In the Riverlands, along the banks of the Red Fork, Addam Marbrand sits in shadow, hands bound, shaking beneath a blanket, still wearing the tattered, dirty clothes he was found in, refusing to be pulled any closer to the fire. Watching from a distance, Ser Karyl Vance waits, arms crossed, birthmark flushed dark with consternation while Ser Marq Piper and Theon Greyjoy pace in impatient circles around their campfire. The other scouts have long since fallen asleep in their tent, but these three stand vigil over their new captive.
"How long will we let him make us wait?" Theon seethes. "Who knows what those dogs are doing to Lord Stark's bones! Robb would not have us dawdle with his vengeance!"
"We must have patience," Karyl sighs, arms crossed, beginning to lose his own patience with his brash young companion. "You will not get any useful information by shaking it out of him."
"I don't know, Karyl," Marq finaly interjects. Karyl shoots him a sharp glare, but he continues. "If he ran off from the Mountain's camp, they're likely hunting him down. He could lead them right to us. I know he's family, but…"
"It's not about that!" Karyl snaps, though he silently cannot deny that looking at Addam's broken and bruised face, he can only see the eyes of the battered knight's sister – Karyl's wife – and their children far away. "I have handled such matters before. They must be done delicately. A tortured man will say anything to end his pain."
"At least bring him closer to the fire!" Theon insists. "Look at him, lurking in the shadows, he could slip away without us even noticing!"
Overhearing that threat, Addam's head snaps back towards them with a look of terror on his face. "No!" he shouts, his voice still cracked and dry with thirst. "Not the fire. Don't let him see me!"
"Don't let who see you?" Theon steps forward, menacingly, letting the flickering light reach further across the ground towards Addam, who frantically pushes himself further back into the brush. "The man's gone mad!"
"The Lord of Light!" Addam cranes his neck away to face the darkness while he points one shaking finger towards the fire. "He sees all through the flames!"
"The Lord of what?"
"The god that red priest Thoros serves," Karyl pulls on the end of his narrow beard. "They never found him after the battle." He steps into the shadow. "Addam, where is Thoros?"
"He's everywhere!" Addam begins to shake more violently, a far cry from the noble knight that Karyl once knew. "In every torch, in every spark, in every ember. He's always watching, always burning…"
"Thoros is a drunk, a charlatan," Marq scoffs. "And his so-called god is just as queer."
"You don't understand!" Addam finally whips around to face them, eyes flashing wide open to reflect the orange glow back at them as his face contorts, shoulders rolling as if even here he can feel unbearable heat. "There is a new power in the land! A great terrible fire is spreading! You cannot stop it! You cannot hide from it! It will burn us all!"
Far south, the fire burns in the Hightower family's chambers in the Red Keep, the flames reflected in Ser Gunthor Hightower's eyes, but he does not turn away from them. Instead, he gazes into the hearth as if waiting for something to emerge, much to the consternation of his sisters. Released from their captivity upon Renly's surrender of the castle, Alysanne and Leyla had made quick work to stretch their legs and replenish the meager rations they had been left with. But now, as they seek answers from their half-brother, they find him changed in unsettling ways.
"Gunthor, what happened out there?" Alysanne asks for the third time this night, maintaining a soft, patient voice despite his persistent avoidance of answers, preferring to talk of everything but the most pertinent matters at hand. "At least tell us what's become of the boy. Where is Edward Stark?"
"We were separated at the docks," Gunthor finally answers. His face is thinner than when he had last left the castle. The usually snowy skin that set such a harsh contrast with his half-Myrish older siblings has darkened – not tanned by the sun but discolored by shade. And his normally loud, boastful voice has been quieted. He seems nearly aged a decade. "The Tyrells attacked us. I lost him in the chaos."
"But where is he now?"
"I had word sent to Father," Gunthor looks back to the fire.
"You did?" Alysanne and Leyla exchange a look.
"The boy and his wolf are in Lys. Humfrey will retrieve them."
"How do you know?"
Gunthor hesitates, but ultimately chooses to proceed, though he does not face his sisters as he speaks. "The Lady Melisandre showed me in the flames. The Lord of Light reveals all to those who know how to look."
"Melisandre? Stannis' red witch?" Leyla cuts in, setting down her wine, her attention now fully aroused. "You spoke to her?"
"I took her counsel… And she took mine. She is more powerful than you can imagine."
"Try me," Leyla leans forward to grab Gunthor's face and turn it towards her. She stares into his eyes, the pale blue distant and clouded. "I have heard of this Lord of Light. His way is preached in the streets of Oldtown. What did this woman show you?" She looks him up and down once again. "What did she do to you?"
"I can't tell you," Gunthor pulls away.
"Of course you can. You tell us everything. Always."
"Not this." He stands, pouring a deep goblet of wine and gulping it down, splashes of crimson staining his pallid lips. Setting it down with a dull thud, he stomps towards the door. The sisters do not move to stop him. "You want no part of her work. And her work is nowhere close to done."
As morning rises over the city, Lord Stannis Baratheon is already well awake. His squires had arrived, thinking themselves pridefully punctual, only to find him fully dressed, staring out the window of his old chambers in the Keep. They had gone to the fire, burning low, but he had sent them off with summonses instead. The light of the sun through the east-facing windows has always been enough to warm him at dawn.
The chambers had been scarcely touched since his departure. Robert had threatened to replace him as Master of Ships, of course, but Stannis had known he never would, and he never did. Perhaps if I had listened, Stannis cannot help but think, I could have stopped this. If I had only returned sooner, Robert might still be alive. And Ned, too. Or perhaps I would just have died with them. But it would have been worth it, for all our bickering, to see him alive one last time.
The truth is, Stannis has lost both his brothers – one to death, the other to betrayal. And he learned long ago to never dwell on wistful speculation. Hearing the soft drumming of feet echoing in the hall outside, he turns, facing the door as his squires – young Devan Seaworth and Bryen Farring, return, having clearly raced each other in their respective assignments. Unbecoming, perhaps, but on this morning, Stannis has no time to wait. Several strides behind them, taking a more casual pace, Lady Melisandre and Ser Davos Seaworth enter. His two advisors are plainly displeased to see each other here and are doing their best to conceal it, though Stannis knows each too well to not recognize the clear marks on their faces.
"Good morn', m'lord," Davos is the first to speak, bowing politely and lingering by the door as Melisandre idly walks to the hearth, not stopping to pay respects. "I have been up most the night, vetting you a personal guard. It would appear the Kingsguard are all slain, save Ser Barristan and Ser Arys, and they will not leave the boy Joffrey's side."
"Very good, Ser Davos," Stannis nods approvingly. Too many of his knights had deserted him following the High Septon's accusations. And trustworthy men in this city were hard to come by – this he knew well before his present circumstances.
"Do you still wish to speak to the prince today?"
"Yes. But first…" Stannis finally turns to face Melisandre, who waits upon his attention, indignant that the Onion Knight has been called upon before her. "Send men to secure safe passage back to Dragonstone for Lady Melisandre."
"My lord…" The priestesses painted lips drop open. This, it is clear, was not revealed to her through any fiery visions. Before she can prepare a response, Stannis stops her.
"Your services, which I must remind you, I never requested in this task, are no longer needed. My brother has spun vile lies to the court and the High Septon about the nature of our relationship. I cannot afford to suffer these accusations any further. You must return to your proper place. Give my lady wife comfort. She no doubt misses you."
"I best serve Lady Selyse by serving you, my lord!" Melisandre steps towards him, holding out an enticing hand, but he stiffly rejects the advance. "You need me now more than ever. Here, so close to the throne! Do you not believe the Lord of Light has chosen you?"
"I am here to serve the good of the realm, not your god."
Melisandre's eyes darken, her gaze narrowing into a glare she has never before turned on Stannis. "You have begun to doubt."
"You should return to your chambers and prepare for your departure."
"Would you let that bastard steal your throne?"
"It is not for me to decide who will sit upon the Iron Throne. Nor is it for you."
The faintest breath of protest escapes Melisandre's mouth as she steps forward, her normally weightless feet seeming slightly uncertain, as she reaches to brush one pale hand across Stannis' cheek. He flinches at her touch, and Davos' hand snaps to his sword. But her stare over the lord's shoulder stops him – the momentary anger gone, replaced by disappointment.
"You may not believe in your destiny, Stannis Baratheon. But I do." Her hand drops back to her side, and she moves past both men and both squires, gliding back to the door. She slips into the hall without another word, as graceful as ever. Whatever brief uncertainty had shaken her control is gone now.
Davos looks to Stannis for guidance.
"See to it that she is gone by the end of the day. And send word to the boy. I will meet him at noon, in the Great Hall." Stannis looks down to the boys. "See to it a simple meal is prepared. No wine."
"Yes, my lord," knight and squires answer in unison. As they hurry out to attend to these tasks, Stannis lingers in the room. He walks to his writing desk, squinting in the bright sun through the window as he shuffles through the drawers until he finds it, undisturbed – a small wooden box left behind amongst parchment and quills during his hasty departure. Snapping it open, Stannis gently lifts a dangling talisman up to watch in sparkle in the sun beam.
An iron star with seven points, wrapped around a glistening crystal, spins on the end of a black-beaded string – a gift from his mother, a lifetime ago, before his faith had sunk with her and his father to the bottom of Shipbreaker Bay. But if piety is what is required of him, piety is something he can perform. Slipping the pendant over his head, he turns and steps through the door to face the day.
Behind him, the embers in the hearth flicker defiantly against the cool draft.
Not far from Stannis' chambers, on a balcony overlooking the bay, a morning meal sits largely untouched atop a tiled table as Joffrey Baratheon scowls at the rising sun. He is surrounded by Lyman Darry and Peremore and Maris Hightower.
"I've already had two uncles betray me," Joffrey grumbles. "How can I trust that Stannis will not do the same? He abandoned his post under my father."
"But he came, in the end…" Lyman offers, nervously picking apart an orange in the palm of his hand, his back toward the bright light, already starting to sweat.
"He came too late," Joffrey counters pointedly, and Lyman cannot argue.
"Nonetheless, your grace, he is our greatest hope to rebuke Renly's accusations." Peremore calmly lays out the situation. "If you were to be set aside, as Renly desires, Stannis would be the rightful heir. If you can make him bend the knee, the realm will see Renly for what he is – a deceitful usurper."
"I should not have to beg for what is mine by right!"
"It is not a matter of begging," Maris adds. "Lord Stannis is a lawful man. But you must earn his respect if you wish him to follow you. With his support, we can put an end to these vile rumors once and for all."
"That's very true," Joffrey nods, stabbing a sausage with his knife. He anxiously gnaws off the tip as he mulls this over. "I've heard of the way Stannis deals with criminal scum. He'll make short work of our rat problem. If he was good enough to be Father's Hand, I see no reason why he shouldn't be mine."
"And regent…" Peremore slips the word in, almost a whisper, nervous but determined to speak it out. But Joffrey hears it plain as a shout, his eyes darkening at once.
"I've told you before, I do not need a regent!"
"The law says…"
"I am the king! I make the law!"
"Not all law!"
With a grunt, Joffrey tosses knife and sausage back down onto the table and collapses back into his chair, arms crossed. Peremore and Maris exchange a nervous glance. But Lyman, mouth half-full of crushed orange, summons the nerve to lean in.
"Your grace… No one here doubts you can lead the realm. But in the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms, we're all still children. When you take your place on the Iron Throne, it will be by the authority of the Faith. We can't claim their authority to name the true king while rejecting their authority to demand a regent."
Joffrey opens his mouth, ever quick to speak, but stops himself, letting it hang silently open as he looks back at Lyman, his green eyes blinking slowly. After a moment, he turns to the Hightowers, each anxiously watching and waiting upon his response.
"It's only three years, your grace," Maris whispers. "Even Jaehaerys the Wise had a regent."
"True enough," Joffrey finally nods, and his advisors struggle to restrain their sighs of relief. "If he bends the knee, I will offer him the title. But not before. I will not give him that power over me."
"Very wise, your grace," Peremore agrees. "Which only leaves one matter. What testimony will you give Lord Stannis on the death of your mother?"
"She was a traitor and I killed her," Joffrey answers, quick and blunt, though his voice wavers slightly, as if his own confidence is unsure of itself under the weight of that memory.
"That is true. But that is not an answer Stannis will accept. Nor the High Septon. Nor the realm. We must prepare a suitable story that will not see you labeled a kinslayer."
"My mother was a villain!" Joffrey insists. "I do not care what they will call me, I will not lie to save the honor she did not have!"
"Then what about this?" Lyman interjects. "Say that she conspired with Jaime to steal you and Myrcella and Tommen. That much is true. Only you don't have to say who killed her."
"We have to give them a name," Maris shakes her head.
"Then give them someone who can never refute it!" Lyman wracks his mind for a solution. "Ser Preston! Say that he struck down the queen defending you. And that Jaime killed him, that's also true, but out of blind revenge."
"That could work," Peremore nods, musing it over. But it is clear at once that the idea has already taken hold in Joffrey's brain, the sparkle quickly returning to his eyes.
"Good, good." The young king stands, jostling the table as he moves to the edge of the balcony, looking out over the bay. His hands grasp the banister tightly, leaning out to let the salty wind toss back his golden curls and the blinding sun blaze against his pale face as it curls into a defiant smile. "Let them all know what the Lannisters did to my family. And the Tyrells too. Because Ours Is The Fury. And when we're done, no one will dare defy House Baratheon again!"
The Iron Throne sits cold and empty.
Beneath it, in the shadow it casts against the light from the high window, Stannis waits at a table for the doors at the far end of the Great Hall to swing open. Before him sits a humble loaf of bread and two plates of salt pork and potatoes. A soldiers' meal. Despite the high sun, the room lies frigid. But Stannis does not shiver. He sits, spine straight and stiff as a board, unwavering. His eyes only stray from the door to occasionally glance toward the few torches lit along the length of the hall, every now and then sensing some movement out of the corner of his eye. But it is only a trick of the light. He is alone. He and the boy must be alone, to decide the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.
When news of Renly's accusations against Cersei's children had first reached Stannis, the idea had been no shock. It was that very suspicion that had first driven him from King's Landing, that suspicion that he had no doubt had gotten Jon Arryn killed. But if anyone on his brother's council were to reach the same conclusion, he had expected Ned Stark, not Renly. Renly was never one for puzzles and riddles. He lacked the patience, the attentiveness required for such work. And yet somehow, he had been the one to drag Jon Arryn's deadly suspicion into the light. And look at the chaos it had wrought.
The Seven Kingdoms are at war and the Iron Throne is empty. There is no strong hand to restore peace and order. Only a vacant chair of steel.
At last, the door to the hall swings open. Stannis' eyes, well-adjusted to the dim light, can easily see the three new arrivals – two Kingsguard, Ser Barristan and Ser Arys, their armor freshly shined, stop at guard as the door thuds shut behind them. Between them, Joffrey walks on.
The boy is clad in black satin pants and matching doublet, with glistening emeralds strewn across his chest. The darkness of his clothes casts his face in an even paler hue by contrast. But while Stannis makes note of each of these details, his attention his wholly on the crown nestled atop a bed of golden curls – his brother's crown.
Joffrey has changed since Stannis' flight from the city. He stands taller, walks straighter, holds his chin high, his eyes ever looking slightly upward, shoulders tense. It is clear at once that the ordeal of the past weeks has not broken the boy. He has returned stronger, bolder, confident in the crown he has already claimed. He looks almost like a Baratheon, Stannis thinks. Almost.
"Good noontide, 'nuncle," Joffrey finally speaks as he reaches the table, each word dry and carefully spoken. He looks down, clearly expecting Stannis to rise for him. But no such honor is given. Stannis can already hear the cruel scolding that must be steaming behind the boy's eyes – but no harsh words leave his mouth. Instead, seemingly unbothered, he takes the opposing seat, looking up over Stannis' head to the throne looming high above them both.
"Thank you for coming so promptly. We have little time to spare."
"On that, we certainly agree," Joffrey nods, and Stannis notes that, while the crown remains too large for his head, it does not slip, attached somehow to his hair. His advisors serve him well, he thinks. "If the High Septon is determined to bring Renly's sham trial to head, we must prepare to crush the traitors together."
"Yes…" Stannis muses, careful not to let his face betray his thoughts. "But first, I must know all that has transpired in my absence. How is it that one of my brothers lies dead and the other plots to steal his throne?"
"Of course," Joffrey leans forward, eager to share his tale. "It all started when Father had his accident in the woods. It was suspected that the Lannisters were conspiring against him. That was when Renly first made his vile accusations. Sadly, while Father was right to mistrust my mother, he did not see that Renly was just as false. He had me and Cella and Tommen locked away with Mother in the Maidenvault.
"Ser Kevan infiltrated the Keep and staged an attack so that he and my Uncle Jaime could steal us away. They thought they could trick us into their treason, but we refused. When Mother tried to take Myrcella by force, Ser Preston struck her down, and Ser Jaime killed him in a fit of rage before fleeing with my poor brother."
"Hmm…." Stannis' face darkens to hear of the death of the queen. "And what of his grace?"
"It was after the fight that Father's squire, Lyman Darry, discovered his body most cruelly slain and the room full of Tyrell men with bloody blades."
"And where are those men now?"
"Dead. Lyman and Ser Preston avenged my Father with swift justice."
"And Ser Preston is also dead."
"Yes. But Maester Gaheris was witness to it all! He was the one who saved Father's crown from falling into Renly's hands!"
"I see." Stannis lets a slight frown slip, folding his hands in front of him, carefully examining Joffrey for any telltale blinks or drops of sweat to betray a lie. But he sees none.
"We sealed ourselves away in the Holdfast until the morn that you secured our release. It was during that time that Renly began to play the part of king and spread lies about you, just like he did to me! But together, we can stop him!"
Joffrey stops, an excited look burning in his emerald eyes, matching the gems on his chest. Stannis can feel the weight of the throne behind him, weighing down. He stares back at the boy across the table from him, looking for some reflection of his brother's face. The curls, perhaps? But no, he may be stronger and bolder now, but this Lannister face reads just as false as it had the day Jon Arryn told him what he believed of the prince's true father.
And yet… Stannis thinks, How can I claim that what Renly says of the boy is true but what he says of me is a lie? To face Renly alone will surely be my own doom. What is the greater injustice? To let a possible bastard ascend the throne and guide him to wisdom or to allow a kinslaying brother to steal it? And for what? For pride? For Melisandre's prophecy? And what of the realm? What of peace? In the end, there is only one way forward.
"I will need to speak to this Maester Gaheris." He finally breaks the silence. "And then we must prepare for the Faith's Tribunal."
"Of course! He's waiting for you already," Joffrey eagerly takes Stannis' hand, his grip firm, his hand worn from training with the sword. "You will be my Hand, of course, and my regent. Ours is the fury."
When the boy says the words, Stannis tells himself, he sounds almost like Robert. And behind them, the torches flicker, as if facing a rising storm.