If you're enjoying these stories, read my new story
HOGWARTS: REGULUS LORD OF THE STARS
You can also visit the Pat** on at: CaveLeather
American Horror: Grind Edition
Dragonstone – Map Room
Dinner went smoothly enough, but the atmosphere stayed strangely tense. Princess Arianne showed flawless diplomatic skill—she spoke warmly about Dorne's customs, asked intelligent questions about royal policy, and treated both Jon and Barristan with exactly the right amount of respect. Pierce slipped in occasional comments, steering the conversation so it never grew awkward.
Stannis barely spoke. He ate mechanically, answering only when directly addressed. His mind was clearly somewhere else.
The moment the dessert plates were cleared and the servants withdrew, Stannis stood.
"Lord Jon," he said, voice low, "there are matters I wish to discuss with you in private. Pierce will join us."
Jon nodded—he had been expecting this. Barristan started to rise, but Stannis added, "Ser Barristan, if you would be so kind, please remain here and keep the princess and her companions company."
The old knight glanced at Jon. When the Hand gave a tiny nod, Barristan understood. Some secrets were not for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to hear first. It unsettled him, but he respected the decision.
"I will see to the princess's comfort," he said.
Stannis, Jon, and Pierce left the hall and moved down a hidden corridor deep into the castle. No windows, only flickering torches. Dragon carvings on the walls cast twisted shadows that made the passage feel ancient and ominous.
They stopped before a heavy oak door. Stannis pushed it open.
Inside lay the round Map Room. At its center stood an enormous weirwood table carved with a breathtakingly detailed map of Westeros—from the Wall to Dorne, the Westerlands to the Vale. Every castle, river, and forest was etched with painstaking precision.
But Jon's eyes weren't on the table.
On one side of the room stood Sister Moana, cradling a bundled infant. The baby slept peacefully in soft cotton wraps.
Stannis motioned her forward. The nun stepped to the table and gently pulled back a corner of the blanket, revealing the child's face.
Jon leaned in. His expression froze.
It was a healthy baby boy—pink skin, thick black curly hair. But even through the newborn flush, the skin tone was noticeably darker. Full lips. Broad nose.
Taken separately the features meant nothing. Together, on a child who was supposed to be a Baratheon…
Stannis took the baby from Moana. The moment he did, the infant woke and began to cry. The sound echoed sharply in the silent Map Room.
Stannis held the child awkwardly, face like stone. He nodded for Moana to leave. She bowed and slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.
Now only three men and one wailing infant remained.
"Lord Jon," Stannis said, voice raw as sandpaper, "this is… my son."
He put heavy, bitter weight on the word "son."
Jon stayed silent a long time, gaze moving between the baby and Stannis. Finally he spoke quietly. "Stannis… what are you saying?"
Stannis drew a deep breath, as if steeling himself. "This is not my child!"
The Map Room fell into absolute silence—broken only by the baby's cries. A log in the hearth popped, sending up a shower of sparks as if answering the revelation.
"What?" Jon's voice was soft but carried the full authority of the Hand. (He had already guessed the truth; he simply hadn't wanted to believe it.)
"Selyse confessed," Stannis said, fury and shame burning beneath every word. "Faced with the bedchamber logs and the Summer Islander slave's own testimony, she could not deny it. The child is Kalisto's."
He set the baby down in the cradle Moana had left. The motion was rough; the infant cried harder.
Pierce spoke calmly. "Sister Moana will care for him. Normal conversation is fine—she answers only to me."
Stannis turned to Jon, blue eyes blazing with pain and rage. "I asked you here, Lord Jon, to bear witness. This matter… must not become public. It touches the honor of House Baratheon and the stability of the realm."
Jon walked to the table and absently traced the carved outline of Storm's End with one finger. His mind raced—Stannis's motives, the political fallout, the possible consequences.
"Does House Florent know?" he asked.
"No," Stannis said. "I will not shame Brightwater Keep. Selyse is their daughter, but this was her personal sin. The family should not suffer for it."
Jon gave Stannis a flicker of respect. Even now, the man was thinking of his wife's kin. That sense of duty and larger perspective was rare.
"What do you intend to do?" Jon asked, looking him straight in the eye.
Stannis didn't answer at once. He crossed to a shelf, pulled out the thick volume of noble genealogies, and dropped it onto the map table with a heavy thud.
"Lord Jon, you watched my brother grow up," Stannis said, flipping to the Baratheon section. "You know our bloodline better than anyone. Black hair, blue eyes—that is the baseline. Occasional gold or brown hair can appear from the mother's side. But dark skin? Full lips? Curly black hair?"
He turned page after page, jabbing at the entries. "My grandfather Monford—black hair, blue eyes. My father Steffon—black hair, blue eyes. Robert—black hair, blue eyes. Renly—black hair, blue eyes. Myself—black hair, blue eyes. Shireen—black hair, blue eyes."
He looked up, eyes bloodshot. "In the entire recorded history of House Baratheon, this combination has never appeared. Not once."
Jon listened in silence. Of course he knew the facts. As Hand, he knew every great house's bloodlines by heart.
"Perhaps…" Jon tried for a gentle explanation. "Perhaps it is a throwback from House Florent? Or some distant ancestor—"
"I already asked Maester Cressen!" Stannis cut him off. "He checked every record. Florent blood has no such traits. And even if it did—why now? Why not Shireen? Why not Robert's children?"
The last question landed like a hammer blow.
Jon stared at Stannis, trying to read the stone-carved face. In that instant he remembered every bloody succession war in Westerosi history—the Blackfyre Rebellions, the Dance of the Dragons, the endless fighting over who carried the true blood.
If Robert's three children were not his… then by law the Iron Throne belonged to Stannis.
The thought was too dangerous. Jon refused to let it settle.
"Stannis," he said sharply, "do you understand what you are implying? Do you understand the consequences of such an accusation?"
"I am accusing no one!" Stannis's voice rose, echoing off the stone walls. "I am stating facts! My wife betrayed me and gave birth to another man's child. That fact has forced me to… to question everything."
He closed his eyes in pain. "When Selyse became pregnant, everyone—including me—believed the child was mine. Now we know the truth. Appearances and announcements mean nothing. Only the mother knows."
Jon's expression softened. The raw anguish on Stannis's face was impossible to fake. This was a man who had spent his life bottling up every emotion; the dam had finally burst.
Pierce spoke again, calm and persuasive. "Lord Jon, there is more concrete proof than appearance. The bedchamber logs show that during the critical period of conception, Lord Stannis was in King's Landing for most of the small council meetings. Any visits were rare. After conception… even rarer."
He paused. "Similar records are kept in the Red Keep—by Grand Maester Pycelle."
A chill ran down Jon's spine. If Pierce was right… if Cersei Lannister had also… No. He would not let that thought finish.
"Lord Jon," Stannis said, voice breaking, "I did not ask you here to make accusations. I only wanted you to know the truth. Because if it could happen to me… then perhaps…"
He didn't finish, but the meaning was crystal clear.
Jon sank into a chair, suddenly feeling every one of his sixty-eight years. His heart beat heavily in his chest, each thump painful. He was too old for this.
He thought of Robert—the boy he had raised like a son, the warrior who had once been fearless. Now a fat, drunken king.
He thought of Prince Joffrey's cruelty, Prince Tommen's softness, Princess Myrcella's innocence. If none of them carried Baratheon blood…
The realm would tear itself apart. Lannisters would never surrender power. If Stannis pressed his claim… the Stormlands, the Reach, Dorne, the Vale, the North, the Riverlands, the Iron Islands—every house would choose a side.
Civil war. Again.
"Are you all right, my lord?" Pierce asked quietly, offering a cup of water.
Jon took it with a trembling hand and forced himself to drink.
"Stannis," he said at last, "what do you plan to do with Selyse and the child?"
Stannis's face turned to ice. "Childbirth is a woman's battlefield. People die on battlefields. Sometimes mother and child die together."
Jon's blood ran cold. He understood perfectly. The cleanest solution: let Selyse and the infant "die in childbirth." Tragic, but tidy. Everyone's honor preserved.
"Adultery is not a capital crime for noblewomen under the laws of the Seven Kingdoms," Jon reminded him—though he knew such laws were often ignored among the highborn.
"But in my eyes," Pierce said softly, "the honor of House Baratheon cannot be stained. Honor stands above law—especially when the law cannot deliver justice."
Jon looked at the two men: Stannis's raw pain and resolve, Pierce's cold, logical calm. He realized the young man was deeper in this than he had first thought. Pierce was too composed, too prepared. Everything seemed to be unfolding exactly as he had planned.
"Let me think…" Jon murmured. "I need time."
Stannis nodded. "I understand. But this cannot wait long. The Dornish princess has already seen the child. Word could spread at any moment."
At that exact second the baby's cries stopped. All three men turned. Sister Moana had quietly returned and was gently rocking the cradle.
"Forgive me, my lords," she whispered. "The child is hungry. He needs feeding."
Stannis waved her away. Moana lifted the baby, bowed, and left.
Once the door closed, Jon asked the crucial question. "The slave… Kalisto. Is he still alive?"
"I will let the three of them be a family again," Stannis said coldly. "Every mistake must be punished. They knew the consequences when they chose this path."
Stannis was furious—but he had kept just enough reason to see how this disaster could still serve him. Pierce's lessons had clearly taken root.
Jon rose and walked to the window. Outside, Dragonstone's harbor lights twinkled in the darkness. The workshops still smoked. The island that Pierce had brought back to life was now the keeper of its darkest secret.
"You will handle your own household as you see fit," Jon said finally. "I will not speak of this to your brother. The world will hear exactly what you choose to tell it."
Stannis nodded. "Thank you, Lord Jon."
The three men left the Map Room. On the way back to the guest quarters, Jon's thoughts spun like a storm. He thought of Robert, of the fragile kingdom, of his own failing health.
If he died tomorrow, who could hold the realm together? If Robert's children truly were not his, who had the strength and respect to manage the crisis?
His gaze drifted to Pierce Celtigar walking ahead. The young man was brilliant, capable, wealthy… but young. Rootless. And how loyal was he really?
Jon remembered Littlefinger's sly warnings, Varys's veiled hints, and every hard lesson from decades in the game of thrones.
In the end, everyone had their own agenda. Everyone was either a piece… or a player.