In many branches of time, the siege of Storm's End would be lifted by Eddard Stark arriving with the news of the dragons downfall. Stannis would be gaunt and wracked with hunger, Renly largely protected from the worst of things. In some branches, Stannis, seeing so few left and unwilling to die of hunger, killed Renly and threw himself at the forces outside the castle, more often then not managing to gut the fat flower before he fell. In some, such as this one, he would have Davos take Renly away, smuggling him out before going to face his end, to die a warriors death.
And yet, most often this tale ends with a tale of a iron warrior that led a last desperate foray, that won his way into history via blood and valor. That while weakened by starvation managed to still be a warrior from the old tales. Some had even said that that a storm erupted on his death, the very winds keening his name as the sky wept for him. And yet, in this branch of things there was more hidden beneath the surface of things, deeper mysteries long forgotten by most, and magic never really left, even if those in the dreaming west would say so.
And so it was, that Stannis found himself in the Sept, as he looked at the statues of the gods he was not really sure he believed in. Not after his parents died so close to home, died in a storm while on the ship. And yet, as he looked at that statues... guilt and shame welled in him once more. If he had not gotten news of the smuggler, he would have killed Renly. His little brother. A part of him had died as he held the dagger, plunged into his very own heart were it burned like fire seeping through him. But Renly was away from here, away from him.
And so, he looked at the statues of the gods and he spoke. His voice was firm and yet... "I am going to die today." His voice echoed in the halls, and some, some would think the statues were looking at him, their attention pulled by blood that was waking, hands that would grab gods by the throat and squeeze, no matter the punishment delivered to mortal flesh. "And yet, if gods and souls are as real as flesh and steel, know this." His eyes narrowed, as self-hate and wrath erupted from him. "If Renly is not safe, I will kill you all."
He moved to turn, even as a voice seemed to whisper to him, asking his name, who was he to threaten the gods? He looked at them and gave his name, as his fathers voice echoed, whispering and twisting from beyond the grave. "No, that is what men call you. That is not the name carved onto your bones by your very soul." In that moment, Stannis felt a hand on his shoulder, a presence like that of his dead father close at hand. "No. You are DUTY, and while your line has caused us no small amount of grief over the ages... go forward with my blessings and know that young Renly will reach safe shores."
And yet, Stannis, no matter how much he looked, no matter how wide his eyes, as his hands trembled, as his heart ached, could see nothing more than stone. Still, he had an appointment to be at, as he relaxed. For soon, this would all be over, and he would be with his parents. He could only hope that Robert, for all that they did not get along, would survive.
It was not strange to say that his remaining men, and women, were loyal to their young lord. They had endured much, and unlike many Stannis had shared in their suffering, forgoing food that children would eat first, eating no better then any of the men and working himself harder than any three. And yet, there were so few left, so few from what had been a full castle full of loyal retainers and their families. And each of them, as they saw him come from the Sept could see what clung to him like a mantle.
Oh, physically he was the same, and yet in his looks, in his bearing was a patriarch who oversaw his family (of blood, and those dear to his heart). In his form was the stern judge who would see all accounts balanced in the end. He was the father who, kneeling before shallow graves wept openly over his children's sleeping forms. He was the last man on the wall, who endured as valor and glory died cold and silent deaths and only duty remained. He moved, and the ten remaining soldier's stood, moving in behind him.
It was as he stood before the gate, that he spoke. "You have done your duty. You have endured, you have suffered. You may, when I fall, surrender and save your children. I ask that you do not die for me and my sake, but live for your children. But, my brother has risen in rebellion, and so, I have done my duty and obeyed. We have endured, and rescue is a faint dream at this point. But I will NEVER yield myself to the enemy of my house." There was venom there, as cold eyes looked over them...
And then, his face, a mask of steel softened as he looked at the remaining household. "I go to die. But I will not die a broken thing, unmanned and tormented, nor will I be consumed in wildfire by the king. No, I go to a warriors death, with Renly smuggled out and free. Seek him out, when this war is over and swear yourself to him anew if you would see us still worthy of loyalty." He paused for a moment, as he lifted a horn to his lips. "Thank you." And with that, the horn blew.
The tales spoke in the later years that Stannis merged with a horn that sounded more like a peal of thunder, as he and his ten soldiers emerged, the last battle of the siege, as Reach lords laughed, only for their laughter to die. For those last ten soldiers would between them, kill nearly eight hundred men and injure nearly two hundred more. Each of them fought with fury and abandon, ignoring wounds that should have felled with as they threw themselves on their foes. Terror gripped the ranks, as skeletal men howled and laughed, dying hard.
And yet, die each one did, each one making the stag weep. And the tales that would be spun of the Iron Stag Stannis Baratheon in the coming days! They claimed that blades bounced off his skin, mere steel weaker then his very will. And so, in his path, as he wept and slew, as he struggled to keep control of himself, to not be lost top rage and fury that threatened to erupt from the very core of his being, as he moved steadily towards Mace Tyrell not as a man, but as something beyond human, something that spoke of grim and terrible punishment...
The men before him broke even as they died, as witnessed the slaughter, as nothing seemed to even slow him. It was not until Randyll Tarly, Heartsbane in hand met him that his progress halted. And yet, with a simple castle forged blade, Stannis resisted the blade. Sorcery, many would whisper. The Father the more devout made to point out, as everything till this point seemed to point to justice, something that shook them to their core. Yet, as he was stalled, one by one, his men fell. One by one, Stannis felt a dagger pierce his chest, as a loyal man who had served for as long as he lived fell.
And then, as the last man died, Stannis simply decided, as he relaxed and took a deep breath, to let go. To relax his iron will and let the fury out.
One moment, the skeletal warrior before Randyll had been a strange and unsettling figure, that made him reconsider some of what he thought he knew. The man had not responded to any words, merely tried his best to kill him and all around him. He could respect that... even as in a desperate moment, the stag paused, his eyes closed, posture relaxed as he took in a deep breath. It was a pity, that the warrior was resigning himself to death, and yet, even as he began the swing, those eyes opened.
One moment, the skies had been clear and calm, and the next, there was thunder, as it seemed to almost rain lightning as Stannis burst apart, breaking into wild storm clouds, lightening rippling across his form like sheets, antlers forming a crown on his head as the world itself howled in rage, in a fury that drove him to his knees. His stomach dropped, as he looked at the creature that took the young lords place, as words whispered in his memory, of tales of wars long gone.
And so, his last words, as the raging storm fell on the host... "Is this the return of dragons?"