Chapter 4

Stannis Baratheon

No doubt his brother would claim that the city had been the very model of good governance and diligent lordship, and therefore every instance of corruption, graft, bribery, double-crossing treachery and and everything up to and including treason (though ignoring the vice of prostitution, mayhap) was merely a product of the past handful of months since his departure for The North. From where the indomitable Ned Stark would ride down like a hero of old and save the realm of his apparent incompetency.

That was always the way of it, Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone seethed, teeth clenched to prevent them from grinding like badly run milling stones as he hurried through the Red Keep to what was sure to be another entirely useless meeting of the small council. His brother would then shower Ned with praise and heap upon himself the blame.

Though in this, if he dared admit it, he was his own fool; as if Robert would have given him a task that was not a poisoned chalice from the very start. He had never realized it, blinded as he had been – the power of the Hand was a mummer's farce – a mummer with a badge instead of patch-face or foolscap but a mummer nonetheless – to show the smallfolk and traveling lords while the Lannisters got on with the proper business of investing themselves into all corners of power, however trite. And what few scraps of power they had not managed to place a cousin or a good-brother or a suck-mouth of a vassal, t'was not for lack of trying but because the Tyrells had managed to settle in first, aided in no small part by his foolish younger brother, Renly, who had a squire of one of of Lord Tyrell's sons and, Stannis suspected, who was besotted with his Tyrell squire.

And here he was, the door of the small council's chamber. To think he would prefer to come here as merely the Master of Ships, once more. If ever a group of people could more bring out in him the familial words... save perhaps his own family, itself.

Ours is the Fury...

"Afternoon, my lords," Stannis ground out without ceremony, making his way past the cluster of men already sitting at the table to take his place at its head. Grand Maester Pycelle, slouched and appearing equal parts asleep and ready to join the Stranger, his long beard just a hair away from being considered unkempt. Lord Varys, who was in truth not a lord but a soft, bald-headed eunuch who knew far too many things about far too many people, and so served as Robert's (and the Mad King's before him) Master of Whispers. Though how much of use he was and how much none dared remove him lest the dead man proved to have a final gasp that reached distant ears... Stannis could not say. Lord Petyr Balish, the realm's Master of Coin was here as well, as well coiffed as he was prone to be and wearing a damnable little smirk that always suggested he knew a little jape that you were not privy to.

No one sat in the seat for the Master of Ships, for Stannis maintained his old hat for the nonce even as he served as Hand, no doubt he would be back in his old place once Lord Stark arrived. The Master of Laws was also vacant – Renly following in his oldest brother's footsteps in treating his duties to the realm as mere suggestions or whims of fancy, no doubt to instead fret away an afternoon in his squire's company, indulging in strong drink or... other vices. Ser Barristan Selmy was also absent, though like Stannis he was a man who recognized his duty and given the level of filth that transpired at all levels in this city, 'twas better the man who served as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was occupying himself in his role than wasting time in another pointless meeting.

Though it was not the eunuch with his opaque secrets, nor the jumped up money grubber with his constant japes that irked Stannis, today; nor the absence of his brother that mocked him; in truth it was the presence of Tywin Lannister, who the Queen had convinced the King to appoint onto the council as a Castellan-cum-regent for the city. Highly irregular, and highly insulting, yet here he was, nominally answering to Stannis as Hand yet through both action and inaction most capable of blocking everything Stannis had thus far attempted to do.

Speaking of...

"Lord Baelish, any new developments regarding the King's coin?" There wouldn't be.

"Not in so many words, Lord Hand," Baelish responded after an unnecessary pause.

And if there were, you wouldn't tell me. And if you did, Lord Tywin would inform me that all the necessary agents were otherwise occupied, and we would need to delay...

"Our debts are paid in full, then? We find ourselves no longer in need of your services?"

"If it were but that simple, my Lord," Baelish replied enfolding his hands as if to say that he would like nothing more than a quiet retirement. "But not to worry, the debt is on plan to be serviced in due time, and for the time being, Lord Lannister has generously agreed to tide the crown over until more permanent arrangements can be made."

"So the debt, in fact, has gone up, in the past moon." Stannis ground out.

"The King's raven came two night's ago," Lord Tywin replied. "Asking for a great tourney be prepared for Lord Stark's arrival." He shrugged as if such expenditure hardly merited mentioning, let alone concern, and Stannis had to resist the urge to slap the man. "I think even the most base smallfolk would agree that the return of such a renowned war hero deserves some recognition."

"It is not the most base smallfolk who are being asked to pay for it," Stannis replied through clenched teeth.

"Oh, but in a way," Baelish replied airily. "Taxes do have to start from somewhere, after all."

"I believe the matter is resolved, Lord Hand." Tywin replied. "The King has made his wishes clear in the writing and I shall do my duty to carry them out as best as one can."

"I can also report on the costs of the new galleys, Lord Hand?" Baelish replied, utterly unhelpfully. "I suppose the Kingdom could save a small army of dragons if it were willing to get by with a few less ships?"

And on and on it went, until he was ready to tear out both their tongues to buy himself a moment's respite.

"And so we are agreed to do nothing yet again. We will not lower the debt, as out Master of Coin cannot pay out without first taking a loan; we will not investigate the charges of corruption amongst the Gold Cloaks, because we have not the loyal men necessary to attain such a group, nor would such a group be freely capable of acting without a warrant, which our absent Master of Laws cannot deliver. Anything else we can not to today so that we might not do tomorrow?"

"Yes, Lord Hand," Varys spoke at long last. "A rather delicate development across the Narrow Sea, actually – my little birds report that Danaerys Targaryen is with child."

At times like this a faith in the Seven was almost something to regret losing so young, if only so that he might have seven hells to banish the world and all its small councils and distant pretenders unto.

"She has at long last married her brother, then."

"Not quite, Lord Hand. Her brother married her off, actually. She carries a Dothraki babe. A Targaryen bride for an army, I believe the deal was."

Oh to hell with all of them, anyway, beliefs be damned.

"Let us send an assassin against her husband," he said at last. "If the King wants to make an issue of killing another Targaryen babe," he looked unflinchingly at Tywin at this, and Tywin looked unflinchingly back; everyone in the room recalling the deaths of Elia Martell and her two children as the rebellion waxed triumphant.

"Then He will do so. But if this is an attempt to gain a Dothraki army, killing her husband should suffice separate fruit from stem. They won't follow. And not even most ardent loyalist still hidden underfoot within the realm would shed tears for a dead Dothraki."

Varys nodded. "It shall be done your grace."

Stannis nodded. "Then we are done. I will see you all a moment too soon, three days hence."

But while the King's Council was utterly useless, a farce wherein Baelish and Lannister plotted for their own purposes, but united in a certainty to keep the Baratheon stag away. Fortunately, he was not a man to allow duty to be thwarted by enemies. An army that found its march closed off must find another way.

Which was why the Hand of The King found himself in a dingy warehouse that smelled of fish and other maritime wares, on a nondescript wharf of the port that was still a bustling place this late in the eve.

"It's a right mucker, My Lord," Ser Davos Seaworth, smuggler-turned-knight and Stannis's most loyal man concluded with an air of despondence. "Your lady wife is fully immersed in the matter and... I do not scare easily, my Lord, I am no craven as you well know... but that woman she has taken into her council is a proper witch. Does things, says things – aren't natural."

"You believe mine own household is lost to me."

Davos paused, fidgeting with the flat cap that had been part of his disguise tonight, balling it in his fists.

"Out with it, I've always valued your council and have never held a word against you."

"Aye, my Lord," Davos said heavily. "'tis like some foul possession. Not all the men but... I could not say in faith who left on that island you could trust. And certainly your wife and her kin... it is a dangerous time to be at Dragonstone if you do not worship the witch's fires."

"It is a dangerous time to be at King's Landing," Stannis snapped aloud, then raised a hand in placation. "I apologize, Ser Davos, you bear me no injury. But this is not the news I had wished to receive..."

He let out a tired sigh. "The Lannisters have always run circles around my brother despite my best efforts to protect him, half-banished to that barren Targaryen rock though I was more oft than not. But now Renly has taken up with the Tyrells, a lovesick fool eagerly seeking approval of those that once sought to starve us and strip us of our rightful place. And if that is not enough, when I feel the realm slipping through my grasp, I lose my home... my second home... stolen out from under me."

"Aye, My Lord."

He was a bitter man, and he suffered slights poorly. Stannis was not so foolish that he could not recognize his own faults, though he nursed them to bloom within his heart, his sense of righteousness preventing any true purge, a weakness admittedly.

But he was not a fool.

"Have you noticed anything odd about the ships in port?" Stannis asked, walking to the wall that, were it to disappear, would yield a view of the Blackwater Bay full of cogs and galleys and fat-bellied barges from the Rush and strange ships from Essos and mayap even a whaling boat from as far aseas as Ib. But...

"No Gulltown merchants, Your Grace. It's as if they've all but disappeared from the corners of the earth."

"Lady Lysa knows something." Stannis said. "Or believes she knows something, the woman was half mad at the very best of times," he amended. "But either way, she is moving to close off The Vale. She is preparing for a siege. Why?"

"I could not say, My Lord."

"Neither could I with absolute certainty, Ser Davos, neither could I. But many things have gone off kilter since Lord Arynn died: the Lannisters have advanced and the Arryns have retreated, to a tune that none but themselves hear."

"You forget the Tyrells, My Lord."

"I forget nothing," Stannis snorted. "The Tyrells saw a vacuum and they sought to fill it. No, they are base opportunists but they are not the conductor of this piece."

He lost himself for a moment in thought, considering the possibilities.

"There is a possibility that I will not speak aloud for now, but know that I have had suspicions regarding the Lannisters for some time. We must move swiftly and surely or we shall lose our heads. There was an issue I spoke at some length with Jon Arryn before he died. How Lysa got word of it, assuming she fled with purpose and not simply out of fear, I do not know. How the Lannisters got hold of it, I do not know. But we must marshal a counterweight regardless."

Devos nodded. The particulars were lost to him but he had known his Lord well enough for many years now, and had been taken in his confidence oft enough, that he had no cause to doubt his word.

Stannis' eyes sharpened as he focused back upon the present, decisions made. "Set sail to Dragonstone at first light," he commanded. "Avoid my wife and her witch – I will write you a summons when I return to my chambers to be delivered to you at the docks. You will be grabbing a number of documents for me, but in truth this is a facade, what matters most is that you remove my daughter Shireen from the maws of the red cult. Trust no one else to come with you."

He paused. "No... on your own judgment, bring Maester Cressen with you as well. I will provide you with a second letter should you need it. He does not deserve to be left with that band of red cultists if he has not been taken by their advances. But nobody else."

"Where am I to take them, My Lord?"

"Stonehelm." Stannis replied without hesitation. " I have these past weeks sent a rush of couriers to trusted houses throughout the Stormlands, and even to House Royce of Runestone, seeking word from the Vale. Ser Balon Swann will not refuse me, and the Lords of the Marches understand the dire straits arising while their Liege Lord remains confounded by sons of The Reach. I will attend to you there. Look after Shireen."

"Aye, my Lord. Like mine own daughter."

And so Stannis Baratheon found himself reinvigorated; without home nor holdfast nor a brother's love, he once more had a duty and a purpose. Once more, he would ensure that the Stormlands held strong against the threat that rose in the capital and threatened to blow down House Baratheon.

Bran Stark

It was unquestionably the best of times. How many other boys his age rode with the King of Westeros! With Ser Jamie Lannister! With Ser Meryn Trant! With Ser Boros Blount! Oh, he was always kept busy, and his father had warned him to suffer no illusions that he would be kept moving as if on heated coals once they arrived in King's Landing, even if his own Lord Father were Hand of the King. And he had had to swear that there would be no climbing the towers of the city as if it were his own family castle... but the exchange was well worth it. For he would be one day a Knight – a Knight at the side of a most famous King!

They had even seen a tourney, at a bustling place of an unimaginable size called Lord Harroway's Town – thought it was oft called Harroway by those familiar with it – where a great audience had been put together for the King. And to think that many of his new companions thought it to be a tiny occasion, hardly even worth mentioning. What splendor and wealth and size must there be in the South for all of this but to be as if a children's game?

He was kept away from Sansa, or so it seemed. But he did not want the men to think of him as but a tiny child who wished to cling to his sister's skirts, and so he laughed at their japes and endured the stares and gasps as Summer quickly grew from pup to a sizeable hound with no sign of stopping. The Queen had made a comment or so he was told but the King had laughed and said his Queen was prone to overserious japes, and that there was naught to worry about and the Sigil of House Stark was always welcome among the Baratheon's of King's Landing.

Prince Joffrey oft did not ride with them, but on his own with naught but his own sworn shield to accompany him and this was a disappointment for Bran had harbored visions of befriending Prince Joffrey without his older siblings to make the Prince uncomfortable. But the Prince was four years older and his father oft said that boys grow in closeness as the age between them diminishes overtime, and the younger Prince Tommen was quick to seek Bran's company, when the Queen allowed it.

Princess Myrcella was odd. Sweet and fair but she smelt like dreams; and not pleasant ones, but dreams of melting snow that curdled into blood yet flowed in torrents southward nonetheless and threatened to sweep a mountain out to sea, until Bran himself picked up a shield of fragrant oak and built a dam to hold back the foul pool.

He did not share that dream with any of party, lest they think him mad or an abomination in the eyes of the gods, Old and New.

Sansa Stark

It had certainly started off as the best of times. How many other girls – well, a woman, almost – her own age rode across Westeros in a wheelhouse as a guest of the Queen of Westeros! And Princess Myrcella. Treated as almost a royal herself in the eyes of the handmaidens and retinue. Oh, she was always kept busy, and her father had warned her to suffer no illusions that she would be required to accompany the Queen, to listen as if she were her own mother, and like as not be kept moving as if on heated coals once they arrived in King's Landing, even if her own Lord Father were Hand of the King. And she had had to swear that she would not allow herself to make foolish promises, beholding him nor any Stark as if she were their own lady quite yet and not his daughter because of flowered words about her betrothal as Westeros's next Queen... but the exchange was well worth it. For she would be one day Queen – a Queen at the side of a most handsome King!

They had even seen a tourney, at a bustling place of an unimaginable size called Lord Harroway's Town – called Harroway for those worldly enough to know – where a great audience had been put together and where all cried amazement at the radiance of the royal ladies. And to think that many – even the handmaidens – thought it to be a tiny occasion, hardly even worth mentioning. What splendor and wealth and size must there be in the South for all of this but to be as if a children's game?

She was kept away from Bran, or so it seemed. But she did not want the Queen to think her ungrateful for her generoristy or that she was bored with so magnificent a wheelhouse and such elegant conversations, and so he laughed at her japes and endured her separation from Lady as the Queen made it quite plain there was no place for such in the refinement of the wheelhouse. But the King had laughed and said he would look after her beautiful wolf for there was nothing he would not do for House Stark and she could not help but blush at this and think to herself that though the King had lost his outward beauty he was truly a most valiant King.

Prince Joffrey of course did not ride with them, but on his own with naught but his own sworn shield to accompany him and this was a disappointment for Sansa had harbored visions of riding along with her betrothed without her older siblings to embarrass her in front of the Prince and make him, so ever gallant, uncomfortable on her behalf. But the Prince was four years older and his father oft said that boys take longer than girls to grow interested in courtship so she would accept his compliments and polite inquiries with grace and love him from afar. Prince Tommen was odd. Though she would never say so for he was a sweet boy but he would never be the Knight that Joffrey would one day become.

Princess Myrcella, on the other hand, was not odd at all. Sweet and fair she was a perfect lady, and Sansa could not wait to be her good-sister and hope that Joffrey and Myrcella's own husband – whoever he might be – would protect them from ever having to see so much as a droplet of blood spilt in malice.

She did not share that dream with any of party, lest they think her terribly presumptuous and silly, and unworthy of marriage into the royal family in the eyes of the gods, Old and New.

Notes:

Well, I for one enjoyed this. I suspect the style of the Bran/Sansa bit will annoy some, but I enjoyed writing it and it's not the sort of thing one does routinely. Hopefully enough of you enjoy it that it comes out a wash. Least it's short and it's actually quite meaty.