest about their greed. The lords of the realm didn't support Stannis because they simply didn't love him.
At that moment, the heavy door creaked open. Maester Cressen shuffled into the room. He was ancient, and the climb up the Stone Drum's stairs was a torture for his frail legs.
"Old man," Stannis said, looking up. "I knew you would come, whether I called for you or not."
"In the past, you would have woken me," Cressen said, his voice trembling slightly.
"You were younger then," Stannis replied bluntly. "Now you are old and sick. You need your sleep." Stannis never learned how to soften his words. He spoke the truth as he saw it, never considering how it might hurt.
"As Master of Ships, you left the capital without permission," Cressen said, catching his breath. "Is that not disrespectful? Have you sent no apology or explanation to the King?"
"Explanation?" Stannis laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Robert didn't explain when he gave me this desolate rock. He didn't explain when he ignored me for Hand of the King. By rights, once he took the throne, Storm's End should have been mine."
"Robert certainly treated you unfairly," Cressen said carefully. "But he had his reasons. Dragonstone was the seat of the Targaryen heir. He needed a strong man to hold it. Renly was just a child."
"He is still a child!" Stannis retorted. "A vain, arrogant child who laughs at his older brother. I did my duty to Robert. What has Renly ever done?"
Cressen felt a deep sadness. He was too old, and Stannis no longer wanted his wisdom.
To the old Maester, Stannis was more than just a lord. After their father, Lord Steffon, drowned in Shipbreaker Bay, Cressen had raised Robert, Stannis, and Renly as if they were his own sons.
"Come, Maester," Davos said gently, taking the old man's arm. "Let us leave the Lord to his thoughts."
Stannis stood alone by the Painted Table, his shadow stretching across the map to cover King's Landing and the Blackwater Rush.
*Stannis, my son,* Cressen thought as he turned to leave. *You are not an orphan. There are people who love you.* He had to find a way to stop the brothers from destroying each other.
Davos and Cressen made their way down to the courtyard. There, they found Shireen and her fool, Patchface.
Little Shireen was a shy, sweet girl. Trailing behind her, moving with a strange, shuffling gait, was Patchface. The fool wore a helmet made from an old tin bucket, with deer antlers tied to the sides and cowbells hanging from the tines. With every step, he clanked and jingled—*clank, thud, jingle, clang.*
Seeing the girl broke Cressen's heart. She was Stannis's other tragedy.
As an infant, Shireen had caught greyscale. She had survived, but the disease had left its mark. Half of her face, from her cheek down to her neck, was dead and stiff. The skin was cracked and peeling, grey and black, and hard as stone to the touch.
"Have you seen my father, Maester?" Shireen asked softly.
"Yes, child," the old man replied. "He is busy with his work."
Suddenly, Patchface hopped forward, his bells rattling. "Under the sea, it is always summer!" he sang out in a high, strange voice. "The mermaids wear seaweed in their hair! Silver seaweed woven into gowns! I know, I know, oh, oh, oh!"
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