Dragonstone – Maester Cressen's Chambers
Maester Cressen's rooms sat at the very top of the Sea Dragon Tower, facing the open sea like a sleeping dragon. It was one of the warmest, most lived-in spots in the entire cold, gloomy castle.
Right below the rookery, his chambers had walls lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves crammed with scrolls, leather-bound tomes, and bizarre specimens. A massive oak desk took up the center of the room, covered in quills, an astrolabe, magnifying lenses, and several open ancient books.
A steady fire crackled in the hearth, pushing back the castle's usual damp chill. The air smelled of parchment, ink, dried herbs, and that faint musty scent every scholar loves.
In one corner stood his simple, neatly made bed. In another was his workbench, lined with alchemical tools and potion-making gear.
A delicate birdcage hung by the window, holding a pure white raven—the Citadel's special breed for the most important messages.
When Pierce followed Stannis inside, Maester Cressen was bent over the desk writing. At the sound of boots, the old man looked up and pushed his spectacles higher on his nose.
"Lord Stannis! Lord Pierce!" he said, rising slowly, joints stiff with age. "The child has been born? Did everything go well?"
Stannis didn't answer. He marched straight to the desk and stood there with his back to them, shoulders locked tight, fists clenched so hard the knuckles were bone-white.
Pierce gave Cressen a tiny shake of the head—don't ask. The old maester understood and watched Stannis's rigid back with deep worry. He had raised all three Baratheon brothers. To him, Stannis was still that serious little boy, and right now that boy was a hair's breadth from snapping.
The room stayed dead quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional flutter of raven wings.
Finally Stannis turned. His face looked even paler in the firelight, eyes shot through with red. He walked to a shelf, yanked out a thick, heavy volume, and slammed it onto the desk. The gold lettering on the spine caught the firelight—Genealogies and Histories of the Major Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Read," Stannis rasped, stabbing a finger at the page. He looked almost afraid to read it himself.
Maester Cressen stepped closer, adjusted his glasses, and peered down. It was the recent Baratheon family history section.
"My lord, which part would you like?"
"The heirs," Stannis said, voice thick. "Start with my grandfather."
Cressen nodded and began reading aloud: "Mord Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, married Lady Rhaelle Targaryen… sired two sons: eldest Steffon, second Harmon… Steffon Baratheon, heir, married Cassana Estermont, sired three sons: eldest Robert, second Stannis, third Renly…"
"Stop." Stannis cut him off. "Describe their physical features."
Cressen flipped pages and found the descriptions. "Robert Baratheon, born 262 AC, black hair, blue eyes, tall and powerfully built… Stannis Baratheon, born 264 AC, black hair, blue eyes, stern features, lean build… Renly Baratheon, born 266 AC, black hair, blue eyes, handsome features…"
"Continue," Stannis ordered. "Shireen."
Cressen located the entry. "Shireen Baratheon, only daughter of Lord Stannis Baratheon, born 287 AC, black hair, blue eyes, contracted greyscale as a child, leaving traces on her left cheek…"
"Stop." Stannis's voice cracked. He looked straight into Cressen's eyes, and the old maester saw something terrible burning there—rage, pain, betrayal—all locked behind that iron mask.
"Maester," Stannis asked, each word carved from ice, "in the entire recorded history of House Baratheon… across every documented bloodline… has there ever been a single case of dark skin and full lips?"
The question hit the room like a slap of cold seawater.
Maester Cressen froze, mouth opening and closing. He glanced at Pierce (who stayed stone-faced), then back at Stannis, seeing the raw agony on that familiar face.
"My lord…" the old man began carefully, "House Baratheon's bloodline traces back to—"
"Yes or no?" Stannis's voice rose, sharp and unforgiving.
Cressen was silent for several painful seconds. Then he slowly shook his head. "To my knowledge… no. The Baratheon line is primarily Andal and First Men, with a trace of Targaryen blood. None of those lines feature dark skin."
He had softened it to "dark skin" instead of "black skin," but it was enough.
Stannis's fist crashed down on the oak desk. The heavy wood groaned. An ink bottle jumped and spilled across the priceless pages. Cressen winced but stayed silent.
"That child…" Stannis's voice shook. "That dark-skinned bastard…"
He spun away, shoulders heaving. Pierce could see his nails digging into his palms.
"My brother…" Stannis hissed through clenched teeth, "Robert—that drunk, that whore-chasing bastard—at least he could make real Baratheons! At least his bastards had black hair and blue eyes! Godsdamn it!"
He slammed his fist into the bookshelf. Several heavy tomes tumbled to the floor.
"Renly… my pretty, charming little brother… even he would never do something this low! Never pass off a slave's bastard as a Baratheon!"
Maester Cressen tried to soothe him. "My lord, please—perhaps it's only a misunderstanding. Newborn skin color can—"
"Shut up!" Stannis whirled, eyes bloodshot. "Do you think I'm blind? That hair, those lips, that skin… and the talisman! The Summer Isles charm Selyse was clutching like it was her last hope!"
He was panting like a wounded bull. "Kalisto… that Summer Islander slave… I should have killed him then! I should have done it the second I found out!"
Pierce watched in silence. This explosion was exactly what he'd expected. Stannis had spent his whole life choking down every feeling: jealousy of Robert, resentment of Renly, cold indifference to his wife, fury at how unfair life had been. He had followed duty, rules, honor—believing that if he just worked hard enough, the world would finally reward him.
And now the son he had waited for, the heir he saw as proof that his sacrifices meant something, might not even carry his blood.
To Stannis, this wasn't just betrayal. It was the total collapse of everything he believed in.
"That damned ship…" Stannis muttered, voice suddenly small and broken. "The one that took my parents… that cursed storm…"
Pierce knew the story. Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana had died in Shipbreaker Bay. Robert had been sixteen, Stannis fourteen, Renly six. The two younger boys had waited at Storm's End, only to learn their parents were gone forever.
"If they were still here…" Stannis's voice was almost a whisper. "If Father were alive… if Mother were alive… none of this would have happened…"
He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. The man who never bent finally broke.
The room fell quiet again, filled only with Stannis's ragged breathing.
After a long moment, Pierce spoke.
"Are you finished venting, my lord?"
His voice was calm—almost coldly calm.
Stannis looked up, eyes red and wet. He stared at Pierce like he was seeing him for the first time.
"If you're done," Pierce continued, walking to the desk and picking up a cloth to wipe the spilled ink, "then it's time to talk about actual solutions. How we fix this. Not how we drown in it."
Maester Cressen shot Pierce a startled look, then glanced worriedly at Stannis, afraid the blunt words would trigger another outburst.
But Stannis didn't explode. He simply stared, the raw pain slowly draining away until only an empty, icy calm remained.
"Actual solutions…" he repeated hoarsely.
"Yes," Pierce said. "Practical problems." He set the cloth down and met Stannis's gaze head-on. "First: Princess Arianne Martell has seen the child. She is Dorne's heir, not some servant you can silence or disappear. If it were one of your own people, fine. But a Dornish princess? And her companions—Prince Oberyn's favorite Sand Snakes?"
He let that sink in.
"Second: I can use our trade deals with Dorne to buy their silence. Arianne needs our markets, our glass, our wine routes. She'll cooperate. But—"
Pierce's tone hardened. "It won't last forever. What do Dornish people do best? Spread whispers and knowing smiles. They don't need to shout it. Just a meaningful look or the phrase 'what a special little boy' in the right company, and in a month the whole Seven Kingdoms will be laughing about 'the Black Stag of Dragonstone.'"
Stannis's face went deathly pale.
"Third," Pierce went on, "even if the Dornish keep quiet, the child himself is the problem. He will grow. The features will become impossible to hide. How do you explain to the world that a Baratheon has the look of a Summer Islander?"
Stannis opened his mouth, but Pierce kept going. "You can claim it's a throwback from Florent blood, a fluke. Some will believe it. Most won't. And once doubt starts, it never stops. And—"
He stepped closer, voice low. "What will King Robert think? How will Lord Renly react? How will your enemies use this? You are not just a betrayed husband, my lord. You are Prince of Dragonstone, Master of Ships, the king's own brother. This is now a political crisis."
Stannis stayed silent. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, looking utterly drained.
After a long time he whispered, "Maybe… maybe the child really is mine. What if there's some exception…"
"Do you actually believe that?" Pierce asked quietly.
Stannis didn't answer.
Pierce sighed. "My lord, there's only one person who knows the full truth: the child's mother."
Stannis's eyes snapped open.
"But besides her," Pierce continued, "there are records. Lady Loana keeps detailed logs of… marital visits. Every great house does it. Some use maesters, some use the head maid or steward. The logs include dates, times, whether precautions were taken."
He looked at Maester Cressen. "Who keeps the records at Dragonstone?"
Cressen hesitated, then said softly, "The head maid. I suggested it… because it involves the lady's privacy. A maester recording it directly would have been… inappropriate."
Pierce nodded at Stannis. "Then the records will tell you the truth. In the two months before conception—did you share her bed? How often? And after?"
Stannis's face gave the answer. Pierce already knew it. From the timing, Stannis had been in King's Landing for the small council. Any visits would have been rare. After conception… given their cold marriage… even rarer.
"My lord," Pierce said more gently, "I'm not here to humiliate you. I'm here to make you face reality. Only then can we find a way forward."
Stannis drew a deep, shuddering breath and finally found his voice, though it was still raw. "You said… solutions."
"There are two choices," Pierce held up two fingers. "First: mother and child die in childbirth. Official story—Lady Selyse delivered a stillborn and died from hemorrhage. Tragic, but clean. House Florent might suspect, but they'll have no proof. You remarry a younger, more loyal wife and father a true heir."
Stannis's face twisted—not with rage, but with deep, gut-wrenching pain.
"Second," Pierce lowered one finger, "announce the marriage invalid on grounds of adultery. Send Selyse back to House Florent. The child leaves as a bastard with his mother."
He paused, then added brutally, "But House Florent will almost certainly choose the first option. To them, a daughter who shamed House Baratheon is far more dangerous alive than dead. They'll likely dispose of both mother and child themselves, then offer a cousin to keep the alliance with Dragonstone alive."
Stannis's fingers dug into the chair arms until his knuckles turned white.
"Whichever path you take," Pierce finished, "the child is the problem. If you choose the first, you must make sure it's handled cleanly—but there will still be complications. If you choose the second, you'll have to face House Florent's reaction and the political storm that follows."
He walked to the window and stared out into the black night. "My lord, this is no longer about feelings. It's a political decision. You need to ask yourself: which choice benefits House Baratheon most? Which protects Dragonstone? Which serves your future rule best?"