Dragonstone was a lonely fortress adrift in the sea — a desolate bastion of black stone surrounded by storms, mist, and the endless roar of waves. Its jagged shores were nothing but damp, cold wasteland, shrouded year-round in wind and salt. Behind it loomed the smoking mountain, its volcanic fumes spreading a grim shadow over the island. It was a place where light itself seemed reluctant to stay.
The castle walls were adorned with thousands of grotesque stone beasts — gargoyles, hellhounds, and long-winged dragons — carved in the ancient Valyrian style. They stared down from the battlements like silent sentinels, frozen in mockery and menace. When Stannis Baratheon had first arrived here, he had hated the sight of them, and even after all these years, his resentment had not lessened.
Inside the Stone Drum Tower, in the Round Table Room, Stannis sat brooding beside the great painted table of Westeros. Only one man shared his company — Ser Davos Seaworth, his most loyal confidant.
The Round Table was a marvel of craftsmanship, carved at the command of Aegon the Conqueror himself. It stretched fifty feet long, twenty-five at its widest, narrowing to four at the ends. It was no ordinary table — its surface was raised and ridged, shaped like the Seven Kingdoms as they had been in Aegon's day, every mountain and river, every fortress and city carefully marked and lacquered. Three centuries of polish had made it gleam like dark water.
Near the spot that marked Dragonstone stood a solitary chair — Stannis's chair. From there, he could look upon the entire realm of Westeros laid out before him, as if daring the world to deny him his place within it.
"Is there a letter from King's Landing, Davos?" Stannis asked, his voice flat as iron.
Ser Davos shook his head. "No, my lord. Nothing yet."
"I knew as much." Stannis's mouth tightened. "I have served my brother faithfully for fifteen years — governed the realm alongside Jon Arryn so Robert could drown himself in wine and whores. By rights, the old man should have retired to the Vale long ago, yet he clung to his post till death. And now, with Jon dead, Robert still refuses to look to me."
His tone was calm, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. "My brother trusts no one but fools and flatterers. And now, I wager he will name Eddard Stark his Hand. His brother in blood is not me — it's Ned Stark."
"My lord," said Davos quietly, "this is no time for anger. King's Landing is no safe haven. The city reeks of lions now — the Lannisters hold all in their claws."
"Yes," Stannis agreed, "but is Dragonstone any better? This cursed rock was no gift — it was punishment! I never wanted this fortress. I took it only because Robert's enemies held it, and I did my duty, as always. And how did he repay me? He made me Lord of Dragonstone — a barren island without men or coin — while handing Storm's End and its rich lands to Renly!"
Bitterness darkened his face. That old injustice was a wound that never healed.
"Without dragons, Dragonstone is nothing," he muttered. "It is a shell — an empty relic of Valyria's pride. My bannermen are few, my vassals weak. The outer islands are rocks with fishermen's huts. I have no men, no taxes, no means to defend myself!"
Davos sighed inwardly. Stannis's strength was his unyielding resolve — but that same steel made him hard to love. He inspired respect, never affection. Few lords would rally to his cause willingly. The Stormlands bent their knees to Renly, while others cast wary eyes eastward — toward a certain bastard rising across the Narrow Sea.
"My lord," Davos said at last, "our true enemies are the Lannisters. If your brothers could only stand together, you would be unstoppable."
"I will not beg," Stannis replied coldly. "If Robert and Renly wish for peace, let them come to me as younger brothers should — in obedience."
"Renly will never yield," said Davos. "And if war comes, we will need strength from across the sea — mercenaries, sailors, ships. But most of those men now serve Gendry's forces. Many fled to Tyrosh or bent the knee to the Free Army."
Stannis's lip curled. "Gendry — that bastard. My brother's get! He has not yet usurped the throne, but the thought festers in him, I am sure. He plays at kingship in the east, clinging to that silver-haired girl like a fool chasing prophecy. All he desires is a crown. My dealings with him only fractured the realm further."
"Even so," said Davos, "Commander Gendry is busy holding Myr and the Free Army's territories. He's building something — perhaps even peace. There may still be time to negotiate."
"Peace?" Stannis's eyes flashed. "Peace with a bastard? He's as ambitious as a Blackfyre. I trust him no more than the Lannisters. But you — you still have contacts in Lys and Myr. Use them. Hire men, ships, whatever you can. Setiga, Valerian, Balamon — useless as they are — are all I have left from Robert's wars."
Davos bowed his head. "As you command, my lord. Though I am old, I have not forgotten how to steer a black ship through storms. I'll see what I can find."
To Davos, mercenaries were at least predictable — their loyalty could be bought. The lords of the Stormlands, though, were another matter. They despised Stannis not because he was unjust, but because he was unbending.
The heavy door creaked open then, and Maester Cressen entered, his back bent with age, his steps slow upon the cold stone. The old man leaned on his staff, his breath wheezing faintly.
"I knew you'd come," said Stannis without turning. "You never wait to be summoned."
"If I did, you'd wake me regardless," Cressen said with a weary smile.
"You were younger then," Stannis replied dryly. "Now you're old and weak and need your rest."
Stannis never learned the art of kindness. Every word he spoke was sharp-edged truth, cutting without malice — but cutting all the same.
"As Lord of Dragonstone," said the maester, "you owe your king obedience. Returning here unbidden may be seen as defiance. Have you written to explain yourself?"
"Explain?" Stannis barked a humorless laugh. "Did Robert ever explain when he cast me on this rock? When he named Renly lord of Storm's End? He has explanations for everyone but me."
"Robert wronged you," Cressen admitted softly, "but he did so for reasons he deemed sound. Dragonstone has ever been the seat of House Targaryen — he needed a strong hand to rule it, and Renly was but a boy."
"He's still a boy!" Stannis snapped. "A vain, arrogant child who disrespects his elder brother. I've done every duty asked of me, but what have I received in return?"
Cressen said nothing. His heart ached for the man before him — this proud, wounded soul who had known duty all his life but never warmth. Since the storm had claimed their father, Cressen had raised the Baratheon brothers as if they were his own sons: Robert the storm, Stannis the stone, Renly the spring breeze. Yet time had driven them apart, and Cressen's heart was heavy with guilt.
"Come, old friend," said Davos gently. "Let the lord have his peace."
They descended the tower together. Behind them, Stannis stood alone at the table of painted lands, his shadow falling long across the wooden hills and rivers — stretching all the way to the Blackwater and King's Landing beyond.
"Stannis, my son," thought the old maester, glancing back once, "you are not an orphan. You are loved, even if you cannot see it."
At the foot of the stairs, they came upon a small girl and her fool in the courtyard. The girl was shy and thin, her face half-hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. Her name was Shireen.
Behind her, lurching and jingling with every uneven step, came her fool — the Patchface. His garb was a mad medley of colors, patched with bells and bits of metal. Upon his head sat an old tin bucket with antlers tied to it, each hung with cowbells that clanged and chimed as he moved.
"Ah, my lady Shireen," said Cressen kindly, "how fares the day?"
The girl gave a small, uncertain smile. "Have you seen my father, Maester?"
"Yes," Cressen replied. "The lord is busy with matters of the realm."
She nodded, lowering her gaze. The right side of her face was pale and smooth as marble, the skin hard and cracked — the legacy of the greyscale that had nearly claimed her life as a babe. The sight of her always broke the maester's heart. So much sorrow had befallen this family. Stannis's second tragedy stood right here — this gentle child marked by stone.
Then Patchface began to dance, his bells ringing madly. "Under the sea, the mermaids sing!" he chanted. "Silver seaweed in their hair, silver seaweed everywhere! I know, I know, oh, oh, oh!"
His voice echoed strangely against the cold walls. Shireen giggled softly — the first hint of joy the courtyard had seen all day.
But to Maester Cressen, the fool's song sounded like an omen. On this lonely isle of stone and storm, shadows were gathering once more.
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