If he could have chosen any other path, Davos Seaworth would rather never have seen the majestic, towering walls of Storm's End again.
The fortress stood like a silent, brooding giant beneath a sky of bruised purple and charcoal grey. It was a place of ancient, heavy stones and even heavier legends. Rumors, whispered by sailors and high-born knights alike, claimed that the drum tower's walls, over ten meters thick possessed a mysterious power woven into them by the children of the forest and Bran the Builder. It was said that even the lightning raging through the clouds, sent by the fury of the sea god, could not leave so much as a scorch mark on its surface.
For his King, however, Davos had to step inside those suffocating walls time and time after again. Justice was a hard master, and Stannis Baratheon was its living embodiment.
After being announced by the guards, Davos's son, now a proud royal squire led him through the damp, torch-lit corridors to the strategy room. The air here was colder than the sea, smelling of salt and old iron.
Inside, the atmosphere was a different kind of storm.
A dozen richly dressed lords sat around a massive circular table of weirwood, their voices overlapping in a discordant melody of ambition and fear. At the head of the table sat Stannis. He wore a simple tunic of black wool and a heavy, undecorated cloak. There was no gold filigree on his sleeves, no jewels in his belt. If not for the jagged, flame-shaped crown of red gold upon his brow, he might have been mistaken for a stern master-at-arms or a weary ship's captain.
Stannis was silent, his jaw set in that familiar, rhythmic grind. He was waiting.
"Your Grace, we cannot wait for the seasons to decide our fate!" the Earl of Tidewood Island, a handsome Velaryon with hair like spun moonlight, shouted. His silk doublet, embroidered with silver sea-horses, shimmered as he gestured wildly. "The autumn gales are coming. Soon, the Blackwater will be a graveyard for any ship smaller than a war-galley. We must strike King's Landing now, before the Redwyne fleet arrives to blockade the bay!"
"And what of the One True God?" Earl Florent chimed in, his voice oily and loud. The Lord of Brightwater Keep was a man of large ears and even larger appetites for power. He wore silver plate with a red-gold fox emblazoned on the breast. "The Lord of Light, R'hllor, has shown us the way in the flames! He will bless your banners, Your Grace. Victory is written in the fire!"
Florent had been one of Renly's loudest supporters until the "Peach King" had died in his tent. Now, he was the most fanatical of Stannis's converts, eager to erase his past treason with present zeal.
Many of the younger knights tapped their sword hilts in agreement, their eyes bright with the prospect of glory and the spoils of a sacked capital.
Davos entered the room during a lull in the shouting. The eyes of the high-born turned toward him. Some looked away in practiced indifference; others, like Florent, curled their lips in disdain.
"The Onion Knight arrives," someone whispered, the sarcasm dripping like candle wax.
Davos ignored it. He had spent his life among the salt and the scum of Flea Bottom; the insults of lords who had never known hunger were like water off a seal's back. Stannis didn't look up, but he pointed a gloved finger at an empty stool.
"Lord Florent," a new voice cut through the room, old and raspy as a dry leaf. It was Eldon Estermont, the Earl of Greenstone. He was over seventy, his face a map of age spots and deep-set wrinkles, his green turtle sigil faded on his surcoat. "Everyone here knows the truth. Joffrey has the Tyrells. There are fifty thousand Reach and Lannister spears between here and the Iron Throne."
Estermont turned to Stannis. "Your Grace has forty thousand here at Storm's End and five thousand on Dragonstone. If we march on King's Landing, we leave our rear open. The Dornish are massing in the Marches, looking at our homes with hungry eyes. Are we to hand our wives and children to the Martells while we batter our heads against the Mud Gate?"
"Robb Stark is the key," Estermont continued. "He is a rebel, yes, but he is a rebel who hates the Lannisters more than he hates us. Wait for the Young Wolf to clear the North, then offer him an alliance. Attack together. That is the only way the city falls."
"Stark is a boy-king!" Florent barked. "A usurper! Your Grace cannot treat with a child who steals half his kingdom!"
The debate devolved into a shouting match between the "Queen's Men," led by the Florents, and the "Stormlords," led by Estermont. One side wanted the throne at any cost; the other wanted to survive the winter.
Stannis's eyes, deep blue and cold as a winter ocean, watched the bickering with a terrifying indifference. Finally, he slammed his fist onto the weirwood table. The sound was like a hammer on an anvil.
"Enough," Stannis said, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "I have heard enough of your 'counsel.' Meeting dismissed."
He looked at Davos. "Onion Knight, stay. The rest of you, out."
The lords filed out, their silks rustling and their spurs clinking. Soon, only three remained: the King, the Smuggler, and the Priestess.
Melisandre of Asshai stood in the shadows, her red silk robes making her look like a flickering ember against the cold stone. Her skin was the color of cream, and her eyes seemed to hold the warmth of a hearth. Davos felt the familiar prickle of dread in his marrow just looking at her.
"Davos," Stannis said, leaning back. "What did you find in King's Landing? Give me the truth, not the songs of the taverns."
Davos stood and cleared his throat. "Your Grace, the rumors in Maidenpool and Saltpans are no longer just rumors. The Reach vanguard is gone. Randyll Tarly and his son were ambushed and captured at the Crossing. Matthus Rowan is dead, drowned in the Green Fork. Nearly ten thousand soldiers of the Reach have been routed, executed, or sent to the Wall."
Stannis shifted, his eyes narrowing. "Tarly? Captured? By whom? I was told the Freys held the bridge for the Lannisters."
"The Freys are dead, Your Grace," Davos said. "The Crossing was taken by a second son of House Karstark. A boy they are calling the 'Winter Wizard.' He exposed the Lannister plot, killed the Freys, and smashed the Tarly host before they could even set their pikes."
Stannis ground his teeth so loudly the sound echoed in the quiet room. "A Karstark. The North produces warriors, it seems, while the South produces traitors." He looked at Melisandre. "Lady, you said you saw the Hunter fall in your flames."
"I saw a shadow with a sunburst heart, Your Grace," Melisandre purred, her voice like silk. "The night is dark and full of terrors, but the fire never lies."
Stannis waved her away. "Leave us, My Lady. I will send for you."
The Red Priestess bowed and vanished into the gloom. Stannis called for his squire, Devan, to bring cold water. He drank the cup dry, ignoring the fine porcelain, and looked at Davos with a searing intensity.
"Onion Knight, you heard them. Florent wants the city. Estermont wants to hide. Both are fools. If I march, I risk a storm and a siege I cannot win. If I stay, my army eats the Stormlands into a famine and then deserts. Give me a third path."
Davos thought for a long time, the silence stretching until the torches began to sputter. "Your Grace... if you cannot take the city, and you cannot stay here... then attack the Reach."
Stannis frowned. "Explain."
"The Reach is empty, Your Grace," Davos said, his mind working with the pragmatism of a smuggler. "Their best commander, Tarly, is in a cage. Their best army is a pile of corpses at the Twins. Highgarden's strength is currently guarding Joffrey in King's Landing. If you sail for the Mander, you strike at the granary of the world. You take their food, you take their gold, and you force the Tyrells to abandon the Lannisters to defend their own homes."
Davos leaned in. "Attack the Reach. It feeds your men, pays your Lysene pirates, and breaks the Lion's alliance. Three birds with one stone."
Stannis stared at Davos, his jaw working. He picked up the empty water cup, turning it over in his hands. Finally, he nodded once.
"Before you arrived, Melisandre told me that if I wished to win, I must conquer broader lands and prove to the realm that the Lion is a toothless beast. She saw the Reach in flames." Stannis looked at Davos with a strange, unsettling expression. "I know you fear her, Davos. But it seems your 'logic' and her 'visions' have reached the same conclusion."
A cold shiver raced down Davos's spine. His missing fingers throbbed. He remembered the shadow he had seen Melisandre give birth to in the caves beneath Storm's End, the shadow that had murdered Renly and Ser Cortnay.
He wondered then if these thoughts were truly his own, or if the Priestess had somehow planted them in his mind during the long, sleepless nights.
"We sail for the Reach," Stannis declared, standing up. "The Storm is coming to Highgarden."
Davos watched the King walk away, feeling a sudden, crushing weight of exhaustion. He didn't want to be a strategist or a hero. He only wanted to return to his ship, feel the deck swaying beneath his feet, and listen to the honest sound of the waves, far away from the shadows of Storm's End.
[Narrative Shift: The War of the Three Kings enters Phase 2.]
[Stannis Baratheon: Campaigning in the Reach.]
[New Strategic Threat: The Winter Wizard's influence grows.]
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