Cressen II

Lord Robert sailed into Shipbreaker Bay on a captured vessel, greeted by unseasonably still waters, a host of cheering men and three Baratheons. He had taken for himself the flagship of the Grafton fleet, Cressen saw, a towering triple decked war galley propelled by three-hundred oars, crawling with ballistae and armed with catapults both fore and aft. Cressen knew not what the ship had been christened in the dockyards of Gulltown, but a new name had been painted over the old in huge golden letters: "FURY".

There was no safe port for such a ship, thus Robert was denied the conspicuous landing he might have hoped for. Instead he was rowed over in a longboat to the shore, where a mass of his soldiers waited, ignoring the high surf that crashed into their knees. Robert grinned and shouted gleeful words lost to the wind, before throwing himself from the boat into chest high water. It said much about the young man he could even stand in it, let alone walk a slow straight path to the shore… only to be knocked by an especially vindictive wave, face-down into the sand as he took his first steps onto his home country in ten years.

The boy makes the best of it though, Cressen had to admit, he knelt with the water crashing around him, to kiss the sand of the Stormlands. Cressen could hear the grinding of Stannis' teeth at the display, but the men saw no reason for mockery. They whooped in welcome and surrounded their brave young lord, lifting him (with difficulty, if anything Robert was seemed even taller than reports and measurements had described) to deposit him before Cressen and his brothers.

"Brother," Stannis began in a stately manner, "we are overjoyed to have you re-"

"Piss on that!" Robert roared, as he grabbed Stannis into a crushing bear hug, releasing him with a tremendous clap on the back. "Stannis you old devil, where's your bloody propriety! Not only do I see no tearful maidens full of admiration here to greet me – just a bunch of hoary old soldiers – you don't even offer me your tender embraces to make up for it! Here, watch. Renly!"

The handsome lad ran to his brother without a flicker of shyness, to be scooped up and raised high into the air, prompting delighted laughter from the boy and renewed cheers from the spectators. Robert set Renly down and ruffled his hair, if anyone else were to do that the boy would be furious, and set it to rights in moments. But not Robert. It was his turn to be welcomed now as Robert moved along the line.

"Maester, how I've missed my dear clucking mother!" Like Stannis, Cressen received an embrace, albeit a tenderer one. Still those great trunks crushed the wind from him with a gasp. "I see you've done a fine job caring for my brothers in my absence, and I suppose I must thank you for organising this rabble I see before me."

The men about them laughed and nudged one another, slights when heard from Robert's mouth were transformed to honey trickled from his sheer authentic joy, and no one questioned it. At least no one but Stannis, who scowled and gruffly ordered the levies back into ranks.

"It is not I who deserves your thanks my lord. Truly, Ser Stannis has done a fine job in organising the host in anticipation of your return. He has served you well, and so shall they."

"Well we'll see about that won't we, eh Stannis," Robert laughed as he grabbed his brother's shoulder, pulling him roughly to his side, "let's just hope your sense of humour hasn't rubbed off on them. I laughed through the taking of Gulltown you know – when you've gone to war you might learn to smile a bit as well."

"Something to fight for at least." Ser Stannis replied coldly as he extricated himself.

"Pshaw Stannis, I only jest. Now…" Robert moved along the line of waiting lords and knights (those who had come at least), shaking hands and exchanging kisses as they swore to be his men. Cressen followed, expecting as he did that some explanation was required for the presence of the last man shivering spindly limbs in the wind. An ill-favoured mongrel who named himself Roger the Hand, known to the men as Rogered-by-Hand, and to Stannis as the Antler-Prattler.

Poor Roger attempted to kneel, doing so firmly on Lord Estermont's unarmoured foot, prompting the old man to whack at him with his cane with a curse. The incorrigible fool side-stepped and made a deft leap that belied his frail countenance, to prostrate himself at Robert's feet.

"Hold nuncle." Robert laughed gaily, "My lords seem a good deal spryer than when I last saw them if this good-fellow is to be judged. Rise ser, what is your sigil? The knight of monkeys perhaps? Or has my uncle's turtle offended you as a lord sworn to the vows of the heron?" This prompted much merriment from the assembled worthies, whilst the bedraggled churl rose with less grace than he had fallen.

"Nay m'lord, no heron and not a monkey, I've never seen one t' tell the truth so I might be wrong. Men call me Roger the Hand as pleases you: loyaller man you could not find in castle or hut, honest as a septon, quick as the pox, strong as –"

"Enough." Stannis snapped. "His name is Roger true enough. He claims to have served near Felwood my lord, and intermixed in his babble are words you should hear."

"Too right!" Roger answered brightly. "See, must've been, oh I don't know beggin' your pardons my lord but I'm no maester, two-hundred years ago or sommat when that Lord Orys had his way with some particularly lovely Dornish wench whiles on his way down south, and on most of his return his great lordly greatness brought my great-great-great-"

"Stop that noise." Stannis commanded, fuming.

This dynamic could last a span, and before long Stannis may wring the poor fellow's neck. "Perhaps, my lords" Cressen suggested diplomatically, "we should adjourn to the castle. We have been remiss, I think, in depriving Lord Robert respite after his travels. We can discuss such matters at a later council."

"True enough maester," said Robert, still chuckling, "though I am as rested as I shall ever be. If my lords would accompany me, and you, dear lost cousin, we should make our plans with all haste."

The lords of the Stormlands gathered at the great hall found at the very peak of the drum tower. Though some were old, and others bore the scars of battles of song and debilitation, all were men (and of course one woman, the Lady Shyra Errol) powerful in pride; thus each walked the Contrary Steps on their own power to the chamber in which the lords of Storm's End had waged – in general quite astonishingly successful Cressen thought – wars against their foes for millennia uncounted.

More had gathered than he would have thought, Lord Estermont had been quick in his promise, his holding at Greenstone was rich in rocks and honour alike; burly Lord Selwyn, Evenstar of Tarth had brought a force of several hundred bows; Wylde, Buckler, Penrose, Handsome Bolling, Gower the Raper, Peasbury the Skull-Shucker, Lady Errol and Hopeless Horpe, Knight of Death's-Head had come. Though a multitude and from houses of considerable prestige, few ranked amongst the great lords of the Stormlands, and half the seats in the cavernous hall wanted for bottoms.

Between Robert and Roger though, the council more than made up for the lost energy.

"You see, your lordlinesses, while I was about doing an honest day's work, paying my dues as t'were, there should come to my soil some gents out of Felwood. And I swear by dear Orys, may he rest in pieces, and that's the word of Baratheon blood no word of a lie-"

"Yes, yes coz," said Robert who seemed to have taken to the fellow with far greater fondness than Stannis had thus far displayed, "no doubt. But what did these gentlemen say?"

"Well if you'll pardon me m'lord, but I was gettin' to that point, straight as an arrow. See they were 'outsiders' of Lord Fell they put it, watching his army like flies around cows arse, and they come to say hello, no doubt cause they reckoned they owed me some homage, but me, I was straight with 'em, said I weren't in truth the lord of these parts, though as you folk can plainly tell me and the young lord 'ere could be twins, so their confusion was to be understood." The fool caught the glare Stannis gave him and hurriedly continued. "Anywhichways m'lords the swells, one of 'em was one of Lord Fell's bastards, swear on my soul, when they saw that no doubt I'm a Baratheon man, throughin and throughout, and was soon about to stand all of them on their heads for their treasons, well that bastard bastard of Fell, he becomes mighty sore, and goes and kills my coos. Wonderful beasts they were too, not a horn amongst them, they had antlers, Seven strike me down if I lie, a present from the storm gods to my ancestor and yours-"

"No doubt" said Robert, "you were born with the very same antlers yourself, and the story of your birth is another miracle to be told in time." He waited for the laughter to die down before gently proceeding, "But after they killed your 'coos' what happened?"

"Well," said Roger, clearly relishing in the interruptions, "they killed my blessed coos, and burned down my castle – near the size of this one in a very factual way – and in it were my dear wife, the image of the Maiden I swear to you, but twice as frigid, and my dear worthless sons. Cut 'em down as they run out." For the first time the fool's voice wavered and a silence settled on the table. "Cut 'em down." he repeated.

Cressen surprised himself as he placed his hand on the wretch's shoulder. He had heard the story before, yet the relative lack of embellishment in this telling was far worse in hearing.

"I promise you," Lord Tarth rumbled, "your sons shall be avenged."

"No doubt my lord. No doubt. See as I figure it, a man's got a right to vengeance, and it was a mighty mistake for the Fell bastard to come and do for mine, whiles letting me live to see it. And old Roger here," the Hand tapped his nose, "is not without friends nor kin, no doubt about't. Now these fine folk did as I lordly commanded, and soon they were poking around the army as it were camped, for news of it all. And they comes to me and says, 'well Roger, this Fell fellow, he's a tramping to meet with some other folk who are all too keen to kiss the saggy left bollock of royalty, and those being that Lord Cafferen and Grandison as well.'"

"None of this is news," Lady Errol sighed, "anyone with half a brain could have guessed as much, though perhaps that explains why you required an investigation."

"Could be, could be, your ladyship", Roger agreed amiably, bobbing his head, "but these folk found sommat more than perhaps yous knew, see I seen the army of Fell, and it stands a mite smaller than this fine soldiery brought here to serve His Grace Robert-"

"Robert is not king," Stannis cut in curtly, "he is your lord, not Your Grace."

"Very well your lord, the word about the camp was that their armies was to meet at Summerhall, cursed a place as could be found in these lands you'll know yourself – why my father was a servant there when the old king ordered-"

"Summerhall." The word ashes on the tongue.

"A good a spot as any." Lord Penrose mused, "From Summerhall they may join up with any army that marches from the Reach, join with the Dornish to threaten the Marcher Lords into compliance from North and South, or simply raise the standard there for other royalists."

"They will not." Stannis replied bluntly. "As the Antler-Prattler says, each of their hosts is somewhat smaller than our own. They will seek to combine their strength, and from there march on Storm's End where we will find ourselves utterly overmatched, and trapped. Fell thinks too much of himself to ally with the Tyrells, and Cafferen will never countenance the Dornish. To share the laurels betwixt three is preferable to a dozen."

"How many men will they have between them?" asked Gower.

A pall fell as each man made his calculations. "Ten-thousand perhaps," said Stannis firmly, Cressen saw the men about him look in surprise at the young knight's assertion. "Four-thousand under Fell, the remainder split between the other hosts. The difference in heavy horse will be even more marked. If Connington's castellan can bring out his own levy in time, that will increase by near half again."

"Lord Morrigen can be convinced to keep Griffin's Roost bottled up with the right inducement," Robert said slowly, "and my brother is prone to gloomy exaggeration anyhow. We are by no means doomed here friends."

"Ser Stannis is most likely right, my lord." Cressen felt obligated to say, ignoring the scowl the knight shot him. "It tallies well with the records I keep."

"Be that as it may maester, but it will not matter."

"What do you propose Lord Robert?" asked the acne ridden Rolph Buckler anxiously.

Robert looked at the sheepskin map stretched across the table, and the figurines that marked their own host. Five-thousand men, and a further six-hundred knights, primarily sworn to Storm's End. Robert stalked around the table, ignoring the looks he garnered as he loomed right over the petite Lady Errol to examine the western edge of the Stormlands. He looked at the nervous lords and the commoner at his ease and gave a mischievous smile, which Cressen remembered from a hundred childhood schemes and follies.

"Something bold."

They dined together that night, Robert, Stannis, Renly and Cressen. His attendance was not necessary, but he sensed the eldest two were grateful for his buffering presence. Ultimately it largely went unneeded, Renly burbled happily throughout the meal about his exploits around the castle in Robert's absence, while Robert regaled him in wide-eyed rapture the tale of his taking of Gulltown. Cressen had attempted to pull Stannis into the conversation, but the young knight was unusually dour, even by the standard Cressen had come to expect. His only comment was to ask how Robert knew the main force would not unduly suffer at the gates of the city when Robert launched his plan. This left Robert in ill-temper, a sulk that even Renly noticed, which lasted till the last sweet had been consumed amid tense pleasantries.

Once Renly was sent escorted to bed, Robert made to follow, no doubt to join the army encamped outside, when Cressen moved to halt him.

"My lord, I would ask you to stay a moment." Cressen caught the longing look he gave the door and smiled, "I promise I shall not keep you from your rest for long."

"Very well maester, you may speak." Robert plopped himself in a chair beside Stannis, and helped himself to another goblet of the strongwine he had gulped down throughout the meal alone of the companions at the table.

Seeing them sat together as they were Cressen was reminded of a hundred scoldings in long years past, Stannis quietly angry, and Robert straining to escape, to commit more mischief no doubt. Ah I am a foolish dotard to think I do, but it is good to see them together once more, though neither may enjoy it as I do.

"I have received a letter from the Gates of the Moon my lord. Lord Arryn has marched West some days past and expects to pass the Bloody Gate any day now. This I informed the council. However he has sent other news in weeks past I thought should remain between us here."

"Do go on Cressen," Robert yawned, scratching his ear, "lay this mystery to bed soon, else I'm like to sleep in it first."

"Very well my lord. Lord Arryn writes that to his sorrow he has received word from King's Landing that his nephew Ser Elbert has been executed. The Hand wrote to say he would have sent a head as some comfort, but unfortunately it was burned away, flesh and bone."

"Shame," said Robert, "Elbert wasn't all that bad. Good fighter you know, but had a reputation for carrying on with the men if you catch my drift. Bit unnatural if you ask me when he had all the maidens of the Vale begging for it, and Jon wanted heirs so badly."

"Who stands to rule after Lord Arryn now?" Stannis asked.

"From what I can tell from the genealogies we keep," Cressen frowned, "the husband of his niece, a Ser Denys Arryn, though that seems to be all of the nearest of relatives."

"Not quite," said Robert wiping his mouth, "Denys had a son this past year by his shrew of a wife, gods know how the gallant fool managed to get up that drawbridge. But the boy is sickly the maesters say, too full of sanguin moistures, and prone to convulsions. They blister him as often as they dare, but suffice to say Jon's line is hardly secure."

"Hence what he writes next. Lord Arryn has been in communication with Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun these last weeks – the Lord of the Trident is feeling somewhat insecure, shall we say. Brandon's death shocked him deeply, he writes, he was ever fond of the boy, and fears the King means to turn his eye to Riverrun soon."

"No doubt." sniffed Robert. "Does he also write that Valyria is a bit hot at this time of year and that he's noticed Harrenhal is looking somewhat lopsided?"

"No, my lord," said Cressen seriously. "He and Lord Arryn have come to an arrangement. Lord Hoster wishes that his arrangement with House Stark be upheld, and Lord Eddard stand for his brother's engagement to his daughter, the Lady Catelyn."

Robert burst out laughing, banging the table so hard Stannis' cup fell full of water onto his lap, leaving him to curse through gritted teeth.

"Ned will not like that, I promise you." Robert guffawed, unable to contain his mirth. "He's prickly, and won't want his brother's leavings. He'll tell that ginger trout no, and go on mooning after his lady love down south, no matter he's scarcely spoken a word to her."

"Be that as it may, Lord Arryn has accepted on his behalf. They are to marry as soon as Lord Stark's host reaches Riverrun."

Cressen was surprised to hear Stannis speak in answer. "Arryn has no right to make such a pact. When Stark left for Winterfell he ceased to be a ward of the Eyrie."

"I had the same thought ser, which is somewhat pertinent to my next parcel of news. This letter had arrived a week past, and contained another instruction. Lord Arryn wrote that Tully had offered the hand of his youngest daughter to Robert here."

Lord Robert turned completely white, looking for all the world as if he'd just died and would be very grateful if he were allowed to get on with it. If anything Stannis looked even more infuriated. "What?" Robert finally choked. "He-he has no fucking right that sour bastard. That girl – you don't know the both of you the rumours about her. Why she wasn't seen for weeks, I'll – no, absolutely not. Besides I'm already betrothed, he should bloody well remember. Lyanna's missing and I'll find her no matter what, though I should have to search a dozen hells and war for the rest of my life. I'll do it without the swords of a gulping fish too!"

"Peace my Lord," Cressen said soothingly, he had expected something of this reaction. That Tully girl must be something fierce to get him into such a state though. "I thought much the same. If you'll forgive me, I wrote in your name informing Lord Arryn that the decision was up to you. He had no basis to make such a treaty without your knowledge, nor would I try to convince you otherwise at his request. He seems to have reconciled himself to that, and in this last letter he suggests that upon the word of Elbert's death he came to an alternate agreement, though I sense he is none to happy to bear it himself. He shall marry the young Lysa Tully in your stead."

"Good," Robert huffed, "good. Thank you maester, you have served me well once more. The bloody gall of the man. Lucky he didn't ask for you instead, right Stannis?"

A muscle pulsed in Stannis' cheek.

Lucky for them both. "There are only two more things remaining my lord, if you'll hear me."

"Ye gods maester, I shall be here all night at this rate, and married to every woman whose dimwit father has a rusted sword!"

Cressen had to laugh, "No, but there is a final matter in this last letter. Lord Arryn begs you to consider what he has wrote, and the importance of remembering your bloodline." He gave an unintentional glance at Stannis. "He asks that you think well on how this war is to be won, and who shall follow the king should you be successful. He wishes to give you one last piece of counsel for the love he bears you: that wars are not won when all blood has been shed."

Robert looked at him angrily, and pushed his chair back to clatter on the stones, "Not Rhaegar." He spat, "Never. Nor will I yield to kiss the ground at young Viserys' feet, and spend my life awaiting his vengeance. Let every Targaryen go the way of the Reynes and Castameres for all I care, let them follow their bloody lizards to the abyss."

The question still hung in the air; if not Rhaegar, then who? But Cressen sensed he had reached the end of his master's patience. He had a notion, and he suspected Stannis did too, but Robert would have to reach his own conclusion in his own time.

Robert made to leave until Stannis interrupted, visibly uncomfortable. "Hold, if you would my lord."

"What now?" Robert snapped, whirling about to face him, his pallor well and truly risen. "Is this the moment you tell me the Black Dread has risen from the grave, or that the Others have parked an army outside and demand we find wives for each and every one of them. Speak!"

Stannis answered in rough tones in his return, "There was yet one more item in the maester's list, but he need not explain. I have a gift for you my lord, if you would like to see it."

"Whyever not." Robert said, exasperated, throwing his hands in the air. "Your company is clearly all I desire at present. Come maester, let us go see what my brother has in store." He stormed out in long strides, followed by a grim-faced Stannis and Cressen scurrying behind. This was not how it was supposed to be. Yet how otherwise?

Robert eventually let Stannis overtake him, likely once he had realised that he could neither escape, nor lead as he had no idea to where they were headed. As they walked in silence Cressen wondered at the man before him. Had Robert truly changed so much? Stannis had not, though perhaps Cressen would not have noticed being ever-present in his company. But the man returned from the Vale was not the boy who had left, that was for certain. Robert had always been confident aye and assertive, in that he was identical to Renly, who's boldness could bring the sternest man to tears of laughter. But Robert… He seemed to vacillate between that charming boy and another man, whose japes had become taunts possessed of a worthy edge. Was that war, loss, or something else?

Once more Stannis led the way to the armoury, though this time empty. Even the indefatigable Noye required rest it seemed, and the forge fires were banked. But there, waiting… Cressen knew all that a maester should know of the tools of war, but he had to admit, this was a sight unlike any other. What hung in pride of place at the centre of the room was a suit of armour. Its measurements had been provided by letter from the master-of-arms in the Eyrie, but in all else Donal Noye was its sole architect. It was thicker than was usual in such things, perhaps a fifth of an inch of dark grey metal at its front. The interlocked plates were lobstered steel, in the style of the best smiths of the Iron Islands, and carefully distributed by a master's hand. Most striking of all was the helm, so intricate it seemed more worthy of a tourney than battle, a huge great helm with a narrow slit for a visor, and atop it a pair of gilded iron antlers, that added another foot to its height. The man for whom it had been made was so tall however there was little chance of a foes blade catching upon them. Even unworn, the suit projected an air of such threatening menace that even Robert was taken aback.

"Oh brother, I have done you wrong." he breathed, approaching, and Stannis almost smiled. "I had plate brought from the Vale of course, but this… No man could stand against such a creation."

Stannis opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by a triumphant shout. He and Cressen moved about the plate to see what Robert had found. 'Of course' thought Cressen miserably. 'Of course.'

There on a nearby table, wrapped in purple velvet was a weapon that made the armour behind seem tawdry and half-finished in its construction. It was the essence of its kind, as if it was the first of its craft built by some mighty god that was delivered to human hands. For one thing it was huge, more accurately a maul than a hammer. Its haft was more than five feet in length, oak wrapped in black steel by some cunning process of the smith, with ten golden bands spaced about it and a grip of oiled black leather. But it was the head drew the eye in the irresistible manner of a man's gaze was unfailingly brought to a crouched shadowcat. On the rear was a single long hook, and at the fore a head of blunt interlocked spikes, all forged from the same heavy piece of steel. There was no loaf in Westeros to compare it to in size, Cressen thought, as his mind scrambled for some comparison; no doubt in that dark armoury lay the single most unique weapon forged since The Fall. And Robert reached to take it up. No doubt it was an impressive sight, but Cressen was not watching Robert.

Stannis' face went through a startling transformation at that moment, from shock to (was that fear?) outrage to utter defeat in the space of a second. Then, complete stillness, with only the grinding of teeth shouting any protest. Say something. Tell him. My sweet sullen boy, you must for your own good, and for his. You have done your duty to Robert a thousand times over; you cannot begrudge yourself this my poor young soldier. But Stannis did not say a word, and though Cressen struggled to keep his peace, he did so regardless, knowing to do otherwise would cause greater strife and garner him the undying hatred of the son who would never let Cressen claim him as his own. And it broke the old man's heart.