The Guardian
Stannis, my lord, my sad sullen boy, son I never had, you must not do this, don't you know how I have cared for you, lived for you, loved you despite all? Yes, loved you, better than Robert even, or Renly, for you were the one unloved, the one who needed me most. (A Clash of Kings)
You see your face. It's no one you remember. You wonder where you put your love, what you found, what you were after. You want to say: "I slew the dragon, I left the world a safer place." You can't really, not these days. Perhaps you never could. (The Secret Pilgrim)
Stannis Baratheon and Maester Cressen, five snapshots.
(i)
His lord's face swam up before him, not the man he was but the boy he had been, standing cold in the shadows while the sun shone on his elder brother. Whatever he did, Robert had done first, and better. (A Clash of Kings)
The sound of steel clashing with steel filled the courtyard. Lady Cassana was watching her son, her eyes wary, her gaze vigilant. "Is he truly ready to practice with a real sword? You know Stannis better than most men, maester. Tell me true, is he not too young still, to exchange his wooden sword with a steel blade? He is not yet nine."
"Ser Gawen seems certain that Stannis is ready, my lady." And Gawen Wylde as the master-at-arms would know better than a maester like Cressen. "And Lord Steffon has given his permission, otherwise Ser Gawen would not have agreed, however much the boy might have insisted."
"I should not have shown him that letter," Cassana muttered. "Stannis had been content practicing with his wooden sword before he read it."
Cressen knew the letter in question by heart. Stannis did as well, he suspected. The letter from Robert, fostered at the Eyrie, to his mother and father at Storm's End.
Lord Arryn's master-at-arms is teaching us sword-fighting, with a real sword, a heavy and sharp one. Lord Arryn himself would join Ned and myself at our practice some mornings. He says I have strong arms and Ned has strong legs and together we would be undefeatable!
Stannis had insisted on ditching the wooden sword for his morning practice the very next day, in favor of a real blade. It had taken a while for Lord Steffon and Ser Gawen to agree to the boy's request.
"The boy is quick on his feet, but not as strong as his brother," Ser Gawen had confided to Maester Cressen.
"He still has much growing to do," Cressen replied.
"Aye, aye," Ser Gawen agreed. "But he will never grow as big or as strong as young lord Robert, mark my word. There is no shame in that, the gods make us every which way, some with bodily advantage, some with other things to their credit. Our little lord is very quick and bright in his lessons, I have heard, maester."
"He is. That he is," Cressen replied, slightly startled hearing the note of pride in his own voice, as if it were his own son who was being praised, not a boy in his charge. "Stannis is very bright and diligent."
"He is diligent in his training too. Sword-fighting, horse-riding, archery, you name it. He does not have his brother's physical gift and innate ability, it is true, but the boy more than made up for it with his hard-work and persistence."
Cressen nodded in agreement. "I only wish -"
"What do you wish, maester? That you have a son, or two sons, and you are a proud father just like Lord Steffon is?"
Cressen shook his head swiftly. "Pray do not mock me, Ser Gawen. You know we maesters forsook any thought of wife and children when we took our oath. No, I only wish we could make Stannis see that there is no shame in being bested by his older brother in some things. Robert has his advantages, and Stannis has his."
Ser Gawen frowned. "Yes, that is true, maester, but it cannot be denied that lord Robert's advantages are the ones more quickly praised and admired in men, lordly or otherwise."
Cressen saw the truth of Ser Gawen's words when Robert came home for a visit, brandishing his skill with a sword while galloping on his horse, to the delight and admiration of half the castle. Stannis' newfound skill with a real sword, honed through hours and hours of diligent, tireless practice - but only on foot as yet and not on a horse - suddenly seemed like child's play in the eyes of many.
(ii)
A hundred oarsmen and sailors went down with Lord Steffon Baratheon and his lady wife, and for days thereafter every tide left a fresh crop of swollen corpses on the strand below Storm's End. The boy washed up on the third day. When they found the fool he was naked, his skin white and wrinkled and powdered with wet sand. Cressen had thought him another corpse, but when Jornmy grabbed his ankles to drag him off to the burial wagon, the boy coughed water and sat up. (A Clash of Kings)
"He was lost at sea for three days. Why did the gods see fit to spare him, but not to spare my father and mother, maester?"
"It was the storm that killed your lord father and mother, Stannis. Not the gods."
And what will I tell him when he asks - Who brought the storm, maester? Who brought my father and mother into the path of the storm, maester?
"I never said it was the gods who killed them, did I? But I prayed. I prayed like a good boy should, like the septon told me to pray, like my mother taught me to do. I prayed for the Mother's mercy and the Father's justice. I prayed for the Crone to shine her lantern and lead Father's ship safely home. I even prayed to the Stranger, prayed to the Stranger not to lead Father and Mother to the land of the dead just yet, for their sons still have need of them. But did the gods bother to listen? No."
"The gods are always listening."
"They always listen, but they do not care. Is that the way of the gods?
"It is not for us to question the ways of the gods."
Fool! Fool that I am; inadequate, disappointing fool that I am. Would that I am a better man. Would that I know the words to tell a boy whose life will never be the same again.
"Not for us to question the ways of the gods. That's what the septon said, when he told me to pray harder. Pray harder! As if the whole thing is my fault for not praying hard enough. You disappoint me, maester. I thought you with all your wisdom and your learning would have a better answer than that fool of a septon. Father should not have bought this fool in Volantis, he has one already in his own sept."
"There is no shame in taking solace in anger, Stannis. But there is also no shame in crying, in showing your grief."
"I am angry! It is not about taking solace. And why should there be any solace? What is there to take solace from? We have lost our mother and father. The gods will not return them to us. The king will not return them to us. You with all your protestation of grief and sorrow are powerless to return them to us. Tell me, maester, where do I go to find this solace?"
"If I could … were it within my power, I would have given my life so you would still have your mother and your father."
I would gladly have traded my life so you would be spared this pain.
"The gods are cruel enough they would have taken all three of you together if they could. No, maester, you must never speak of it again. The gods in all their wisdom might be tempted to rob us of our last guardian and protector."
(iii)
"Near the end, Ser Gawen Wylde and three of his knights tried to steal out a postern gate to surrender. Stannis caught them and ordered them flung from the walls with catapults. I can still see Gawen's face as they strapped him down. He had been our master-at-arms." Lord Rowan appeared puzzled. "No men were hurled from the walls. I would surely remember that." "Maester Cressen told Stannis that we might be forced to eat our dead, and there was no gain in flinging away good meat." (A Clash of Kings)
Your brother Stannis is still holding the garrison strong, sire. But we are in dire need of supply and reinforcement. Food, especially, is running scarce. We are down to our last rats and
Cressen paused, pondering the words he had written. Should he be addressing Robert Baratheon as "Your Grace"? No, Cressen thought, the letter could fall into the wrong hands. "Sire" was the safest option, able to stand for both "my lord" and "Your Grace."
As to the rumor regarding our men surrendering to the Tyrell force in droves, I hasten to assure you that there is no truth to it, sire. A few faithless men tried to escape, too few to matter considering the number of loyal men still manning the garrison at Storm's End, and they were caught immediately.
Cressen closed his eyes, and paused again. Forgive me, Gawen. I have wronged you.
Ser Gawen was not faithless. He was a good man tested beyond his endurance, forced to watch good men starved to death, forced to watch his own wife sickening until she died, forced to contemplate the death of his sons and daughters, all the while powerless to do anything at all.
"I'll not beg for mercy, maester," he had told Cressen, in the dark, damp dungeon where he was imprisoned. "It is not for myself that I did it. I am not afraid of death, I begged Lord Robert to take me with him to war, but he told me I am needed here. But my children … and all the other children. Little lord Renly, he's a child too. How can I sit still and do nothing, waiting for them to die? I did it for our young lord too. How long could he last, giving most of his meager share of food to his little brother?"
"It is treason, Gawen. Treason," Cressen said, his voice breaking. "To surrender to our enemy is treason. And you mean to do more than just surrender your own body. You mean to see to it that Storm's End falls."
"I mean to see to it that the siege ends! I mean to see to it that no one else has to die. Aye, aye, I know Lord Stannis will not thank me for it. He is stubborn, that one, but we have always known that, haven't we, maester?" The ghost of a smile touched Gawen's lips. Cressen had to look away to hide his tears.
"And he has promised his brother that he will hold Storm's End come what may," Gawen continued. "He'll not want to break that promise, whatever the cost, we both know that. But if Storm's End should fall through my treachery, then how could Lord Robert judge him for it? How could anyone judge him for it, when it is not his doing?"
The mess people made of things, when they failed to see, to truly see.
Oh Gawen, how you have erred. You have loved our young lord like I did, tried your best to guard him from harm, but you have never understood him. It was never about avoiding his brother's judgment, or anyone else's. It is his own harsh judgment Stannis could never escape. He will never forgive himself for breaking the promise he made to his brother, for falling short of his duty.
And he will never forgive you for almost causing him to do so.
Stannis was furious, distraught, confused, anguished. "If it had been anyone else … but Ser Gawen, he gave me my first real sword, he taught me everything I know about fighting. Is betrayal the best I could hope for, even from the likes of him?"
Cressen tried to explain. Tried to explain the best he could Ser Gawen's reasoning for his action. Stannis refused to listen, turning a deaf ear to the maester's entreaties.
"An example must be made. Already there are rumors spreading of more men trying to do the same, trying to escape and surrender. If even Ser Gawen Wylde our master-at-arms has lost faith in Lord Stannis, then our cause must be lost, they are saying. They must know that treason will not be tolerated, that it will be punished to the harshest letter of the law."
A beheading? Cressen shuddered at the thought. Who among the men would volunteer to be the beheader? To take off the head of the man who had taught most of them how to wield a sword. One look at Stannis' dark, dark face, and Cressen knew the answer. He would do it himself, their young lord. He would consider it nothing less than his duty.
"My lord, I beg you –"
"Beheading is not enough to send the message."
Then what, Cressen wondered, was enough?
The answer was more horrifying that he could have ever contemplated. When they strapped him down to the catapult, Ser Gawen held strong to his earlier conviction not to beg or plead for mercy, but the look on his face was enough to make any man weep.
Mercy, my lord. Mercy for the man who held your hand steady when you wielded your first wooden sword with your chubby fingers, still redolent with baby fat.
Cressen didn't ask for that mercy, for he knew Stannis was beyond that kind of appeal at the moment. A reminder of his duty to hold the castle was the only thing that might work. "We ate the last of the cats yesterday, my lord. A few rats might be scurrying in the kitchen and in some dark corners of the castle still, but nothing else. We may be forced to eat our dead soon, if the siege continues. Otherwise the garrison might not be strong enough to hold. If Ser Gawen and his men must die for their treachery, then their meat could provide sustenance for those of us still living. There is no gain to be had from catapulting them over the wall."
The appeal to duty worked. There was to be no catapulting of bodies, no beheading either. In the end, Stannis sent Ser Gawen and his three knights back to their prison cell. Even the mere threat had been enough. No one else tried to surrender for the remainder of the siege.
"Ser Gawen and his men will be punished as the law decrees it after the siege is over," Stannis vowed. But the gods had other plan, and Gawen Wylde died in his cell just before the smuggler came to save them with his onions and his salt fish. Ser Gawen had kept his words not to beg for mercy till the end.
(iv)
"I had bad dreams," Shireen told him. "About the dragons. They were coming to eat me." The child had been plagued by nightmares as far back as Maester Cressen could recall. "We have talked of this before," he said gently. "The dragons cannot come to life. They are carved of stone, child." (A Clash of Kings)
The stairs to the Chamber of Painted Table where his lord was waiting were proving to be more and more difficult to climb. Old age was catching up to Cressen. Often when he was writing, or eating, he would catch sight of his hands, his wrinkled, liver-spotted hands, and wondered, for the briefest of moment, to whom those hands belong to.
Mine. These shaking hands are mine.
He dared not look in the mirror, wary of the stranger he knew would be greeting him there.
He had made old bones after all. Had lived long enough to see two of the sons Lord Steffon had entrusted to his care wedded and bedded. They were both fathers now, Robert and Stannis, and if Cressen at times despaired that they were not proving to be the kind of father Steffon Baratheon had been to his sons, well, then, Cressen reminded himself that there was no one to blame but himself. He had failed in many things, in his guardianship of the three Baratheon brothers, but perhaps he had failed most of all in this. For how could he, a man who had never fathered any children himself, endeavored to teach Robert and Stannis, and Renly in his turn, how to be a good father?
Cressen was still contemplating the matter with deep anguish, when he entered the Chamber of the Painted Table. To his surprise, Lord Stannis was not alone. He was sitting on his customary seat, positioned exactly and precisely where Dragonstone was located on Aegon's Painted Table, looking up at his daughter Shireen, perched almost precariously on the table.
"Is the dragon black? The one in your dream?" Stannis was asking the girl, his expression grave and solemn, as if he was asking her the number of men she had in her army.
Shireen shook her head. "No, it's not black."
"Then it cannot be Balerion," Stannis said.
"It's not Meraxes either. Or Vhagar," Shireen said, looking not at her father, but at her feet.
"You must look me in the eyes when you speak to me, Shireen. When you speak to anyone," Stannis said, too harshly to Cressen's ears. The girl was only seven, and very shy to boot.
"Yes, Father," Shireen replied, biting her lower lip.
"Did Maester Cressen teach you the names of the dragons?" Stannis' tone was less harsh, this time.
Shireen nodded. "Did he teach you too, Father?"
"Yes, he did. And Maester Cressen taught your lord grandfather too, when he was a boy."
Shireen's eyes were as wide as saucers. "He did? When I am a mother, will he teach my children too?"
"Perhaps. But surely you are too young to think about having children?"
"Dalla said the stork brings down the baby from the sky. Mother said that is silly talk, but she won't tell me where babies really come from. Do you know, Father?"
Stannis looked pained. "Yes, I do, but I didn't know until I am much older than you are now. You must wait until you are old enough to know."
"Was Maester Cressen the one who taught you? About babies?"
Cressen thought this was the right time to make his presence known. He cleared his throat. "Forgive the intrusion, my lord –"
"We have been talking about dragons," Stannis said swiftly. "Shireen has been having bad dreams about them. Have you been telling her the story of Rhaenyra Targaryen being fed to a dragon, maester? That used to give me bad dreams as a boy too."
Shireen paled. "You mean she was actually eaten by a dragon?"
"That story is a bit too advanced for Lady Shireen's age, my lord," Cressen warned. As was the whole saga of The Dance of the Dragons, the tale of brothers and sisters warring with each other, trying to murder each other for the throne. The boy Stannis, of course, had insisted on reading Maester Munkun's entire long-winded account of that Targaryen civil war after he had heard the tale of Rhaenyra and her unfortunate end.
"That's what they were doing in my dream," Shireen said, face still pale, tears pooling in her eyes. Stannis seemed at a lost, out of his depth dealing with a child who was very near to tears.
"Who, my lady?" Cressen asked, taking one of Shireen's hands and clasping it.
"The dragons. They woke up to eat me."
"Woke up? Were the dragons sleeping?"
Shireen nodded. "They sleep and they are stones, but then they wake up and they are flesh and blood and they breathe fire and they will not stop chasing me.
"You mean the dragons in the castle? They are the ones waking up?" Stannis asked.
Shireen nodded. Her father was shaking his had. "Stone dragons are not real dragons, Shireen. They are only carved likeness. They will never wake, and they cannot eat you," her father told her firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument. Shireen pretended to be convinced, but Cressen knew she still feared the dragon in her dream.
(v)
Last year when he took ill, the Citadel had sent Pylos out from Oldtown, mere days before Lord Stannis had closed the isle... to help him in his labors, it was said, but Cressen knew the truth. Pylos had come to replace him when he died. He did not mind. Someone must take his place, and sooner than he would like. (A Clash of Kings)
"Is Maester Pylos to your liking?"
"He is very young, my lord. But he is able, aye, more than able to perform his duties."
To perform my duties. But no matter, it is a maester's duty to train his replacement.
"He does not seem to be a frivolous young man," Stannis said with approval. "Very grave and somber, and mindful of his duty."
Pylos was a young man of five-and-twenty, yet he was as solemn as a man close to Cressen's own age. A slightly more frivolous young man would perhaps have brought a bit more life and color to Dragonstone, especially in these dark days of suspicion and uncertainty. But Stannis would not agree to that, Cressen knew. He wondered if Stannis had specified to the Citadel the precise and exact qualities he required from his new maester.
Of course he had. Stannis was nothing if not meticulous and painstakingly thorough. Once Cressen had taken pride in that – another thing he had taught Stannis that had taken hold – but now, he understood that it was mostly Stannis' own nature and disposition asserting itself. Cressen had tried teaching Robert and Renly the same things, but they were more inclined to follow their instincts and their gut feelings than anything else.
What good have I done, if any? What harm have I done without even realizing it?
A father is not supposed to favor one child over another. A father is not supposed to love one child more than the others. How many men who were fortunate and blessed enough to be fathers had told him that? Cressen's own dear father, Lord Steffon and his father before him, Davos Seaworth the father of seven sons; they had all repeated the same thing.
He was a fake, an unworthy pretender with aspirations of fatherhood without having any right to it at all. He was never a true father, which was why Cressen knew, deep down, that he did favor one child over another. Knew, deep down, that he had loved one child more than the others. A real father would not have committed that crime. A real father would have guarded his heart against that betrayal.
False, untrue father that he was, Cressen had reserved the deepest recesses of his heart, indeed the strongest of his love, for the boy who lived in the shadows, outshined first by his older brother, then by his younger brother, and finally, by both of them at once.