Stannis had always despised Robert's drinking. Yet tonight, staring at the polished bronze flagon on his table, he felt the pull of it for the first time in years.
He pushed the thought away.
He had clawed his way out of despair too many times already. Melisandre — his strongest pillar — was gone, sent across the sea by the very man he was trying to destroy. The Florents, his wife's own blood, had turned their cloaks. Even the Martells made a twisted kind of sense; Jon had delivered the Mountain's head and Amory Lorch's living body to Sunspear. Robert had never given Dorne justice for Elia and her children. Jon had.
Stannis stepped outside his tent. The night was cold. Stars filled the sky, but there was no moon. He walked among the fires with only a few trusted guards, cloak drawn low. Most men sat quiet. The fight on the hill had shaken them. Jon had ridden out in white armor like something out of legend and broken a charge that should have ended the battle. Even without the news from the south, morale was already cracking.
A horn sounded in the distance — alarm, not attack. Stannis's hand went to his sword before the second horn answered: all clear. A runner arrived moments later carrying an arrow with a tightly rolled strip of parchment tied to the shaft.
Before Stannis could unroll it, one of his lords requested urgent audience.
Stannis told the man to wait and opened the message.
It was from Jon.
The terms were written plainly:
Stannis was to renounce the crown, acknowledge Robert as a usurper, and swear fealty to Jon Targaryen.
He was to disband the alliance army and withdraw from the Crownlands.
In return, if he agreed to fight against the Others and the Long Night, he would be granted the title of Prince.
Bronze Yohn Royce would be confirmed as Warden of the Vale and raised to Duke.
Any lord who swore now would have their actions during the war against the Targaryens forgiven. Old Targaryen loyalists would have their lands and titles restored and receive tax relief.
Any house that refused would be attainted — name struck from the annals, lands and titles stripped, bloodline ended.
At the bottom was a deadline: ten days. During that time the Reach army would not attack, provided Stannis's forces remained in place.
Stannis crushed the parchment in his fist.
This was not an offer made to him alone. It was aimed at every lord still following his banners. Jon was not trying to kill him on the battlefield. He was trying to kill the will of the entire coalition.
More lords arrived. Every one of them carried an identical message — some written in neat script, others in hurried, uneven hands. They had all been delivered the same way: arrows fired into the camp under cover of darkness.
Over a thousand of them had already been collected. By morning, thousands of soldiers would know the contents.
Stannis looked at the anxious faces before him and felt the weight of every betrayal settle deeper into his bones.
He lied.
He told them the Three Daughters had already agreed to send a fleet up the Trident in support. That help was coming. That they only needed to hold a little longer.
The lords left looking slightly less hollow, though none of them truly believed it.
When the tent finally emptied, Stannis sat alone. He had lied because the truth was unbearable: there was no fleet coming. There was no path to victory that did not end in either surrender or slow destruction.
A soft cough at the entrance made him look up. His young cupbearer — the boy also named Stannis, Davos's son — stood there holding a folded letter.
"From Thoros of Myr, Your Grace."
Stannis took it. The seal was already broken. He read the short message inside, then set it down on the table without a word.
Thoros had gone to Jon.
The red priest who had followed him across half the realm had finally chosen another path.
The boy waited, shoulders hunched, ready for an explosion that never came.
Stannis simply nodded once.
"I understand," he said quietly. "You may go."
After the boy left, Stannis remained seated in the cold tent, staring at nothing. The wind outside carried the distant sounds of men talking in low, uneasy voices. Somewhere in the darkness, another arrow with another message was probably already in flight.
He had spent years fighting to hold a throne that had never truly been his.
Now even his closest allies were slipping away without a single sword being drawn.
And the worst part was that Jon hadn't needed to kill him to win.
He only needed to keep talking.