Cressen I

Cressen found Stannis at the sea wall. Of course, wherever else? Yet the aging maester had looked there last, first checking the castle solar, the castellan's private quarters, the armoury and virtually every other room in the vast drum tower. Thus it was night when Cressen finally climbed the inner steps, one hundred feet in total, though he persevered nonetheless, taking care not to slip on the stone smooth as polished glass. There he found Stannis, yet even then Cressen had to further walk eighty feet to reach the young knight, across great grey slabs that mocked the powers of men who came after.

Stannis did not turn to face him. He simply stared down a hundred feet of smooth round wall, unbroken by crack or crevice, down to where the sea tore at the black cliffs below in the ceaseless fury only a god could unleash. Lightning thundered above the waves, briefly illuminating Stannis' face. It was set against the water, almost defiant. The light momentarily traced the deep frown lines between his eyes, the enlarged tendons of the jaw - clenched as tightly as that of a man undergoing waking amputation. Cressen knew this to be all too true, the boy he had raised pondered which stretch of the duty he held so dear should be sawn from him, leaving a bloody stump that would never heal.

"I did not summon you." Stannis did not sound angry; he spoke as one merely stating an inconvenient truth.

"No Ser, you did not." Cressen knew it was better not to make excuses with Stannis, but carefully ensured he did not sound apologetic all the same.

"Yet you came anyway." The knight turned to Cressen; his blue eyes invisible in the black skull the sliver of moonlight showed. "I will tolerate no more of your subtle remonstrances maester, you climbed those steps for nothing."

"As you say." Yet Cressen waited patiently for Stannis to say more, standing stubbornly as the rocks against the next rush of the tide.

"Yet I wonder whether you hear." Stannis snapped, "I know my duty maester. Robert is my liege lord and Aerys is my king."

"Robert is your brother."

"And the King names me cousin in his letter. Did you earn your golden link tabulating what manner of betrayal of one's kin exceeds another?" Stannis huffed as he turned towards the tide and its ghosts once more.

"So Storm's End is to be held against its rightful lord?"

"Storm's End will be held by its castellan – it may occur to you that is. Or not, it scarcely matters." Stannis hardly seemed to be listening to him anymore. I must make him see sense, Cressen thought, I owe that to his father at the very least. Aye, and to him.

"Men will name you traitor," he warned, "the usurper of your brother's seat. And Renly will never forgive you."

"Renly is six. He has not forgiven me for being served porridge yesterday. He knows as much of rule as he does Robert, so do not throw Renly in my face."

Cressen knew he had touched a sore spot for Stannis, he who had ever been jealous of the affection for which Robert and Renly seemed to hold for one another, a bond in which he had little share. Indeed Robert's last letter had been primarily full of japes and tall tales for Cressen to read to the youngest Baratheon and was accompanied by a superb toy of Braavosi make; a wooden puppet shaped as a knight riding a great stag, which could be manipulated to canter about the floor in a stunningly lifelike manner, alongside heaps of the velvets and silks to which the boy was so partial. For Stannis were reserved two cursory lines asking after his health and imploring him to ensure Robert's favourite hawk was exercised. Nonetheless Cressen had to make him understand.

"Robert trusted you. He left you to guard his hall, his lands and his brother. Would you betray that trust, your word? You are a better man than that Ser, to forget your blood when you should well remember the words of your house. Ours is the Fury, Stannis, ours, not yours to hold over Robert in pique."

For the first time Stannis looked truly angry as he turned the full force of his glare on Cressen, but the aging maester made no move to back down. At least he looks at me.

"You go too far old man, you no kin of ours. Though I am fond of you-" Stannis said without a trace of fondness in his voice, "- you have forgotten yourself. I remember what I swore to my brother. Never have I pretended as much."

"Then-"

"Then why am I here? Why am I suffering your council? Perhaps you do not know me as well as you think, Maester Cressen, that you would wantonly name me turncoat. It may be because I already know my mind and do not need your vain attempts to palliate the choice with your paeans to higher callings. I am the castellan of Storm's End and no more." Abruptly Stannis turned and walked back toward the castle, away from the spot where he and Robert witnessed the avarice of an unjust world. Cressen scurried after him, leaving the gods to their war – like the young man it was the grudges of men to which he turned his mind. He supposed he should be thankful that Stannis would not take arms against his brother, but the relief was clabbered sour in his stomach. He wished in vain that Stannis had chosen out of the bonds of affection, in memory of the comfort Robert had once provided to his brother on the hour of their parent's deaths, that love should animate Stannis for once, not cold duty. For the first time ever the maester was disappointed with his charge, and disgusted with himself, when he hoped for more.

Cressen caught up with him at the bottom of the stair. Perhaps he waited for me, the maester wondered impotently. More likely Stannis had simply taken the stairs cautiously where Robert and Renly flew with abandon. But they did not speak until through the gates of the massive keep, a round tower that burst from the earth like a great grey weed. It was so large that there was no record of quite how many rooms it contained, with all counts varying improbably wildly. For all that it was practically impossible to lose oneself; each level was formed in concentric circles that spiralled inwards to the Contrary Steps, the helical staircase that ran widdershins from the deepest undercroft to the parapets five-hundred feet above the sea.

Stannis acknowledged the guards holding the late watch with a curt nod and proceeded through the gates of the tower. He was more rigorous in such matters than his great-uncle Ser Harbert had been, maintaining well-manned sentries at all hours and personally overseeing parade and drill with uncompromising rigour. Cressen knew the men complained of Stannis, especially his refusal to countenance gambling and whoring within the castle walls, but should war come to Storm's End they would surely be grateful for their preparedness.

Once out of earshot Stannis began to speak, so suddenly it took Cressen a beat to realise it was to him the orders were addressed. "On the morrow riders are to be sent out to our immediate environs. Every speck of grain, every beast and all useful materiel is to be collected and returned here under strict guard, our granary is too close to bare after this last winter, and I fear we shall have urgent need of it. The peasantry are to be fully compensated forthwith and advised to evacuate to the Rainwood – we are cursed with more silver than bread. You will travel with all monies to be distributed and ensure it is meted out properly. I'll have no wastage, maester, see that the men behave or they shall answer to me." Stannis swiftly continued without waiting for assent. "Once done I want the levy summoned. Every man sworn to hold a weapon in my lord brother's name is to report to Storm's End or be attainted a traitor. Let your ravens fly to every lord and knight for which we have the birds to do the same, no man of ours may claim ignorance of what is to come. My brother has need of an army."

Cressen immediately recognised in the rapidity and certitude of Stannis' commands a flaw which he shared with the elder Baratheon, though he would certainly deny it. Ser Stannis was (to his shame) young and thus liable to youth's intemperance. He will do anything to appear Robert's equal, even when he knows better. Cressen knew he could not easily allay the instinct without wounding the knight's pride, so he must needle cautiously.

"Ser, is this not premature? Your brother is still in the Vale collecting swords. Even were he not, his way is blocked by Gulltown, which will surely declare for the king, Lord Grafton will never consider rebellion while the royal fleet may yet strangle his precious commerce." Stannis made no move to interrupt, so Cressen decided to push further and more bluntly. "You must consider that many of our own banners will surely consider doing the same, especially if summoned to serve a castellan and not their lord?"

There were times Stannis Baratheon threatened to smile, this time he truly did so, thin lipped and wry as it was.

"You have the measure of them well Cressen, yet you edge round the jibe most delicately. Aye, many of our dear lords will squawk their protests. Some will no doubt wait to see the lie of the land before they answer, for the old birds are patient, and above all fear to be plucked should they dare to fly against the wind. That may seem wise, but fearful men are easily moved. The peacocks will laugh at summons from a pup's pup and will no doubt trumpet their refusal. Connington, Grandison, Cafferen and Fell will no doubt declare me traitor - if they have not already - and act too soon for others to follow. They think themselves subtle, but they are transparent, Lord Fell most of all; you have seen the way he treats with me as a simpleton unwise to his mockery. Let them laugh - I believe you told me as a boy that it would be good for my digestion. I plan to be a morsel upon which they shall choke."

Stannis had reached the outer hall but did not turn to his solar as expected, instead he took the winding path that led to the southern yard.

"If nothing else it will allow less time for the Hand to make the threats and promises he has sent hither. Better that they are sooner reminded of the oaths they swore, lest they forget in their convenience."

Cressen scurried to keep up with the knight's long strides. Only one who had known Stannis from birth could have sensed the excitement behind the frown. If only he had learned to laugh as I'd hoped, then perhaps men would follow him as eagerly as they do Robert. Stannis was not without his gifts, he was diligent to the extreme, competent with sword and lance and more cunning than his countenance belied. Cressen had once nursed hopes that he might join the Citadel to forge a chain to match his own, such was the younger Baratheon's dedication to his histories. Alas it was not meant to be. Loath as he was to admit it, Cressen had moulded a man who was soldier to the bone. Aye me and Robert both.

Cressen pained to see how Stannis struggled in his elder brother's shadow. Where Stannis was tall, Robert was greater - if Jon Arryn's letters could be believed he had become a veritable giant. Where Stannis was gifted in arms, Robert as a squire was known to overpower grown knights. Robert's blue eyes and coal black hair gave him a singular rugged beauty. For Stannis they accentuated a seemingly alien face, with its deep crevices and jutting jaw, giving him a certain intensity aye, but for all that an ugliness he did little to alleviate. Men feared and respected Stannis. But they loved Robert. All but me. Robert is my lord and near a son to me. But gods help me I cannot better love the man that stands before me.

The gallery they walked was dark, the clouds strangling the moonlight that might otherwise have slipped through the slits in the tower's outward face, protected as they were from the hurling wind by the great wall. But the two men who walked (if not together, then as knight and maester) as those who knew the path with unshakeable certainty. Cressen had a hopeful inkling that he knew their destination. Indeed he was proved correct when they ignored all doors to their left until the very last.

Donal Noye hammered steel into shape with careful ferocity neither Cressen nor Stannis dared to interrupt. The smith was as big a man as could be expected, and skilled enough that even Stannis had few complaints. He did not drink, nor whore, nor fight. The men japed that Noye was married to his anvil, as only she had demonstrated patience enough to put up with such a surly blackguard. For all that he was well-liked, he had fought with their lord's father on the Stepstones and was gifted with the almost comforting dourness of competence possessed only by those who had spat in the face of bloody death, yet still had the wisdom to lay down their arms once peace erupted. Although Cressen noted the irony in that Noye had never truly done the latter.

When the burly smith had grunted his satisfaction, he plunged the worked blade into a vat of cool water with an explosion of steam. Only then did he turn to face them - not bothering to remove his gloves - with a cursory bow.

"My lords," the blacksmith could not help but betray his curiosity to see the two of them about so late, when the journeymen and apprentices had long departed for their sleep, "what brings you here at such an hour?"

"My brother is soon to return from the Vale, Donal, and we shall have sore need of you in the coming months." Stannis looked at him coolly, "But you are not surprised."

"Word spreads ser, and there is none who can read the signs better than a smith who knows his trade." Donal stepped past the forge to stand face to face with Stannis. "You have ordered more steel in the last week than in the past year alone, it is no wonder men talk."

Stannis gave a small harrumph, but for all that he did not seem displeased. "And you and yours can be relied on."

The smith did not deign to grace the unasked question with a reply, but simply waited for Stannis to make his request.

"War is coming to Storm's End, and it seems I must lead it until my lord returns. I would have it that both he and I are prepared for what is to come. I shall have need of a weapon, and Robert has no doubt outgrown the plate stored for him here. Provide him with something to strike fear into those recalcitrant in their duty. Arms fit for a Baratheon." Cressen could not restrain the slight glow of pride he felt to hear those words.

"Aye, this I can do ser," Noye strode round to an old catalogue, the rarity possessed only by masters of his trade, left open on a nearby bench to reveal the templates for every manner of sword. "I shall craft you a blade that will make traitors shit themselves to see. I can promise you a sword worthy of a song."

Stannis scowl returned with vengeance at the smith's visible agitation. "I have need of a weapon, not a ballad," he snapped, "only fools and savages sing when battle is upon them, and a sword is no meet weapon against plate and mail. Leave your theatre for Robert, I am sure he has the wit to appreciate it. For myself I have ordered a weapon to fell lords and knights – not to provide more empty fodder for glaikit singers, if you would be so good."

Noye returned Stannis' puckered look and muttered through pricked pride as he closed the book with a petulant thump. "And what would the young ser consider adequate for his needs?"

Stannis considered this for a moment and spoke as one weighing each and every syllable, as his eyes fell upon the gear the smith had laid down upon his beloved anvil. "Make me a hammer, smith. Craft me a hammer that no man can stand against."

Donal Noye looked at Stannis' broad shoulders and their stout arms which fell perhaps too long against his torso, as if gauging a horse upon which he was to bet. Cressen was discomfited by the ugly grin cast from broken teeth as the smith moved towards a nearby drafting table. "Aye. That I can do."