Stannis Baratheon: "…"
After a silence, he said, "I told Jon Arryn my suspicions."
Renly Baratheon frowned. "If you suspected it, Stannis, why not tell Robert yourself?"
Stannis's jaw worked. "Robert trusted his Hand more than his brother. He revered Jon Arryn. And I had no wish for Robert to think I schemed to put myself first in the line of succession."
Renly spread his hands. "Then… alas, dear brother, the old lord is dead, and we've no proof to show. Who will believe you?"
He added, "And if you had proof—so what? It changes nothing. The fact is my army is far larger than yours."
He tipped his chin. "As your own blood, I urge you—consider my counsel carefully, brother."
Stannis ground his teeth. "I did not ride here to be cowed by threats."
Renly shook his head, smiling. "I've made no threats."
Then his tone hardened. "If I were threatening you, I'd say so plainly."
Blue eyes running over his brother's stiff face, Renly said, "Truth is—I never liked you, Stannis. But you are my blood, and I don't want you harmed."
He nodded toward the towering castle. "If you want Storm's End, take it—gift between brothers. Robert gave it to me; I give it to you."
Stannis's fury burned hotter for the seeming generosity. "It is not yours to give. In law, Storm's End is mine already."
Renly sighed, turning slightly to stern-faced Randyll Tarly. "My lord, what am I to do? My brother scorns my kindness… would not even grace my wedding…"
Stannis's voice was scorn itself. "Your wedding was a tawdry farce, and you know it. Do you think I don't know you and your dolts planned to make that girl Robert's next bedwarmer?"
"I once thought to make her Robert's new queen," Renly shrugged. "But what of it? The boar took Robert, and I took Margaery Tyrell."
He grinned, pleased with himself. "The Little Rose came to me a maid. Rejoice for me, brother."
Stannis snorted. "I think she'd choose Robert's fate over your bed, little brother."
Renly's smile hitched for a heartbeat. "Pity. I fancy she'll give me a stout son this year."
His grin widened. "How many sons have you, Stannis? If I recall… none at all."
He sighed again, theatrical. "I even sympathize, truly. Had my lady wife looked like yours, I'd count myself lucky to get a daughter."
Then, as if remembering, "By the way—I hear your daughter isn't even yours. Axell Florent—"
"Enough!" Stannis roared. "I'll not be insulted to my face. Not by anyone. Do you hear me?"
"I will not allow it!"
Steel hissed. Stannis ripped his blade free—its metal shimmered strangely: now red, now yellow, now a searing white.
Shing! Lord Tarly's Valyrian steel—Heartsbane—leapt from its sheath. "Put the sword down, Stannis."
Stannis leveled the gleaming blade at his brother. "I've no wish to stain Lightbringer with a kinsman's blood. For our mother's sake, I offer you one last chance to repent—tonight."
His eyes were chips of ice. "Bend the knee before dawn and I'll confirm you Duke of Storm's End, keep your council seat—and until I have a son, I'll name you my heir. Refuse, and I'll see you judged by the laws of the realm."
Renly blinked—then burst out laughing. "A very pretty sword, brother. I'm jealous. But I wonder whether its glow has spoiled your sight."
He pointed toward Stannis's distant camp. "Do you see those banners? Do you truly think a few wool-wrapped poles make you a king?"
The smile slid from his face. "Every lord of the Stormlands backs me. The Reach lords—including your wife's kin—back me. The whole South rides at my word—and what you see here is but a fraction. My foot is behind—ten thousand men with spear and sword."
Contempt roughened his voice. "You'll judge me 'by law'? With what—your prayers? Or those ragged thousands you brought? I'll warrant that once the lances strike, half your men will run to me."
He narrowed his eyes. "I hear you have not four hundred horse. Do you not know your leather-clad light riders break like kindling before a charge of heavy lances?"
At last Renly's voice went cold. "Be as seasoned and mighty as you please, brother. The facts stand before you. Once my van goes in, your rabble will cease to exist."
"We shall see," Stannis said, eyes like needles. "At dawn, we shall see."
He slid the sword home. "At first light."
Renly shrugged. "May your new god keep you, brother."
Stannis snorted and jerked his reins, wheeling away in a spray of grit.
"Remember your sins, Lord Renly Baratheon," said the red-robed standard-bearer. She lingered a heartbeat, studying Renly with interest, then spurred after Stannis.
"I am a merciful king," Renly said, spreading his hands. He tugged his reins and rode back beside Lord Tarly, chuckling. "That glow-sword is amusing."
"A mummer's trick, Your Grace," Randyll said.
Renly laughed aloud, then murmured so only he could hear, "Had Loras been here, he'd have it off Stannis before the day was out… and lay it at my feet."
Back in camp, Renly called in high spirits, "At the first blush of dawn, I want you in harness—blades ready, in the saddle."
"Tomorrow morning will be one Stannis never forgets."
Night, in Stannis's royal pavilion.
Maps of Storm's End lay spread across the long table. Stannis stared, frown knotted hard.
Melisandre entered, scarlet robes whispering, and came to stand at his side.
"My king," she murmured, bowing, "in the sacred flames I saw the traitor—Renly Baratheon—undone."
Stannis's brow eased; he glanced at her.
Her red eyes seemed lit within. She chanted, "Green tent… candles… a woman's scream… blood…"
His gaze sharpened. After a long pause: "What must I do?"
Her smile turned slow. Soon silk slid to the rug.
Firelight wavered; her skin gleamed pale. Bare feet stepping forward, she stood before him, maps behind her on the table.
Her fingertips traced his breast. "It is simple, my king."
She sat lithely upon the tabletop, facing him.
"I must draw upon the power of Azor Ahai reborn."
She opened herself and breathed, "What are you waiting for, my king?"
Stannis's breath roughened; her white hand slipped to his belt.
—
Seven heartbeats later, a low, lingering sigh.
—
Melisandre stroked his gaunt cheek. "My king, I will need a guide who can handle a boat."
A wave of dizziness washed Stannis; cold sweat beaded his brow. Eyes shut, he nodded.
She bent, gathered up the red silk, and withdrew.
—
Not long after, Davos Seaworth hurried in.
His heart lurched—in the space of a supper, his "king" looked years older. Sitting with eyes closed, Stannis might have been a corpse.
Davos's face was all concern. He bowed carefully. "Your Grace, you sent for me."
After a quiet moment, Stannis opened his eyes—sharp again as drawn steel, and Davos breathed easier.
"Today," Stannis said without inflection, "Renly offered me a peach. He mocked me, baited me, threatened me—and then offered a peach. I nearly drew, thinking he would. Is that what he wanted—that I show fear? A jest? Or something… else?"
His teeth clicked. "Renly! Only Renly could vex me to the grave with a piece of fruit. I shall never forget that peach."
His blade-bright look cut to Davos. "I love my brother. He is a traitor. He must be destroyed."
A chill crawled up Davos's neck. "Your Grace, you mean… I don't quite—"
Assassination? The thought came unwanted. His hand rose to the pouch at his throat—bone fingertips within, his luck charm.
"You still wear them?" Stannis asked, voice like ice. "You still cling to them?"
"No, Your Grace," Davos said quickly.
"Then why keep them?" Stannis pressed. "I have always wondered."
"They remind me," Davos said, hand to heart. "What I am. Where I came from. And—your justice."
Stannis nodded once. "You are hero and smuggler both. Good does not wash out ill; ill does not blot out good. Deeds meet their due. Thus is law."
"And Renly's deed is usurpation—unforgivable. For justice, he must be destroyed."
Davos groped for words, but Stannis spoke on, as if reading him.
"You need not understand, Davos. You need only obey."
Davos wetted his lips, then bowed. "Your Grace, I am your faithful servant. Command me."
"A thing you know well," Stannis said. "Take a small boat and put Melisandre wherever she wishes to go. No one must know. No one. Can you do that?"
—
Black water under a black sky. Davos stood to the oars of a small black-sailed boat across Shipbreaker Bay. His passenger curled upon the thwart, hooded and cloaked dark red from head to heel.
Water knocked the hull, the old familiar sound. Davos's eyes trembled on the dark.
Sixteen years ago he had brought onions—brought life.
Sixteen years later he brought the red woman out of Asshai.
It felt as though he was bringing death.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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