Stormlands, Bronzegate.
The atmosphere in the great hall of House Buckler's main castle was heavy. Stannis sat upon the seat of honor, his face dark and grim. Below him sat the remaining lords of the Stormlands, their faces a mix of anxiety and unease.
Three days prior, they had received a letter of appeal from Storm's End and another proclamation from one who called himself Aegon Targaryen the Sixth. These two documents instantly sent shockwaves rippling through the ranks.
"The eldest son of Prince Rhaegar? Aegon? Wasn't he crushed to death by the Mountain when King's Landing fell?"
Lord Sebastion Errol of Haystack Hall voiced the first doubt.
"We just burned a man claiming to be the true dragon, Viserys. Now another one appears? How come the bastards of the Targaryen house grow like weeds that can't be burned out?"
Lady Mary Mertyns, of Mistwood, remained relatively composed.
"The letter claims that Varys the Spider swapped the infants, but Varys is dead now. With no one left to testify, who can prove this Aegon's legitimacy?"
Lord Wylde of Rain House frowned.
"Jon Connington, who once served as Hand of the King to Aerys II, vouches for his identity..."
What he didn't mention was that the moment Jon Connington appeared, the knights of Griff Castle within Stannis's army were imprisoned. They all feared that House Connington of Griff might collude with Jon Connington, working together from within and without.
"True or false, my lords, the era of the Targaryen has passed. The rightful king upon the Iron Throne is Your Grace Stannis. We lords of the Stormlands swear allegiance to House Baratheon!"
The newly appointed Lord of Bronzegate, Brus Buckler, hastily interrupted Lord Wylde.
With nearly all male members of House Buckler slain in King's Landing, he had unexpectedly been appointed Lord of Bronzegate by Stannis, making his devotion to the king beyond words. His statement drew agreement from several lords.
Yet all eyes involuntarily turned toward the small creature beside Stannis, tethered by a slender silver chain to a specially crafted iron frame. It was a young dragon, barely a foot long. Its entire body was covered in silver-gray scales that shimmered with a metallic sheen.
At that moment, it was clumsily breathing tiny Dragonfire at a piece of raw meat fixed to the iron frame. The flames were pitifully weak, only managing to char the surface of the meat slightly, releasing a faint burnt smell. It required several repeated bursts of flame to barely cook a tiny portion, which it then eagerly tore at with its still-developing teeth.
This was the dragon hatched by Your Grace Stannis, named "Orys" in honor of the founder of House Baratheon. Despite its small size and fragility, the mere fact that it was a dragon was enough to stir the hearts of the Stormlands nobles present. Most of them had never witnessed Lo Quen's golden dragon, which had obscured the sky. This silver-gray young dragon before them was their first close encounter with a legendary creature. It represented power, hope, and... House Targaryen.
Orys Baratheon, founder of House Baratheon, was said to be the bastard half-brother of Aegon the Conqueror. Moreover, with Stannis's grandmother being Rhaelle Targaryen, daughter of Aegon V, it was no surprise he carried Dragonblood.
Stannis's gaze swept over the young dragon too, a barely perceptible shadow flickering in his deep-set blue eyes. Orys had never been close to this "father," even showing some aversion. No matter how he tried, he could never forge the legendary bond between a Targaryen and a dragon. It felt more like a beast forced into captivity than a companion. And it was too small—far too small to participate in the coming war.
He lifted his eyes to Melisandre, the red priestess standing silently nearby.
"That man who calls himself Aegon commands over fifty thousand Dothraki savages and ten thousand of the infamous Golden Company mercenaries. We need the power of the Lord of Light, Orys... but it cannot yet fight."
Melisandre responded calmly:
"Your Grace, the royal blood within you is the most fiery flame, a sign of the Lord of Light's favor. Mortal armies may be formidable, but the power of the true Lord pierces the hardest armor. We embraced His power at the Battle of Ashford, and now we can once more call upon the true Lord to clear the path before us through His servants."
"Ashford..."
The word sent a chill through many lords in the hall. They recalled the unthinkable scene at Ashford.
Especially Ser Davos Seaworth, whose brow furrowed tightly. He watched Stannis, noticing that Your Grace's complexion seemed paler and more haggard when Melisandre mentioned "embracing the power," with even more gray streaks in his temples than he'd ever noticed before.
Davos's heart sank. He recalled the awkward moment he'd stumbled upon the two of them doing that thing. He instantly realized this power came at a price. Perhaps that price would shatter Stannis's already frail frame.
More crucially, Stannis had few heirs—only Princess Shireen. Davos gritted his teeth, silently resolving that the king must not be allowed to fall any further.
…
That night, as Stannis prepared once more to go to Melisandre's chambers, Davos threw himself in his path, heedless of the consequences.
"Your Grace!"
Davos's voice was urgent.
"You cannot go again. You should be in the Queen's chambers. You cannot continue these dangerous acts. They will break your body. The kingdom needs a strong king to lead it, especially now..."
Stannis's face darkened instantly.
"Davos, stand aside. This is the necessity of war. This is my duty!"
"The demands of war?"
Davos steeled himself, his voice low yet every word clear.
"Your Grace, if you win by such means, what will the nobles think? What will the warriors think? They will fear. They will believe your throne was won through dark deeds, not law and glory. The cost outweighs the gain, Your Grace!"
Stannis's face twisted in anguish. Davos's words struck at the deepest conflict within him. Did he not know this? But what choice did he have? Facing the remnants of the Targaryen line, commanding tens of thousands of troops... Conventional force seemed to offer no hope of victory.
Stannis wrestled with himself for a moment. Finally, he swung his hand out, shoving Davos roughly aside. Yet he did not head toward Melisandre's chambers, nor did he make for Queen Selyse's quarters. Instead, he turned and began pacing toward the far corner of the castle. His mood thoroughly spoiled by Davos, he needed solitude—time to consider his next move.
Davos watched the king's retreating figure and exhaled a long breath of relief, though his own worries remained undiminished.
…
Meanwhile, deep within the damp, chilly dungeons of Bronzegate, Ser Raymund Connington of House Connington, imprisoned knight of the Griffin's Roost, discreetly slipped a tightly rolled parchment scroll into the hand of an ordinary-looking guard. The soldier glanced nervously around before swiftly tucking the scroll into his sleeve.
Late that night, during a patrol break, the soldier slipped away to a remote corner of an abandoned tower within the castle. Another man, dressed in Stormlands garb but with a distinctly different bearing, was already waiting there.
The two exchanged a quick glance. The soldier handed over the scroll from his sleeve. The man took it and vanished swiftly into the shadows. He was a spy planted in advance by the Golden Company.
The scroll detailed the current troop deployments at Bronzegate, the divided loyalties among the nobles, and two crucial pieces of intelligence. Stannis had hatched a young dragon, but it was far too weak to be of any use in war. And the red priestess at Stannis's side possessed a shadow magic that allowed her to approach and kill her targets without a sound.