Chapter 11

Stannis Baratheon

Something had gone terrible wrong, and he suspected with little doubt that Lord Baelish had his grimy hands in the thick of it, as he was wont to do with every rotten thing that occurred around King's Landing.

Certainly, Tywin Lannister was involved as well, for though the two were oft at odds they had found common cause in making his own life a misery, and no doubt they had done the same unto Ned Stark. Now news came that Baelish had been accused of being involved in Lord Starks disappearance – mayhap the unholy coalition had begun to splinter. Of course – and he was furious at such lies spreading around the Kingdom – his enemies were quick to paint his own self as a suspect as well.

But for now, it mattered not, Stannis muttered to himself though clenched teeth, pacing in the rooms that had been set aside for his use by Lord Swann within the highest tower of Stonehelm castle, a spacious suite overlooking the mouth of the Slayne where it emptied into the Sea of Dorne, the village that took the castle's name sprawling along the other bank.

Though he were an honored guest – it smarted, knowing both Dragonstone and Storm's End were closed to him for the nonce. The former through the usurpation of his wife and her witch, the latter because for all his right's that supposedly were held in the eyes of the Seven (it was to jape!), 'twas his younger brother's seat and he would not give his foes even the suggestion that he sought to undermine him.

But Renly was absent – whether trapped within the chaos of King's Landing or escaped to who only knew where – and so it befell unto Stannis to raise the Stormlands in support of the King.

And yet, he could not, not in full.

Curse every single lord who feared Tywin Lannister or his slattern of a daughter! Or cowered before the threat of the Reach mustering its own colors in response!

Oh, the March Lords had responded quick enough, but they were martial men by nature, men who had been raised to know that hesitation and weakness would only mean yielding their keeps and lands and eldest daughters to men loyal to the Tyrells or Martells, men who had learned that harsh lesson not even a generation before, when all had fallen before that force until stopped dead at Storms End by Stannis himself until the war's end, though he had subsisted on rats and boot leather and then onions to do it. The March Lords knew of Stannis and respected him for his ability even if they did not follow him in love like they had Robert, knew that he did naught but his duty with no thought of his own reward. And for that many of the houses of the Rainwood and answered his summons as well.

But, he realized in truth, 'twas not near enough. The Owl of Metryns, the Maelstrom of Wylde, the Nightingales of Caron nor the Swan of Stonehelm – in sum he had mayhap a third of the forces of the Stormlands willing to follow him were to march on the morrow; Lord Tarth had given vague promises but not a single man-at-arms or even lordly cousin bringing oaths of allegiance; even Lord Buckler who had played host to his own self but a moon ago did not reply to his ravens now. From Felwood or Haystack Hall, nor the scores of smaller keeps that bordered the Crownlands – nary a word.

From Storm's End itself – silence fit for a tomb.

And so, here he was, stuck in a beautiful and spacious room with more promises than swords, and a half-penned letter denouncing the Queen's get as Joffrey Hill, a bastard – that could not be sent as long as his brothers and Ned Stark were unaccounted for.

A knock on the door.

"Yes?" He called out, not looking up from the letter than vexed him so.

"Father, it's me,"

Some of his anger dissipated at that. "Come in, Shireen"

His daughter entered the room, only opening the door as wide as needed for her to squeeze through, and – oh his sweet daughter – she curtseyed.

"There is no need for that," he said, though emotion at seeing her so well smoothed the gruffness in his voice. "How goes your day?"

"Very well!" Shireen said with with a smile. "Steffon and Gerold and Jeyne have been very kind. I thought that after lessons today, we might go out into the courtyard to play! Can we?"

His heart almost broke at her excessive happiness that a castilian's children should include her – curse her mother for being so cold to his own daughter... and mayhap a curse upon himself, for tolerating such as far as he did.

"You may," he replied, keeping his dark thoughts unto himself. "Though be sure to listen to the Maester during lessons, first and foremost."

"He's hard to understand, in his explanations," Shireen said gloomily. "I miss Maester Cressen. And Patches."

Another thing that his wife and the witch would one day pay for.

"Nonetheless, he is a Maester and for the nonce you are his pupil. You will do your best-"

He paused for a moment, in reflection of his own shortfalls thus far in fatherhood, and then continued, "but mayhap if you are still bewildered, then come to me, and I shall seek to help you understand more clearly. 'Twas not so long ago I myself sat at a maester's knees."

The smile she gave him was n'er bright enough to eclipse the greyscale that marred her face.

"Before I forget," she chirped, the angst of difficult lessons now brushed aside, as children were wont to do, jumping from one topic to another. "Lord Swann asked me to deliver this to you," she handed over a rolled up parchment, clearly coming from a raven.

He opened it, and now for the second time in as many moments he had a reason to smile, though more in anticipation than in joy.

"Ser Davos has made port at Greenstone," he said, eyes still scanning the letter. "He has escaped from King's Landing with the households of many that were left in the city," he frowned then, "though he makes no mention of the Stark children, nor Lord Stark himself."

Shireen knew little of the Starks and so the import of their absence did not faze her. "I will be glad to see Ser Davos," she said gayly. "It was good fun, sailing here. I like this place more than Dragonstone."

Stannis felt his teeth grind at that. "We will be here for some time," he said with thought. "And if – when – we return to Dragonstone, it will be very different, I promise you. We will never deal with such a place again, I promise you that."

Shireen nodded, and her eyes told him she understood he meant more than just the castle itself.

"Now then," Stannis continued. "You ought get ready for your lessons, and I must prepare for Ser Davos's arrival – 'tis not far from Greenstone and the letter is now out of date, as is their nature. If we are lucky he will be with us in a day or two."

Shireen nodded and stood up, brushing down her dress before all but skipping out the room. She would never want so desperately for companionship ever again, he swore to himself.

"On my life I'd stake it on the Lannisters," Ser Davos said in the privacy of Stannis's suite, three days hence. "I can't prove it, mind – there was no time of course, and it's not as if Lord Tywin isn't a tricky devil. But... smells wrong, my Lord. Lord Baelish disappeared too quick and clean, and the Lannisters pinned the blame too quick. I've seen the sort before."

Stannis nodded, thinking quickly as he took in what his man had said. "Not a plot then, you are sure? They were as thick as thieves towards myself."

"Aye – but they were not friends then, my Lord, but working towards a similar goal. It's like... like smugglers who are at odds, but neither wants to see the customs officer find the other's supply, lest the port become closed to them both."

Stannis grunted at that, grudgingly conceding the point... for now.

"So the Lannisters have Stark, so you say," he said instead. "Arrested? Killed? Same for Baelish?"

Davos shrugged helplessly. "I couldn't say. He never came back from Bronzegate, that I am certain. But for the King to fall into deepsleep, from his cups – no less! On near enough the same day? And for the Lannisters to be so bold as to confine the Stark household to their rooms?"

"Aye," Davos finished with a sigh. "'Tis a bloody coup. Naught else."

"And my brother the King is caught... what? In a drunken stupor as his Kingdom goes to the hells? Or poisoned, more like. And what of Renly? If I am to march now, do I condemn the King to death? My younger brother? And who in truth do I march against?!"

Ser Davos Seaworth said naught to that, face stoic.

"We are well snared," Stannis continued softly. "And we must escape this trap or perish." He gestured for Davos to follow, leading his way to a roughly drawn map of southern Westeros, centered on Storm's End and showing the realm as far north as Harrenhal, as far south and west as to include all the approaches that Dorne or the Reach might take against the March lords.

"I will take the Army of the Marches and the Rainwood," - he had chosen the name explicitly so as to avoid the suggestion that he himself were leading The Stormlands, as was not his rightful place, however necessary it may have been.

With a finger, he drew a line northward up the Slayne from Stonehelm, to where the highlands began that marked the boundary between the Rainwood and the Marches and the Stormlands proper. "We will march and make camp at Lord Bolling's demesne, at Slaynegate."

His face puckered sourly as he looked at the rest of the map. "The fleet is mine, for the most," he told Ser Davos, who nodded for he knew this to be true. "But I have no suitable anchorage for it. King's Landing is obviously hostile, and Gulltown is closed to all but the Vale. White Harbor mayhap in theory, but far too remote to be of any use." He scowled, "and the less said of Dragonstone, the better."

Davos frowned in thought. "You were wise, my Lord, to send ships by ones and twos to loyal ports, and lucky that Lord Stark did not summon the fleet back home... but this is untenable."

"I know," Stannis growled, though his ire was focused on the map that mocked him so. "A third of the fleet – that in most in need of refit and repair, and crewed by the least competent sailors in the King's employ – is left behind in Lannister hands, but the longer we tarry the more a threat it will nonetheless become. His eyes moved across the table, looking past where the map ended. "And of course, there is Lord Tywin's own fleet at Lannisport, and the jumped up sellsails of the Reach, who could blow any which way if the find the wind fair."

"Aye," Davos replied, for there was naught else to say.

"I would concentrate at Tarth, but House Tarth is proving as firm a weather vane as the Redwynes," he sneered.

"If I may, my Lord – concentrate on the ports we control for certain. It will be harsh on the harbor masters and will play havoc on the crews, and mayhap the ships themselves... but better to have uncomfortable berths than to be caught and destroyed piecemeal as we risk now."

Stannis heard, but his eyes did not leave the map. "It means surrendering Blackwater Bay, he said slowly. "But I think you have the right of it. I will send word for the northerly crews to sail south, and to attach themselves to stations from Greenstone to Stonehelm." A pause.

"Though I would keep the force at Tarth intact – let us make sure that our friend understands that if he will not do his duty without question, we carry sticks as well as carrots."

And so what host he had been able to muster was on the move, trickling into an oft rain-wet and muddy camp at the headwaters of the Slayne. Ships began to sail and even more happily, the ravens from the Houses of the Narrow Sea began to fly, sending word to their distant liege that they stood by their oaths unto him, but that they could sail no men for they were frantic preparing for the coming siege, as Lord Tywin mustered the Crownlands in his daughters name, acting as regent as she was.

He had accepted that, for the nonce – recognizing that there was naught he could do about the north anyhow until the Stormlands were well in hand. He had replied, with somber words that he expected every man to do his duty, and that what fleet remained should ensure that Dragonstone were placed under blockade and merchant shipping into Blackwater Bay reduced only to those trading with Houses loyal to himself, the rest of the cargoes to be seized and used to aid the defense.

His mood improved with every passing day, now that he could act. His position had been tenuous at first, but Stannis could wield great power in the east, though it was spread wide and unfocused. Yet while the Lannisters had sowed confusion across the realm and so bought themselves time to strike first, now every day that passed without committed action worked in Stannis's favor, allowing him to concentrate his force, to dig in his men and train green boys, to coordinate with his distant banners... he dared allow optimism to march against his initial fears.

"My Lord Baratheon of Dragonstone" - he had insisted upon the distinction, though it grated upon his every nerve. The courier continued to scream. "A message for you my Lord. Good tidings! Your brother has been found, free, and riding fast to Storm's End!

Stannis snatched the letter, barely remembering to thank the man before opening it with haste.

"He has passed Bronzegate," Stannis read, relief evident in his voice. He frowned. "From – the Grassy Vale?" He read on, in silence now. Renly had fled shortly after the Lannister coup, escorted by a contingent of Reachmen, led by his own squire, Loras Tyrell. Northward, at first, intending to take a ship from Maidenpool but forced to turn westward as war broke out in truth and Lannister and Tully men clashed. He had the snuck south back through the Crownlands and into the Reach, not daring to send a raven lest he be intercepted. And from there, after some days, through the Kingswood. He ended with a hint that he would have more to say to all the Stormlords upon his arrival at his home seat.

Stannis felt a pang at that, his brother's home seat, not his own, and still he wondered about his elder brother who remained in King's landing, with more stirring of brotherly affection than he had felt in some time, though to be true it did not eclipse the concern he felt for his brother's station rather than his blood relation.

But this – this was in its own right excellent news, even if not perfect in every aspect. He could tarry no longer then – the ravens must fly across the Seven Kingdoms, to every keep and castle and market town, from the highest Lords in Winterfell and Sunspear and Riverrun and Highgarden and the Eyrie to the meanest knight with naught but a drum tower and an acre of scrub. Even in the Iron Islands – for that matter, even the Westerlands they would know the truth; for the King was threatened and the Lannisters sought to put a golden-haired bastard on the Iron Throne.

And, he let out a breath at the thought – a crisis had been averted. For all the humming and hawings of Evenfall Hall, of Bronzegate, of Haystack Hall and Griffin's Roost – the Stormlands would march united for their imprisoned King.

And – though it soured him to admit it – if war with the Lannisters were at hand, mayhap, mayhap, his brother's... friendship, if that were the right word, with the Tyrells and the Reachman would be of use. To be treated like a tamed but dangerous animal, for certain, but there were worse considerations than Lannister and Tyrell slaughtering one another man for man.

Four days later, almost – almost – openly eager, he received a letter from Storm's End.

He dropped it into the mud, grateful that none but Ser Davos were here to see his shock and fury in his tent.

"the King is dead," he ground out – fists and teeth and eyes clenching as he said so. "And Renly, that utter fool, has proclaimed himself new King of Westeros."

Margaery Tyrell

"We will do no such thing!" her grandmother – the formidable Olenna Tyrell known across the Kingoms as the Queen of Thorns – scolded her lord father as if he were naught but an errant boy, similar to when Loras or Garlan had been caught sneaking into the kitchens for an extra fruit tart.

"Mother, you won't speak to me that way," her father huffed, his face going to purple as he sat down nonetheless and appeared to deflate under grandmother's glare. He gestured weakly towards her own self, and Margaery did her best to look demure and doe-eyed, as she had been taught.

"But think of it! Margaery a queen. Let us declare for Renly and we will be the most powerful family in all of Westeros!"

"Or the most foolish," Lady Olenna scoffed with a tut. "There are now, what – four of the realms at war, and any that gained the Reach host would be but assured to win... and you would have us link to the only host with the lack of wits to lose it nonetheless!"

"You can't mean to declare for Stannis," her father replied, aghast at the very thought. Her heart went out for him, he was a sweet man and a doting father, but grandmother played him like he were but a harp. "I won't do that, mother. Iwill not!"

"Oh settle down," grandmother chided. "We're out of wine – good wine at any rate. Go, fetch me another glass," this she ordered of Margaery's mother, Alerie Tyrell née Hightower, who said naught about being treated like a common serving girl. "Yes, mother," she only said, leaving the solar in haste.

"I would be thrilled to see our little rose raised so high," grandmother continued, giving Margaery what passed for a tender look and a gentle pat on the hand, "but let us not fool ourselves – 'tis not Margaery that has Renly Baratheon so enamored."

"- do not interrupt me," she said before Lord Mace could so much as draw breath to refute. "In truth if it were up to me, I would give your son a castle of his very own to rival Harrenhal with a thousand stable boys," grandmother continued with a croon of glee.

"To see the Baratheons plunge themselves into civil war while the knives close in around them, honestly I never expected to live to see such a day!"

"No. Your son was presumptuous – Renly must have buggered out whatever sense once lay within Loras for Loras to promise him the swords of the reach, and Loras must have done the same to Renly for Renly to even consider it, let alone claim the Iron Throne on the strength of such words!"

"Grandmother," Margeary piped up, so as to spare her father another humiliation. "If we are not to declare for either of the Baratheons, then for whom? Lord Lannister? Lord Tully? Lord Stark?" Margaery shuddered delicately as she said those names, as if the thought of marriage for the sake of something so mercenary as a martial alliance were something she preferred not allow to sit upon her tongue or interrupt her gentle thoughts.

Grandmother just as clearly did not buy it for a moment, though she smiled upon her as her eyes rolled with exaggerated exasperation. "Of course not! Don't emulate your father, silly girl." Margaery bowed her head at that, though she heard the lack of steel in her grandmother's tone.

"No we shall stay out of this mess for the time being. Let others come to Highgarden, if they wish to have our banners. To bleed Redwynes and Hightowers and Tyrells... or even Florents, because of a scrap of parchment sworn by two men who not long ago fought against us – ha! And 'tis not as if the Lannisters are any better."

"No, indeed," grandmother finished, voice smug and thick with glee. "Let them cut each other down while we grow stronger still!"

Notes:

Yes, Stannis can lay it on a bit thick when thinking about how he only does things for duty and never expects anything in return.

Loyalty to Stannis is centered on those houses who have more to fear from Dornish or Reach ambitions, and are thus willing to go with Stannis because he is a proven commander and worried that Renly is a puppet of the Reach. He is more accepted than canon, but he's not particularly loved.

Renly did not go to Highgarden for a reason. Namely, in canon, he is usurping his brother's claim to Kingship... who is confined to Dragonstone and alienating himself from Westeros by accepting Melisandre. Renly can afford a big coronation in The Reach. Here, his brother is not only gathering some support, but doing so in the Stormlands. Renly cannot afford to declare himself King at Highgarden in these circumstances. Instead, a bit of a rush job, some hasty promises, and then to his seat to take control of Lords.

Which means that Highgarden isn't privy to the discussion. Oops.