Dragonstone stood as a lonely fortress in the sea, a damp and windswept wasteland lashed year-round by storm and salt. Behind it loomed the smoky shadow of a volcano, casting the island in a constant gloom.
The castle's high walls were crowded with ancient Valyrian gargoyles—hellhounds, wyverns, and winged beasts of stone. There were thousands of them.
When Stannis first arrived, the forest of snarling stone faces unsettled him. Time had passed, but the feeling had never truly faded.
He now sat in the Round Table Hall atop the Stone Drum. Only his most trusted man, Ser Davos, stood with him.
The hall was famed for the great map table carved at the Conqueror's command. It stretched fifty feet in length, twenty-five feet at its widest, narrowing to less than four feet at the slimmest point.
There was not a straight line anywhere upon it. The surface depicted the Seven Kingdoms as they had been in Aegon's day—every river and mountain, every castle, city, lake, and forest. Nearly three centuries of varnish had given it a deep, enduring sheen.
Near Dragonstone's place on the map rose a carved seat, positioned so that the entire table lay open before it. Stannis sat there.
"Any word from King's Landing, Davos?" he asked.
Stannis wore a close-fitting leather doublet and coarse brown woolen breeches. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, his face was tight and stern, his skin weathered and hardened by years beneath the sun. Though not yet thirty-five, only a narrow ring of black hair remained around his head, like the shadow of a crown behind his ears. His beard was clipped short and even, a dark blue shadow over his square jaw and hollow cheeks.
"None," Davos replied, shaking his head.
"I expected as much. I served my brother Robert for fifteen years. I helped Jon govern the realm so Robert could feast, drink, and whore. By rights, old Jon should have retired to the Vale long ago, yet he clung to his post."
"My brother distrusts everyone—that much I understand. But now that Jon is dead, it never even occurred to him to name me Hand."
Stannis spoke without emotion, as always.
"I've given it thought. He'll grant that honor to Eddard Stark. His true brother is not me, but Ned Stark."
"Great Lord, this is no time for resentment," Ser Davos said gently. "And King's Landing is hardly a blessing. Jon Arryn is dead, and the place reeks of lions."
"Yes," Stannis said. "King's Landing is no prize. But is Dragonstone any better? Truth be told, I never wanted this island. It's a cursed rock. I took it because Robert's enemy held it. I defeated him and did my duty as a brother."
"And how was I rewarded? He named me lord of Dragonstone, yet gave Storm's End—its lands and its revenues—to Renly."
The old grievance still cut deep. Stannis had never truly recovered from it.
Dragonstone's former glory had rested on dragons. Without them, it was barren and weak. Stannis commanded only a handful of minor lords. The outer islands were rocky and sparsely populated, yielding neither men nor wealth in any great number.
"Enough," he muttered. "The truth is simple. I have no soldiers. No revenues. I cannot even ensure my own safety."
Davos sighed inwardly. Stannis possessed resolve in abundance, but little warmth or charm. Few men liked him. The lords of Storm's End had bent the knee to Renly. Some of the bolder ones were already casting their eyes toward the bastard across the Narrow Sea.
"My lord, our true enemy is the Lannisters. There's no question of that. If only you could stand shoulder to shoulder with your own brothers and kin."
"I will never compromise," Stannis replied flatly, "unless they first acknowledge my rightful place in the line of succession and fulfill their duties as younger brothers."
"Renly is beyond reach now. In the future we'll have to recruit sellswords and sailors from across the Narrow Sea. But many of those sellswords depend on Gendry's influence. Some have fled to Tyrosh to make their living, others have joined the Free Company outright."
"He's nothing but a green boy. My brother's bastard," Stannis said coldly. "He hasn't crowned himself yet, but it won't be long. He treats that dragonspawn girl like a treasure. He wants the crown. If I make peace with him, the realm will splinter all the more."
"Even so, Lord Commander Gendry is busy consolidating Myr and preparing for war with the slave cities. At this stage, we may still have time to negotiate."
"Negotiate?" Stannis let out a short, humorless breath. "That whelp is as ambitious as a Blackfyre. I must rely on you. You have contacts in Lys and Myr."
He fixed Davos with a hard look.
"Celtigar, Velaryon, Bar Emmon… none of them are men of consequence. Yet they are all my brother left me."
"I will do everything in my power," said the Onion Knight. "I may be older now, but I've not forgotten how to command the black ships."
Compared to the lords of Storm's End, Davos trusted paid swords more. The bannermen would not fight to uphold Stannis's claim. They did not love him.
At that moment, the old Maester of Dragonstone, Cressen, entered the Round Table Hall. Age had made the climb up the stairs a trial.
"Old man," Stannis said without looking up, "I knew you would come, whether I sent for you or not."
"In years past, you would have roused me," the old maester replied.
"In years past, you were young. Now you are old and sick. You need your sleep."
Stannis had never mastered flattery. He spoke plainly, without regard for how it sounded.
"As Master of Ships, returning to Dragonstone without leave is hardly proper," Cressen said gently. "Nor have you offered His Grace an explanation."
"Explanation?" Stannis's voice hardened. "Did Robert explain when he granted me Dragonstone? Did he explain when he scoured the realm for a Hand? By rights, when he became king, Storm's End should have been mine."
"Robert did treat you unfairly," Maester Cressen said carefully, "but at the time he had his reasons. Dragonstone had always been the stronghold of House Targaryen. He needed a strong man to hold it. Renly was only a child."
"He is still a child," Stannis snapped. "A vain, arrogant child who shows no respect for his elder brother. I fulfilled my duty to Robert. What of Renly?"
Cressen was very old now, and Stannis no longer cared to hear his counsel.
Yet to the maester, ever since the storm had taken Lord Steffon's life, Robert, Stannis, and Renly had been like his own sons. He had watched them grow.
"Come," Davos said softly. "Let the Lord have his quiet."
Stannis remained alone before the map table. His shadow fell across the Blackwater and King's Landing.
Stannis, my child, you are not alone, Cressen thought. There are still those who love you. Somehow, he must prevent the brothers from coming to blows.
Davos and the old maester descended the steps. In the yard below, they encountered Shireen and her fool, Patchface.
Little Shireen was shy as ever. Behind her skipped Patchface, moving in his strange, lopsided way. He wore a toy helmet fashioned from an old tin bucket, with two antlers tied to the top and cowbells hanging from them. As he shuffled along, the bells rang in uneven bursts—clang, clatter, jingle, chime.
The sight of the girl deepened the old maester's sorrow. This was Stannis's second tragedy. Poor, joyless boy.
As a child, Shireen had nearly died of greyscale. She survived, but the disease had left its mark. Half her cheek and down along her neck, the skin was stiff and dead, cracked and flaking, mottled with black and grey patches, hard as stone to the touch.
"Have you seen my father, Maester?" Shireen asked timidly.
"Yes," the old man replied. "The Great Lord is occupied."
Just then Patchface suddenly cried out, shaking his bells.
"Under the sea, it's always summer!" he sang. "Mermaids braid their hair with weeds, silver weeds to make their gowns. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh!"