"Spare Lord Renly's life."
Edric fell to his knees with a sound like thunder, his young voice thick with desperate pleading.
"He is guilty—aye, Your Grace, Lord Renly's rebellion cannot be denied. The gods above and the laws of men will surely judge his crimes and mete out punishment as they see fit."
The boy's voice trembled with barely contained sorrow.
"But he is your uncle still. Blood of your blood, a true son of House Baratheon."
Joffrey's laughter held no warmth. "Is that so? Now I am a true Baratheon, you say? Lord Renly sang a different song before his banners were raised."
Edric had heard the whispered rumors that plagued the royal children.
"Aye, Your Grace. Lord Renly's transgressions are beyond forgiveness, I know this well."
The boy pressed his forehead to the cold stone. "I beg only that Your Grace might grant the smallest mercy—something that violates no law yet spares you the eternal stain of kinslaying."
Kinslaying. The word hung in the air like a curse itself. In Westeros, no sin was deemed more heinous. Folk believed that kinslayers would be forever scorned by gods and men alike—cursed by the Old Gods and the New until the end of days.
Joffrey cared nothing for such superstitions. One death or two, what difference did it make? Should he tremble before the weight of doubled curses?
Renly indeed need not die, but certainly not from fear of some ancient malediction.
As for this bastard boy... Joffrey had been inclined toward mercy, but it seemed the whelp possessed a restless spirit that would not be easily quieted.
He fixed Edric with a stare cold as winter steel.
"Are you threatening me?"
"He means no such thing, Your Grace!" Ser Cortnay could not help but interject, his voice strained with desperation.
"Then what does he mean?" Joffrey's smile vanished like smoke. "Edric—who do you think you are? A bastard boy, daring to meddle in the affairs of kings?"
The very air seemed to thicken with menace.
Ser Cortnay's next words died in his throat.
Joffrey's tone turned sharp as a dagger's edge. "Do not think that bearing the name 'Storm' grants you any standing! It means nothing! You are naught but a bastard—the shame of Delena Florent, who has a lawful husband and trueborn children of her own!"
The harsh words filled the chamber like poison in a cup.
Edric knelt trembling upon the stones, overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions—sorrow, shame, terror, and anger crashing together until his thoughts scattered like leaves before a gale.
Bastard! Shame!
For years he had tried to ignore the cruel treatment, the strange looks, the whispered comments that followed in his wake. Yet ignoring a wound did not heal it, and pretending ignorance did not make truth disappear.
Edric knew. He had always known.
Born upon Dragonstone, seat of Lord Stannis, he had been regarded as a stain upon that lord's honor—cast off like some unwanted burden to Lord Renly at Storm's End. This he had learned much later, by listening at doors when the servants thought themselves alone.
His earliest memories were of Storm's End alone.
Life there had not been unkind, at least. Though he had known no other existence, he had found reasons to smile, to laugh, to hope.
Lord Renly had always shown him kindness, treating him no differently than he might a trueborn nephew. Though his duties as Master of Laws kept him often at King's Landing, he never returned to Storm's End without gifts for the boy.
Yet still Edric had never dared call him "Uncle." He could not imagine what terrible reaction such presumption might provoke.
He had learned not to expect too much. Things were well enough as they stood.
Ser Cortnay had cared for him like a loving father, and none in the castle dared offer him insult. In time, they had even grown fond of him, treating him with genuine affection.
Each nameday brought rare joy.
His father—King Robert—had sent gifts without fail: a pony one year, a sable cloak another, a small warhammer crafted to his size. Never a year forgotten, never a slight endured.
On those occasions, Edric would pen careful letters to King's Landing, thanking his father for such generosity and expressing his longing to see him again.
In those moments, hope would bloom in his young heart like flowers after rain.
Perhaps one day his father would come to Storm's End in person. Perhaps he would take Edric back to King's Landing, to the Red Keep where princes belonged.
Of course, he dared not hope for too much.
He scarcely dared hope for even that small dream of returning to his father's side.
Everything in Edric's world remained within Storm's End's walls. He had tried to live each day well, using honest smiles and sincere friendship to earn the affection of all who dwelt there.
But now, in the span of half a day, all his efforts had crumbled to dust.
The soldiers who had trained with him, competed with him, lay dead or captive. The familiar cooks and maids watched him with eyes full of fear and dread. The castle was broken, and enemies occupied every hall he had called home.
And he—he had merely followed his heart, pleading for Lord Renly's life, and for this he was...
Edric bit his lip until he tasted copper, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.
Ser Cortnay saw his distress plain as day but could offer no comfort, only continued desperate pleas for the king's forgiveness.
Joffrey paid the old knight no heed, his attention fixed entirely upon breaking the boy before him.
"You were not still dreaming of marching into the Red Keep in grand fashion, were you? Surely not? Tell me you are not so foolish as that. Who filled your head with such delusions?"
Edric raised his head with sudden defiance, saying nothing, his eyes both fierce and fragile as spun glass.
"Ah, I remember now." Joffrey shook his head with mock pity. "It was those gifts, was it not? The so-called presents from your loving father."
Edric could not help but start, confusion clouding his features.
Joffrey smiled, pressing his advantage like a blade finding gaps in armor. "Every gift you received was sent by Varys the Spider, using your father's name as pretense. All of it—every pony, every cloak, every token of affection—was merely part of Varys's web of schemes. Your father never knew of any of it!"
Edric's pupils dilated with shock, his world tilting on its axis as despair and disbelief warred in his heart.
"No... that cannot be..."
The boy's voice cracked as he tried to deny what his heart already knew to be true, but his protest carried no conviction, no strength.
"You wrote many letters, did you not? So many heartfelt thanks to your dear father." Joffrey delivered the killing blow with surgical precision. "Tell me, bastard—did you ever receive so much as a single word in reply? Even once?"
The truth was crueler than any blade.
Though King Robert had acknowledged Edric's bloodline when forced by circumstance, he had never truly cared for the boy—not once, not ever. Robert, lost in his cups and his whores, cared little even for the business of ruling, less still for his queen and trueborn princes. How could he spare thought for a bastard born of a drunken night's folly?
Edric was forced to confront reality at last.
Replies? He had pushed aside his doubts for years, but now they rose like accusers before him: there had never been a single reply. Not one word. Not ever.
His composure shattered like glass.
"No! I am the king's son! My father is Robert Baratheon!"
Edric Storm's voice cracked as he screamed the words—proud and shameful both, like a curse and a prayer combined. He seemed to be denouncing his past suffering and declaring rights that should have been his by birth.
Ser Cortnay felt dread settle in his bones like winter's chill.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the king's gaze swept over him like a blade, and the old knight froze, unable to move or breathe.
Edric was lost in the torrent of his emotions. "I am King Robert's son! My father acknowledged me! I bear his name! I should dwell in the Red Keep, call you brother—not Your Grace! I have younger siblings waiting for me..."
Joffrey listened to the boy's presumptuous words in perfect silence, his face a mask of calm while his eyes danced with cruel amusement.
Speak on, little bastard. Vent your fury. The price will be everything you hold dear.
In Ser Cortnay's desperate gaze, Edric Storm poured out his pain and rage until at last his voice failed him. Remembering suddenly where he knelt and before whom, he collapsed forward, trembling like a leaf in a storm.
Joffrey sighed with theatrical regret. "A bastard, dreaming of dwelling in the Red Keep. Tell me, Edric—what should I do with such presumption?"
The boy could not answer, could not even raise his head.
Joffrey turned to Ser Cortnay, his voice deceptively mild. "You two seem quite fond of each other. Perhaps you might offer some... compensation for his offense?"
The king's eyes held promise of terrible things.
In the end, Ser Cortnay Penrose bowed his head in defeat.