Blood. So much blood. Blood on his hands. Blood on Renly's hands.

Whose blood is it? Mine or his?

Does it matter?

A dagger. Robert's hunting knife, the one Jon Arryn had given him as a boy. The knife was in Stannis' hand, not Renly's.

Did I …

Why?

And why was the knife in his hand at all? He had given it to Ned Stark, he remembered precisely. This exact dagger. He tried to run his hand through the carvings on the handle to be absolutely certain, but his fingers met only the bite of sharp steel. It turned out he was holding the blade, not the handle of the knife.

That must mean …

Renly? Why?

But he knew the answer already, knew it even before the question was asked. As he knew, without looking, that the blood was pouring from his chest, not Renly's.

"Your Grace!" A voice was calling for him, insistently.

Your Grace. You mock me with that title, while you're trying to steal my throne. Is waiting too hard? Are you so used to being handed things that are not yours by right you thought you could do the same with the realm? The kingdom is not your plaything, Renly. The crown is not a garment you can put on to parade and preen. You are not ready to be king. Not yet.

"Your Grace!" It was not Renly's voice calling for him, however. Renly was fading further and further away, impervious to his brother's distress. Was it Ned's voice?

Ned, why did Renly have the knife? Robert's hunting knife, yours now. Did you give it to him?

Do you think he'll make a better king than I have been? Is that why …

Not you too, Ned!

But it was not Ned's voice calling for him either. A hand was shaking his shoulder now, persistently. "Your Grace," the voice repeated, the tone gentler this time. Stannis opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the anxious face of Balon Swann of the Kingsguard.

His hands. He had to see them. He brought both hands closer to his eyes. They were clean, spotless, not a drop of blood on them. His eyes wandered through the bed. No knife. He searched under the pillow and blanket. Still nothing.

The Kingsguard. Maybe he has the knife on him. Maybe he was sent by Renly.

But Ser Balon was empty-handed. He was staring at Stannis with no expression on his face at all, the previous anxiety wiped out completely from his countenance. A well-trained Kingsguard, Stannis thought, trained to pretend nothing was amiss, even when the king was behaving in a strange way. What Balon Swann was actually thinking, Stannis could already predict.

"What are you doing in my room? I did not summon you to come in. Your duty is to stand guard outside the door," Stannis said testily.

Ser Balon flushed. "Forgive me, Your Grace. But I heard … noises, a commotion. I thought Your Grace was in danger, so I came in immediately."

"You must have seen I am alone and sleeping once you came in. Why didn't you leave immediately?"

"I thought perhaps … perhaps Your Grace has taken ill, and a maester might be needed."

"I am not ill!" Stannis replied through gritted teeth. But there was a maester he needed. Cressen. He needed to speak to Maester Cressen.

Stannis was out of bed and walking out of the room so fast, Ser Balon was having trouble catching up. "Who is it you wish to see, Your Grace? I will fetch him myself," Ser Balon said breathlessly, trying to keep pace with Stannis. Stannis ignored the question and continued walking. He was a few feet away from Cressen's room when he stopped walking abruptly, standing still in the corridor.

Maester Cressen had been entrusted by Steffon Baratheon for the care of all three of his sons. Robert was dead, but Stannis and Renly were both still alive. He could not put Cressen in a position where the maester would be forced to choose. Stannis or Renly.

You're afraid, a voice whispered in his head. Afraid that he will choose Renly over you.

Nonsense! He countered obstinately.

Admit it, the voice persisted. Deep down you're afraid that like everyone else in the world, Cressen prefers your brother.

But the maester had chosen me, and Dragonstone, when he could have stayed at Storm's End with Renly.

Only because of pity. If he chooses you over Renly, it is only because he knows he will be the only one, only because he knows that no one else will do so.

The argument raged in his head. Stannis changed his mind a few times, walking back and forth between his bedchamber and the maester's room. Balon Swann followed him silently, saying nothing, except to whisper something to a palace guard, who left quickly.

If only Davos were here. But no, he had no right to wish for Davos' counsel, he who had led Davos and his sons to their terrible fate. Ned. He would have to ask Ned. Was his suspicion of Renly completely unfounded? Stannis started walking more quickly.

"Your Grace, are you going outside?" Balon Swann finally spoke. Stannis merely glared at him in reply.

"You are not wearing a cloak, and it is cold outside," Ser Balon continued. "Would you like me to fetch your cloak for you?"

A cloak. Stannis almost laughed. What does it matter?

"You never feel the cold, brother, because you have ice flowing in your veins, not blood," Renly had said to him once, when things were a lot more contentious between them. He thought things had been better between them, somewhat less contentious than the way it had always been. Even if they did not share the warmth of other brotherly relationships, at least they had reached some sort of understanding. Or so Stannis had thought, for a little while. But the gods must be laughing at him now, at his gullibility and utter naivety.

It would have troubled him a lot less, the betrayal he suspected Renly was contemplating, if things had been the way they always were between him and Renly, before … certain conversations. Before certain revelations were shared.

We spoke like brothers ought to. Did that not mean anything to you, Renly? Nothing at all?

No, the gods were not only laughing at him. They were also celebrating. Celebrating how they had made an utter fool out of him, mocking him all the way. All the things you have always wished for, have it, have it for a little while, only for them to be cruelly snatched away again.

The pain of losing something fervently wished for was far, far worse than the pain of never having it in the first place, Stannis finally grasped, a little too late. Even if they were things he had never admitted he wanted, even to himself.

But how could the gods he had ceased to believe still had power over him? He had judged them unworthy of his worship a long, long time ago, the day Windproud sank. The day the sea had taken his mother and father.

Perhaps the gods had judged him too. Judged him as being unworthy of anything.

That is nothing new. The world has passed that judgment on me long before the gods.

Stannis laughed. A long, harsh, bitter, laugh. Ser Balon was startled, but pretended not to be, his eyes resolutely avoiding looking at Stannis.

Barristan Selmy was making his way with haste towards them, followed by the palace guard Balon Swann was whispering to earlier. "Go fetch a cloak for His Grace," he quickly gave the order to Balon Swann. He turned to Stannis and said, "Your Grace, who do you want to see at this hour? I can send a guard to fetch them."

"It's quicker if I go there myself," Stannis replied.

"And where is there, Your Grace?"

Why was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard speaking to him like he was an errant child? Stannis resented Ser Barristan's tone, resented it very much. Ser Barristan had served Robert loyally, he knew. But Ser Barristan had also served the Mad King loyally before that. If Renly were to be king, Stannis was certain Ser Barristan would serve him loyally too.

The question was, would Ser Barristan take active steps to put Renly on the throne? And what about the other members of the Kingsguard? Stannis had sent two of them to Dragonstone to guard Selyse and Shireen. Could those two be trusted?

Dale Seaworth is there, Stannis recalled with some relief. Davos' eldest son. And Ser Axell, Selyse's own uncle.

Barristan Selmy was repeating his question. "I'm going to see my Hand, Ser Barristan," Stannis finally replied, impatient. "Is that a problem?"

Ser Barristan was shaking his head, his expression inscrutable. "No, Your Grace. Not at all. But we should wait until Ser Balon comes back with your cloak. It will not do if you were to catch a chill, especially now." He paused. "Then I would have failed in my duty to protect you, Your Grace."

"And you have always done your duty, haven't you, Ser Barristan?"

"I try to, Your Grace," Barristan Selmy replied, his expression still inscrutable.

"Your duty to the rightful king, or to whoever happens to be sitting on the throne?" Stannis asked, his voice full of scorn.

Ser Barristan did not reply. Balon Swann was back with Stannis' cloak, which he handed over to the Lord Commander. He was staring at Stannis, but Ser Barristan whispered something to him, and he quickly went away.

"Your Grace, if you still insist on going to Tower of the Hand, will you wear the cloak, at least?" He said, holding out the cloak to Stannis. "For my sake, and my peace of mind," he added, his tone almost pleading. Ser Barristan's hand grazed Stannis' own as he handed over the cloak, and he held Stannis' hand for a little while before letting go.

Stannis was suddenly fully and completely aware, as if he was only just awakened from a dream. He swiftly realized what it must look like. The king, wandering the palace at night, without his cloak, insisting on going outside. Even Robert in his drunken days probably had not gone as far as that. Stannis could already imagine the tongues wagging. The Mad King's name would be invoked.

Stannis was cursing himself, his lapse in judgment, his weakness, his dependence on others. I do not need them, Cressen or Davos or Ned. I can decide for myself.

He did not need Ser Barristan either, he told himself, but there were questions he needed to ask the Lord Commander. Before he decided on a course of action.

"I am going back to my room," he said resolutely to Barristan Selmy.

"Would you like me to send for Lord Stark, Your Grace?"

"Yes. But first, I need answers to a few questions. From you, Ser Barristan."

They spoke for almost an hour, Stannis and Barristan Selmy. Ned was already waiting outside Stannis' bedchamber by the time Stannis and Ser Barristan were finished.

"I'm sorry about the lateness of the hour," Stannis said gruffly to Ned.

"It is my duty to attend to you at any time of the day, Your Grace," Ned said solemnly. "Is it … is it about the matter you wanted me to investigate? I'm afraid I have yet to receive firm confirmation. There was indeed a storm that could have delayed Lord Redwyne's fleet from arriving in time to assist Ser Davos' fleet, but the magnitude of the storm, and how long it would have delayed Lord Redwyne's fleet, are still matters in dispute."

Stannis nodded. "As I expected. They would not have made it too obvious."

Ned looked extremely puzzled. "But why? I can't believe that Lord Tyrell is planning to cast his lot with the Lannisters. Not after his daughter has married Lord Renly, the heir to the throne. It is too late for him to change side now, surely?"

Stannis shook his head. "He is not changing side. He is merely trying to redefine what "our" side means, in a way that will be most advantageous for his daughter, for himself, and for his House."

Realization dawned on Ned. "But Renly … would he –"

"I don't know! I don't know what Renly will do!" Stannis was distraught to realize that he had lost his hard-fought composure. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Ned was holding out a goblet of lemon water to him. Stannis took it, and said, "If this is Robert standing before you, would you be handing him a goblet of wine instead?"

"Robert never needed me for that," Ned said sadly. "He could drink to oblivion all on his own."

"Oblivion." Stannis paused, a long pause finally broken by Ned's cough. "I never saw the attraction of that," Stannis continued. "But now …"

"You are not Robert," Ned said insistently.

"No," Stannis replied. "And I am not Renly either."

"And all the better for it," Ned said softly.

Stannis remembered his dream. And the knife. Robert's hunting knife, the one he had given to Ned. He had suspected even Ned Stark. Looking at Ned now, he thought of how ridiculous his suspicion seemed now.

Who's to say I am not wrong about Renly too?

But the matter of the storm and Lord Redwyne's fleet, combined with the strange conversation he had with Renly, and the news imparted to Stannis by Ser Barristan …

"I had a very interesting conversation with Renly," Stannis said to Ned.

"Oh?"

Stannis recounted the conversation. Ned's face was calm throughout, his expression composed. But Stannis knew he was thinking the same thing that Stannis was thinking.

"So you think –" Ned started to say.

"Yes," Stannis interrupted. "What do you think?"

Ned sighed. "It seems to me that Renly has not quite made up his mind. About which path to take. Hence … all the questions."

Stannis bristled. "Does he take me for a fool? Asking me all those questions and expecting me not to suspect anything?"

"Renly is not the wisest and most careful of men," Ned reminded him. "What will you do?" He asked, after some hesitation.

"What can I do? They have not made any direct or open move, nothing I can put them on trial for."

"But if you wait –"

"Then they might succeed. I know, Ned." Stannis let out another bitter laugh. "Perhaps it will not be so bad, Renly as king. The realm might welcome it. Even the Lannisters might bow down to my brother's ample charm and agree to give up Joffrey's claim to the throne."

"If Renly has not yet decided, then perhaps you could still convince him. Speak with him, make your case," Ned said, imploringly.

Plead with him, you mean? Beg my little brother not to betray me. Why should I?

Stannis snorted. "I doubt I can convince Renly of anything."

"But Your Grace –"

"I am sending Renly and Margaery to Dragonstone," Stannis interrupted, his tone firm and resolute. "Renly is my heir, he must be well-protected."

The kind of protection only possible through locked doors and absolutely no communication with anyone, he added silently.