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Monford Velaryon had, in the end, left the Great Sept of Baelor where Renly Baratheon resided, and returned to the Red Keep, which was now firmly under Stannis's control.
He still wasn't sure if everything Renly had told him was true. But if it was… then Monford could only say one thing.
The Tyrells truly had no fear. Their audacity knew no bounds!
And now, at last, he understood why Renly had become the man he was.
A king who once commanded an army a hundred thousand strong… yet still had to suffer humiliation at the hands of his own vassals: What kind of man could ever bear to let that be known?
Monford led his retinue back into the throne room.
Stannis Baratheon was still seated upon the Iron Throne. Ever since his arrival in King's Landing, apart from only the most necessary departures, he had spent nearly all his waking hours in that seat. Unmoving. Unspeaking. As if he had been welded to the cold iron.
The throne had become his obsession. Every action he took now, every order he gave, was simply a means to secure one thing: that he could go on sitting there, undisturbed, in the days to come.
Of course… that was only a delusion.
"You've returned, Monford."
It was already nightfall.
Hundreds of tall candles flickered along the high walls, and ten iron braziers blazed with fire, yet even all that light could not hold back the deepening shadows that filled the throne room by the second.
Monford noticed that Stannis was still wearing the same cloak as before, the one stained with his own blood. The gash on his palm had been bound, but the robe remained unchanged, as though he refused to part with the proof of his injury.
Across the Seven Kingdoms, there had always been a saying: if a new king sat upon the Iron Throne and was cut by its blades, it meant the throne had rejected him.
From the founding of House Targaryen's dynasty until this very day, for three long centuries, that unspoken rule had never been written in any book or scroll. Even so, it had become a truth all men believed, a law ironclad and unquestioned.
Absurd, yes. But also, in some strange way… undeniable.
Naturally, the lords who served Stannis all knew this. Stannis himself knew it. But no one spoke of it. Not a word was said. In fact, the nobles were careful not to let their eyes linger too long on their king's injured hand. Not even for half a second.
Because none of them knew what a grieving king, one who had just lost his only heir, might do if he caught them staring.
"I have returned, Your Grace."
Monford Velaryon bowed before the man who now wore the crown, though he kept his words brief and said nothing more.
He truly didn't know how to explain what he had seen… or what he had heard.
But Stannis Baratheon did not give him the chance to remain silent. Without hesitation, he cast a sharp glance toward the nobles standing nearby, then gave a quiet, heavy command in the voice of a king:
"Everyone except Lord Velaryon, leave. No one is to approach the throne room tonight unless I summon them myself."
The nobles exchanged glances with one another. In their eyes, it was easy to see what they were thinking.
Whatever news Lord Velaryon had brought back with him… it couldn't be good.
But even now, Stannis's presence held weight. His authority, though colder than ever, was still unquestioned and no one dared defy him.
So, after offering a unified response of obedience, each lord gave a bow and quietly turned away. One by one, they stepped out of the dim, flickering hall, their faces unreadable, their thoughts carefully hidden.
Then, with a low and grinding roar, the great doors groaned shut behind them, slammed closed by the guards stationed outside. The sound echoed like thunder through the empty chamber—boom—a heavy, final sound that seemed to seal off the rest of the world.
Monford, now alone in that vast hall beneath the unblinking gaze of the Iron Throne, felt a chill run faintly down his back. Stannis's cold, piercing eyes were locked on him without wavering.
But he reminded himself firmly that this matter had nothing to do with him. At worst, he was just the unfortunate man tasked with carrying the message. Nothing more.
So, swallowing whatever discomfort he felt, he forced himself to lift his head and meet the king's gaze. He didn't flinch. Instead, he looked straight up at the man who sat so high above him, silent and still, and waited.
Stannis spoke again, his voice low and heavy with meaning.
"Monford. Now that it's just the two of us, I want you to answer me with nothing but the truth. Speak plainly. Speak from the heart."
"Yes, Your Grace. As you wish."
Monford Velaryon had never intended to lie… not even for a moment. He had no reason to. There was nothing to hide.
He believed, truly, that Princess Shireen was not in Renly's hands.
Stannis drew in a deep breath, and though his voice remained steady, Monford could hear the effort behind it. The strain he was trying so hard to keep buried beneath the surface.
"Then tell me… did you find her? My daughter?"
The Lord of Driftmark had expected this question. He knew it would come, and he knew it would come first. Over these past few days, he had come to understand one thing very clearly.
Stannis Baratheon was like a stone—solid, unyielding, impossible to read.
But that stone, hard and unbending as it seemed, had only a single, narrow crack.
And that crack was… Princess Shireen. His one and only daughter. His heir.
And that one small flaw… was the only thing that could ever shatter the man completely.
Monford drew a breath, then spoke, his voice solemn and sincere.
"Your Grace… I'm afraid I must disappoint you. I did not find your daughter in Renly's camp. To be more precise, there was no trace of Princess Shireen in Renly's camp at all."
Monford Velaryon chose to speak plainly in the end. After all, if he dared to lie, he would have to take full responsibility for the consequences, and he had no way of conjuring a Shireen Baratheon out of thin air.
The moment Stannis heard those words, his hand gave a sudden, sharp tremble. For an instant, he nearly cut himself again on one of the Iron Throne's cruel, jagged blades.
"I met with your brother, the false king Renly," Monford went on, steadying his voice. "According to him, he had no knowledge of any of this beforehand. He said it was all plotted in secret by House Tyrell… behind his back."
"Tyrell?" Stannis muttered, and there was unmistakable disdain in his tone. "Those cowardly roses? You expect me to believe they're capable of something like this?"
He had never once held any respect for the Tyrells.
Back during the war when House Baratheon had risen to claim all of Westeros, the Tyrells had marched with a great army, laying siege to Storm's End where Stannis held fast. But despite their numbers and strength, they had never managed to take the castle.
That long delay had a ripple effect. By the time the Targaryen royal forces crumbled, King's Landing had no army left to protect it. The city was wide open, ripe for the taking.
And that, ultimately, had allowed the old regime to fall and a new king to rise to the throne.
Some claimed, even back then, that the Tyrells had never truly committed to that siege. That they were simply going through the motions.
But Stannis would hear none of it. In his eyes, it had been his defense alone that held Storm's End… and nothing else.
So he had always looked down on them. These flowers from Highgarden, men who lacked loyalty, who flinched the moment they set foot on a battlefield. Soldiers who feared blood more than death.
And so, the moment Monford Velaryon told him that the entire scheme had been orchestrated by the Tyrells, Stannis's first instinct was simple.
He didn't believe a word of it.
"Your Grace," Monford said carefully, "I'm only repeating what Renly told me. He claimed that Margaery Tyrell… took his royal token, and then used it to trick the Lord of Tarth, who had no idea what was really going on."
"The lord believed the order came directly from Renly. So he sailed with his fleet… and attacked Dragonstone."
"Renly said the Tyrells orchestrated all of this for one reason; to make sure that the conflict between you and him could never be resolved. So long as you and Renly remained locked in a fight to the death, House Tyrell would never need to worry about Renly suddenly turning on them halfway through."
Once Monford had said all he needed to say, he fell silent.
He didn't want anything to do with any of this, not one bit. But unfortunately, Stannis had chosen him to be the messenger, and now, he had no choice but to see it through.
Stannis leaned back slightly, his body resting against the cold, unforgiving steel of the Iron Throne. Slowly, he closed his eyes, letting the silence settle around him as he carefully weighed Monford's words.
He was not the kind of man who allowed his emotions to rule him… not easily. Even Even now, with his heart consumed by the need to save his daughter, he knew one thing with absolute certainty. He could not let his feelings cloud his judgment. Not now.
Before anything else, he had to figure out who was telling the truth.
Because only the truth could lead him, however indirectly, to the girl he was trying so desperately to find.
Even if the answer was one he wasn't ready to admit, deep down, he knew it was possible.
And if he thought about it calmly, rationally, he had to admit… what Renly had told Monford did make some sense.
If he had been in Renly's place, he would never have laid a hand on Shireen either.
If Renly had won the war, if he had truly become king, what good would it do him to bear the stain of kin-slaying? Killing his own niece, what purpose would that serve? It would only tarnish his name, giving him nothing in return, and make it harder for anyone to ever accept him on the Iron Throne.
And if Renly had lost… well, then Stannis himself would be the one sitting on the throne. And what kind of fool would knowingly provoke a victorious king, an elder brother, by murdering his child?
Either way, it made no sense. So, as much as Stannis burned with fury, he still couldn't understand why Renly would have done such a thing.
This wasn't like the old days, when they were boys. When their eldest brother, Robert, would hold Renly down while Stannis dealt out the punishment. Those years were gone.
They weren't children anymore. They were kings. And now, the only way they knew how to speak to one another… was with steel.
He didn't know what kind of discord or chaos stirred within Renly's army, but the words Monford had brought back tonight had shed a sliver of light.
"Monford," Stannis said slowly, opening his eyes. His voice was low, calm, but there was a flicker of renewed focus in it. "If that's the case, then my daughter should be in the hands of House Tarth. Renly never saw Shireen at all, did he? Not once?"
"That's correct, Your Grace."
"Then… did you meet with Ser Selwyn Tarth?"
"I did."
Monford gave a firm nod.
Yes, he had indeed met with the Lord of Tarth. The very same man Renly had quietly brought into King's Landing without the Tyrells ever knowing. That meeting had been arranged in secret and carried out entirely beyond their notice.
Renly might have been forced to clean up the Tyrells' mess, but that didn't mean he was willing to take the blame for something he didn't do. And certainly not without first uncovering the full truth.
Outwardly, it appeared as if the Tarth family had been stripped of their lands by royal decree, punished under the banner of justice by their king. But in reality, Renly had dispatched his most trusted men to quietly bring Selwyn Tarth to safety.
And the moment the lord arrived… everything that had been murky suddenly became clear.
But by then, the damage had already been done. There was no turning back. Renly couldn't undo what had happened, not even if he wanted to. All he could do now was watch his back, keep the Tyrells at arm's length, and make absolutely sure they never had the chance to pull something like this again.
Monford Velaryon had met with the Lord of Tarth… who, at least in name, had already been stripped of his noble title. It was during that secret meeting that the truth finally came to light. The lord laid everything out for him, in detail, from start to finish. Only then did Monford feel confident enough to return and report to the king.
"And my daughter?" Stannis asked, his voice cutting through the silence like a cold wind. "What did Selwyn Tarth say about her?"
At the question, Monford instinctively drew back, shoulders tightening, as though preparing for a blow.
He was the only one who knew. He had spoken to Selwyn Tarth alone, with no witnesses and no guards. The story he carried was so outrageous, so unbelievable, that even he had kept his lips tightly sealed throughout the entire journey back. Not a word had slipped… not to anyone.
Since stepping foot in the throne room, he had been signaling to Stannis again and again, pleading with his eyes for a private audience. Hoping the king would ask this very question, so he could finally speak and be free of it.
And now the moment had come.
"Your Grace… the Lord of Tarth said that… in his fury over Renly's judgment, he… he gave Princess Shireen away…"
"…"
Stannis froze.
For a few long seconds, he simply stared at Monford Velaryon, his expression unreadable, his face pale under the flickering candlelight.
Gave her away?
What did that even mean? How could someone be given away like that?
There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, his voice quieter now, but laced with something heavy and fraying at the edges… something like exhaustion.
"Say that again."
Monford swallowed hard.
"Your Grace… that's exactly what the lord said. He truly did… give Princess Shireen away."
What followed was not silence, but a roar.
Stannis erupted, his voice crashing through the throne room with a force Monford had never heard before. In all the years he had followed this man, he had never seen him like this.
"WHO DID HE GIVE MY DAUGHTER TO?!"
The words echoed through the vast, empty hall, bouncing off stone and steel in strange, haunting waves. The Iron Throne itself seemed to shudder beneath the force of it.
Monford dared to glance up, and in that moment, he saw a look in the king's eyes he would never forget. Wild. Burning. Barely restrained. Like a beast that had been chained for far too long.
He clenched his jaw, steeled himself, and finally forced the name out of his mouth.
"Daenerys Targaryen!"
The words fell like a stone into water, and the ripples vanished just as quickly.
The throne room fell silent… completely. You could have heard a pin drop on the cold stone floor.
Stannis Baratheon stood frozen, his arm outstretched, finger still pointing at Monford, yet unmoving, as if the gesture had turned to stone.
Then, slowly, he lowered his hand. The storm inside him, for the moment, began to ebb.
And the king, his thoughts in turmoil and his heart weary and overwhelmed, sank quietly into the Iron Throne.
He leaned back against its cold, jagged frame, closed his eyes, and gently pressed his fingers to his brow.
His mind drifted inward, into a deep and silent place of thought, as the hall around him held its breath.
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[Chapter End's]
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