The Crowned Stag I

Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, was a simple man, at heart. He wore a crown, and he'd defend that crown, but on some level even he was aware that he'd probably be happier if he'd just thrown the damn thing away after the Trident and gone off the drink and whore his way around the Disputed Lands.

As it stood, he had to settle for making a bunch of armored up idiots bash each other's brains in while he drank himself stupid.

"OH THERE HE GOES!" the Storm King on the Iron Throne cheered, as Ned's Bear Lord unhorsed... some noble shit from the Westerlands Robert couldn't recall the name of. He'd have liked to share the moment with Ned, or rub it in Tywin's face, but both of the sticknecks begged off to run back to their holds.

Ned's fair enough, he's got a family, but fuckin what's waiting for the Lion back home? His favorite pile of gold? the king mused, before taking another swing of ale. "Quite a show, eh Stannis?" He asked his brother, seated at his right.

"If you say so, Your Grace," replied the Lord of Dragonstone, with as much enthusiasm as he ever showed for anything.

"Too right I say so! As should you, you sour old so and so! You're the man of the hour, aside from myself. The Kraken smasher! Have some fuckin fun for once, damn your eyes."

The Master of Ships slowly turned his head, his eyes boring into the king's own, "There are, I'm afraid, greater concerns than your grace's latest tourney, which weigh on my mind. Your new foreign friends, for example."

The king scoffed, "The Irish? Bah, what's to worry about!? Don't mistake me brother, I understand their queer devices and this whole magic island business is ODD, but they seem agreeable enough."

"So agreeable, you saw no reason not to simply... take them?"

Robert sighed and shook his head, "Gods, why do I even try to take you anywhere? Look brother," the king said, gesticulating with his drinking hand and splashing ale on some noblewoman nearby, "It's not like I've NO caution. I gave them a damn good deal didn't I? The Dornish don't even have it nicer! A little money, a few guards, and acknowledging the Iron Throne as sovereign of the Sunset Sea. Which, as you yourself JUST proved, it damn well is. No fighting their strange weapons for us, no fighting the whole of bloody Westeros for them. It's not even true vassalage! Jon couldn't have made a better deal if he were here!"

Stannis' eyes narrowed, "And what if this, 'Dail' of theirs, doesn't ACCEPT your 'damn good deal,' Your Grace? Are we to summon the spears of thither and yon and fight this same campaign again? We know, I remind you, almost nothing about these people but what they tell us. Save, of course, that their ships are greater than ours and they've devices which let them speak across many leagues."

"Well then it's a damn fine and kingly thing that I'm sending YOU to meet with them isn't it?"

"Yes, a fine thing, sending one of your councilman off to treat with these strangers, on their island, guided by their soldiers."

"So take your damn smuggler and some of soldiers of your own! Do I have to tell you everything?" The king replied, his, admittedly limited, patience well and truly at an end. "Seven hells Stannis, just go and... review the men or whatever it is you'd rather be doing."

Ignoring his brother's signature grinding teeth as he departed, the King of the Seven Kingdoms returned to what he truly enjoyed: drinking and watching men beat each other's teeth out.

-

The Master of Ships I

Damn his drunken lout of a brother, and damn he himself, for faithful service to that drunken lout.

Stannis Baratheon was not a happy man, and had never been a happy boy either.

He had seen men starve to death and his parents drown before he had whiskers.

He had burned food out of spite for those that left it, rather than fill his own stomach.

His most loyal servant was a man he'd mutilated, and he himself was loyal to a brother that spat in his face and exiled him from their family seat to a desolate rock in the Narrow Sea, haunted by the ghosts of dragons.

But still, despite all of that, he served. 'Valar Dohaeris,' the Essosi said. 'So be it,' said Stannis Baratheon. But while he could do many things in service to his brother, from pacifying the oldest and most loyal of Targaryen vassals to smashing the Iron Fleet to pieces, he could not protect Robert from himself. Be it his vices or his recklessness, one would kill Robert Baratheon eventually, and there was little helping that.

And nothing so exemplifies it as this business with the foreigners, he thought grimly. An island appearing from nowhere? Preposterous, and yet it seemed true enough. They had even received a raven from Flint's Fingers confirming what the Ironborn and the Irish themselves had reported of the appearance. So the fact of their existence, that was not in dispute. Robert brazenly declaring himself their suzerain, even faced with the oddity of their vessels, with the unspoken implication that all would have to decamp and sail north for the next brutal island campaign, that was foolishness.

Are we to fill the entire Sunset Sea with our blood and theirs, oh brother?

Regardless, he'd been given an order, and thus would fulfil it. When Robert's wasteful tournament finished adding itself to campaign expenses, Stannis would follow these foreigners home, and begin negotiations with this ruling council of theirs. Diplomacy was not his forte, but he was Master of Ships, and likely more importantly was the closest person Robert could foist the responsibility onto, and so he would see this new island country. For the sake of all, he could only hope they thought Robert's offer was as generous as the man himself did...