The lords who had come with him before Storm's End were laden in plate mail, inlaid with gold and silver and artful designs. His own armour was plain in comparison, and his shoulders ached, unaccustomed to the weight. He was used to wearing lighter armour, studded leather and chain mail, armour in which he could use his bow easily, and trying to shoot a bow in heavy plate was like trying to trim the grass with a greatsword. But he knew he couldn't be outshone too much by his lords, half still saw him as a boy, he had to be their equal.

"Lord Lyonel," Ser Courtnay greeted him. He sat a sorrel stallion, his standard-bearer a dapple grey. Above them flapped Baratheon's crowned stag and the crossed quills of Penrose, white on a russet field. Ser Cortnay's spade-shaped beard was russet as well, though he"d gone wholly bald on top. If the size and splendor of the king's party impressed him, it did not show on that weathered face.

"It is customary to greet a prince with the words my prince," his uncle Bryce Caron said.

Ser Courtnay chose to ignore his uncle and focus instead on him. "This is notable company you have with you, Lord Lyonel. The Lords Estermont, Errol and Varner, Ser Jon of the green Fossoways and Ser Tanton of the reds. Lord Bryce of the Marches, Ser Guyard of King Renly's rainbow guard, and Ser Emmon Cuy as well. I spy your father's Onion Knight as well, well met Ser Davos. And of course your own fair sister." He scanned the party. "But I do not see the Red Woman I have heard so much about."

Lady Melisandre was still with the king, as well as a dozen men. She still insisted she meant no harm to the king. However, she had not offered to work her magics on him as Lyonel had expected. Perhaps she had known he would refuse. But she said that he would need no help from her. Once inside Storm's End, he would make a speedy recovery. The sight of the arrow wound... it was too close to fatal for Lyonel's comfort. He shook his head. He couldn't think about that.

"She serves no purpose here," he said instead. "You know full well why we are here. My father lies wounded, possibly dying, he needs to recover, and he can't do that in a tent."

"There are plenty of other holdfasts that you could have taken him to, Lord Lyonel," Ser Courtnay pointed out.

He clenched his hand. "Why should I take him to another?" He asked. "Father is Lord Renly's heir. With Renly dead, Storm's End is his. In his name I command that you open your gates to us."

"I have seen no body," Ser Courtnay said.

"He is dead ser," Lyonel replied. "These lords you see behind me, men of noble birth, they will all attest to that fact."

"You say men of noble birth. I say men of changing loyalties." He looked over all of Renly's former bannermen. "Men who change kings like I change boots."

"We are no disloyal men, Ser," Lord Bryce spoke up, anger in his voice. "Our holds are sworn to Storm's End, and Lord Stannis is the Lord of Storm's End as Renly's heir, and the King as Robert's heir." Other lords behind him echoed the sentiment.

"If that is so, why is the Knight of Flowers not among you? And where is Mathis Rowan? Randyll Tarly? Lady Oakheart? Why are they not here in your company, they who loved Renly best?"

"They are sworn to Highgarden, Ser Courtnay," Shireen spoke up. "Lords Fossoway, Varner, Cuy and others chose the King over their liege lords, but the names you say to us are not the bannermen of the Stormlands."

"Then where is Brienne of Tarth, I ask you?"

Ser Guyard laughed. "She who should never have been given a cloak fled back to Bitterbridge to protect Lord Renly's widow, as if we meant her harm. But she is only one. A dozen lords of higher station and skill came from the Reach to serve King Stannis."

"You speak of one errant bannerman, or bannerwoman." He shook his head. "She thought she could be a man, when the Seven themselves saw fit to make her a woman. Perhaps one treason looks for another, Ser Courtnay, but you will not find her here."

"Lyonel," Shireen whispered, reaching over and placing her hand on top of his own to placate him. "Don't."

But it seemed too late. "I am loyal, my lord," Ser Courtnay said. "More loyal than those around you."

"Loyalty to a traitor is not loyalty," he insisted. "It is just another treason. These men behind me have been forgiven that by my father. But still you stand defiant against it. Renly was my uncle, I loved him, and I mourn for the man he was, but your traitor king was struck down before my sister's very eyes."

"And where are these assailants?" Courtnay asked him. "It is a King's duty to carry out justice, where are those who murdered your own blood. It has been days, but you can't bring any of the before me. Not even their heads."

"We searched, Ser Courtnay," Shireen said. "But our duty was to protect King Stannis. We looked high and low for the assassins, but they could not be found."

"We have not given up, Ser Courtnay," said Ser Emmon. "Nor will surrendering Storm's End mean we will. You have my oath."

Contempt thickened Ser Cortnay's voice. "And what is that worth? You wear your cloak of many colours, I see. The one Renly gave you when you swore your oath to protect him. If he is dead, how is it you are not?" He turned his scorn on Guyard Morrigen. "I might ask the same of you, ser. Guyard the Green, yes? Of the Rainbow Guard? Sworn to give his own life for his king's? If I had such a cloak, I would be ashamed to wear it."

Morrigen bristled. "Be glad this is a parley, Penrose, or I would have your tongue for those words."

"Enough," Lyonel said. "Ser Courtnay, you may have disrespect for my father's bannermen. But I will not permit you to insult them such. They have found their loyalty. You have not. I would take each and every one of them over any of the men who rode back to Bitterbridge. Surrender the castle and you may find yourself amongst them, or home as you wish. Indeed, if you also wish to go and protect my uncle's widow, I will not stop you. Had you only said so earlier you could have accompanied Ser Parmen Crane and Alester Norcross." He had sent them to lay claim to the host at Highgarden, if they could. If not... that host could be Ser Loras' by now. "My terms are as my father sent to you. You will be pardoned for your treason, as he has pardoned these lords you see behind me. The men of your garrison will be free to enter his service or to return unmolested to their homes. You may keep your weapons and as much property as a man can carry. We will require your horses and pack animals, however."

"And what of Edric Storm?"

"He is the proof of Lannister incest, and must be surrendered to us," he said.

"Then my answer remains as before," Ser Courtnay replied.

"Ser Courtnay," Shireen said. "Be reasonable, he is our own cousin, do you think we would permit harm to come to him?"

"You do not speak for your father's intentions," he said. "And you are only half his family. Have the Florents not found themselves loyal to your father."

They hadn't, Lord Alester Florent rode with the knight of the Flowers. Some of his retainers, like the Norcross knights had chosen to ride with their king, but others hadn't.

His silence was enough of an answer for Ser Courtnay. "I have heard your proposal, Lord Lyonel, now here is mine." He pulled off his glove and flung it full at him, he reached up to catch the glove before it hit his face. "Single combat. Sword, lance, or any weapon you care to name. Or if you wish, name you a champion, and I shall do the same." He gave Guyard Morrigen and Bryce Caron a scathing look. "Either of these pups would do nicely, I should think."

Ser Guyard Morrigen grew dark with fury. "I will take up the gage, if it please you, my prince."

"As would I" Emmon Cuy said to him.

He cursed. He didn't want to command an assault, the garrison was strong. But now Ser Courtnay had issued him the challenge. He needed the castle, and this was likely the best way. It was the way most likely to win him the castle. Ser Courtnay may be beyond youth, but with his shoulder, combat wouldn"t be easy. But what choice did he have. To name a champion could be seen as weak. And these lords were tentative in their allegiance. His father may have a reputation, but he did not, except as an archer. But what was archer to knights. He had no choice. "Very well, Ser Courtnay," he said, holding up the glove. "I shall face you."

"Lyonel," Shireen took his arm fiercely and whispered in his ear. "You have a hundred knights as good as you or better behind you."

"Who am I if I hide behind another? Father can do that. I cannot," he whispered. There was also another fact. Ser Courtnay was one of the few who knew about his and Shireen's affliction. If he chose to hide behind another, he would know exactly why, and may well reveal it.

"What weapon do you name, lord Lyonel?"

It would be the mace or the Poleaxe. Ser Courtnay knew he used the mace. But it was his better weapon. Did he choose that or the poleaxe, in the hope that Courtnay wasn't proficient in their use? No. He couldn't risk that. Ser Courtnay was Master at Arms as well as Castellan. He likely knew enough of them. He had to use his best weapon. "Maces," he declared.

"As expected," Ser Courtnay replied bowing. "Very well. Grant me some time to arm myself, and we shall face each other on the drawbridge."

He nodded. "I accept," he said.

Ser Courtnay nodded and turned to enter the castle. "Let us back up a little," he said, turning his horse and his men retreating a little and dismounting.

Shireen rushed over. "Don't do this," she whispered to him, clutching at his breastplate. "Please, Lyonel, I'm begging you. Don't put yourself in harm's way now."

"I have to," he whispered back. "I'll be fine. I promise, I won"' be visiting your dreams tonight."

Hard sharp features looked ready to savage him. But she refrained herself, and simply nodded. "Very well," she said. "I know when there is no persuading you." She reached up and pulled a silk ribbon from her hair. "Hold out your arm," she said. He did so and she tied it securely to his arm. "Win today, Lyonel," she told him.

"I will," he promised.

He took up his mace and gave a few practice swings, various knights and lords encouraging him, and wishing him well. Bryen Farring, his squire, put his helm on and fastened it, along with his gorget and bevor plate. But Lyonel dropped the bevor plate a little, and raised his visor. In this situation the ability to breathe see better is more useful than the visor and bevor which could restrict breath and sight.

He approached the drawbridge just as Ser Courtnay appeared on the other side in his own grey plate. They approached each other, his sister's favour flapping in the sea breeze. He nodded and raised his mace, the flanged weapon pointing high. Ser Courtnay did the same.

Then, with a ferocity he hadn't expected, Ser Courtnay charged at him. He felt his breath hitch, he was quick. Ser Courtnay aimed a blow for his head and his own mace leapt to protect him. His let hand came up to force Courtnay's right aside and he struck back with his own, but the knight slipped out of the way. They danced across the drawbridge back and forth, grey plate catching the sun and weapons clanking off each other, the prince's quickness against the knight's savage strength. Ser Courtnay's mace seemed to be everywhere at once, raining down from one side then another. Once, the knight's weapon sang off his shoulder plate and he felt the pain shoot into his very bones.

But then his chance came, Ser Courtnay's mace was coming for the top of his head and he rose to meet it, his left arm knocking it aside and he rained three blows on the top of Courtnay's head, sending him staggering. He fell to his knees, reaching up to the top of his head clumsily. 'strong," he murmured. "Baratheons... always... so strong..." Then he collapsed to the wood of the drawbridge.

He knew, Lyonel thought. He came out here to die in service to his lord. 'someone help him up!" He called and took off his helm. "The castle is ours."

The portcullis didn't move to cut them off as a dozen men rode inside. He heard Shireen calling to get father and bring him to the castle. He helped some men raise Courtnay and carry him inside. He had to make sure that his body wasn't desecrated, but then, he would go and see to father.

Maester Varwyn was a greying man who was more than ready to serve the rightful Lord of Storm's End. He examined the arrow wound in Stannis' chest and tutted. "He should have seen a maester at once," he declared, preparing his various medicines.

"Will he be okay?" Shireen asked, clutching Lyonel's hand tightly.

Varwyn nodded. "I should think so," he said. "It may take some time for him to recover, but thankfully there doesn't seem to be an infection here." He dabbed at the wound with a cloth soaked in something or other. "I'd say, give him another week's bed rest, perhaps some more after that if we're to be sure. Then he'll be ready to lead his war. But what he needs now is rest. I will do all I can, but the body must sometimes heal alone." He fed a few drops of milk of the poppy to his father.

"Lyonel," his father muttered.

"Yes Father!" He raced over and took his hand, but he was asleep.

"He will sleep now," Varwyn said. "Please, my prince, he needs rest."

"Lyonel," Shireen said, taking his shoulder. "Come, there are loyal guards outside, nothing will harm father."

He nodded, and let his sister take him away. Together they went up to the top of the great tower. They overlooked the camp of their host, all the rolling hills and woods of the Stormlands and north towards Blackwater Bay and King's Landing.

"You fought well," Shireen said. "I'm proud of you."

He let a smile grace his features. "Thank you," he said.

"Will you ride alongside father?"

Shaking his head, he turned to her. "No," he said. "I will command the fleet. As soon as we are certain that father will recover, I will lead the fleet to Blackwater bay and begin attacking the Lannisters around King's Landing, weaken them for father's approach from the south."

"Is that wise," Shireen asked. "Taking the whole fleet?"

"I'll leave some behind," he said. "And don't worry. I have been sailing the seas since I could walk, father has been training me to be the next Master of Ships. No Lannister can match me on the waves. By the time father comes north, I will have weakened King's Landing significantly. Perhaps he could even just walk in and take it. Then he'll be king, the Tyrells and their other bannermen will fall in line and Lord Tywin will kneel or fall."

"The war could be over," Shireen said. "We could have peace."

"It will be," he said, drawing her into his arms. "It will be."