SOry my eyes tirrrred andd my keyboarrrd broken , just be patient
Dont forget to Vote and Review if you like story...
your comment make me motivate posting here
read full story in patreon : CaveLeather
No wind stirred over King's Landing. The flaming heart-and-stag banners of the Iron Throne hung limp against their poles. After a year of supposed recovery, the city still hadn't returned to its old bustle. Sharp-eyed merchants whispered that the population had already fallen below half a million and was still shrinking. At the city gates, smallfolk streamed out in long, weary lines, dragging carts and children, heading anywhere the grain might be cheaper. Even a few minor nobles had quietly slipped away.
Grain prices had climbed to four times what they were before Robert died. The Reach had stopped selling months ago and was now buying instead. The Riverlands had lost too many mouths in the wars. The only places quietly taking people in were Riverrun and the growing settlements around the Golden Tooth. No riots had broken out yet, but the crown seemed barely aware the bleeding was happening. Stannis had far bigger problems on his desk.
Outside the king's chambers, Selyse stood with Shireen and the boy Robert Arryn. A full dozen armed guards blocked the door. The air felt thick and cold.
"Has His Grace eaten anything?" Selyse asked the nearest guard.
"No, Your Grace. Only wine."
Little Stannis—Davos's youngest son—stood stiffly in front of the door, arms at his sides. He was thirteen, maybe fourteen, and looked terrified. When Selyse told him to move, he shook his head.
"Move," she said again, sharper.
He stayed put.
The slap cracked loud in the narrow corridor. A bright red handprint bloomed on the boy's cheek. Shireen flinched and covered her veiled face. Young Robert Arryn started to shake.
Selyse raised her hand again. "I said move."
Before she could strike, Stannis's voice came through the thick wood, raw and furious. "Leave me the hell alone! All of you!"
The corridor went quiet.
Selyse tried once more, voice tight. "Your Grace, Brightwater Keep has fallen. My uncle is a prisoner in Casterly Rock. The realm still needs you."
"I know what needs doing!" Stannis roared. "Now get out of my sight before I have the guards drag you away!"
Selyse's face went pale. She stood there a moment longer, then turned and walked off without another word. The guards looked anywhere but at her.
Shireen stayed. She knocked softly on the door, holding a bowl of warm broth with both hands. When it opened, Stannis filled the doorway like a storm about to break—bloodshot eyes, unshaven jaw, the stink of old wine and anger.
Shireen held the bowl higher. "Father… please eat something. Mother and I are worried."
He stared at her for a long moment, then took the bowl and drained it in three long swallows. The heat seemed to loosen something in him. He set the empty bowl aside and looked down at his daughter.
"Do you think I'm a good king, Shireen?"
She froze. No one ever asked her things like that. She dropped her eyes to the floor. "I… I just want you to be happy, Father."
Stannis made a sound that might have been a laugh or a snarl. He stepped past her without another word and strode down the corridor.
Shireen watched him go, unsure if she had said the wrong thing.
Later, in the small council chamber, Stannis looked no better, but at least he was upright. He fixed Oberyn Martell with a hard stare the moment the meeting began.
"How many men can Dorne give the Iron Throne right now?"
Oberyn leaned back in his chair, smiling the way a man smiles when he already knows the answer won't please anyone. "Dorne has the fewest people of the Seven Kingdoms, Your Grace. But we can still field ten thousand. Good fighters, every one."
Stannis gave a short nod, then leaned forward. "And you don't believe the bastard's story, do you? About being Rhaegar's son?"
Every head at the table turned toward Oberyn. The room went very still.
Oberyn's smile didn't waver. He sat forward, elbows on the table, voice smooth and almost friendly. "Your Grace, Dorne supported the Targaryens because the Mad King held my sister hostage. We fought to protect my nephew's claim—young Aegon. If this new boy truly is Rhaegar's son by Lyanna Stark, then that same Lyanna helped destroy my sister's life. House Martell has no reason to stand with him. None at all."
He spread his hands, the picture of reason. "We gave the Iron Throne our oaths. Ten thousand spears will be ready when you call for them."
Stannis studied him for a long moment, then looked away. The answer was acceptable. For now.
What Oberyn didn't say—what everyone at the table understood—was that Dorne would happily sit behind the Prince's Pass and watch the rest of the realm burn if it came to open war between Stannis and Jon. Ten thousand spears was a polite way of saying they would do the minimum and no more.
Stannis turned to the rest of the council. "We move when the levies from the Crownlands, the Vale, the Stormlands, and the Freys are ready. Brightwater Keep has already fallen. We cannot afford to wait."
No one argued. No one looked eager, either.
Outside the Red Keep, the banners still hung limp. Inside, the king who had taken the Iron Throne was already planning how to keep it—while the man who claimed to be the last dragon gathered his own strength in the West.