Chapter 4

They could not withstand the storm. Lord Paxter Redwyne's fleet was gone, the fine war galleys sunken with their master. It amused Stannis to stand on the walls in the morning and watch more corpses come in with the tide. So many dead Reachmen. For much of the siege he had dreamt of killing even one; now there were, perhaps, enough for him.

The siege of Storm's End was ended, though that strutting fool Mace Tyrell had not the wit to comprehend it and was remaining outside the walls. The Reachmen had placed their fleet here, rather than keeping it at home to guard against the ironborn as was custom, and they would not have done so without purpose. Storm's End was too vast to be besieged by land alone. A ship could sail right up to the shoreline under the shadow of Durran's walls, devoid of any fear of archery. Fearless of the absent fleet and desirous of the gold of Storm's End, many captains did so. A few times the Tyrell dogs had tried to come closer to the castle, within range, contrary to their previous caution, in the hope that they could prevent the castle from being resupplied. Brutal volleys by Baratheon men, still perched in shifts on the walls with unceasing vigilance, had taught them better than that.

There were no more courses of rats and scraps of watery soup. Stannis supped richly, now, on mutton and carrots and suckling pig, and granted his soldiers even greater rations than they had had at the beginning of the siege. Some days he even allowed dinner cookfires to be held near the outer walls, so that they would send smoke filled with tantalising flavours to the noses of the Reachmen. That was one of the few pleasures he had.

The food was rich and plentiful, yet to Stannis it could have been as austere as the meagre meals he had scrounged on during the last, hardest parts of the siege. He scarcely tasted it, and he felt sick if ever he ate much.

A thin and grim-faced shadow stalked the halls of the Durrandon kings, unhindered by the tedium of company. His loyal Stormlanders blessed the gods for the breaking of the Arbour's fleet and loudly praised the valour and indefatigability of their castellan, with words that would have pleased him well a few weeks past and now meant naught to him. He listened to, but did not hear, their compliments. He let them cloister around him, offering their respect and their suggestions to Lord Robert's castellan at Storm's End, and often he did not recall their names. All of it mattered so little. Those who mattered were not with him. Cressen, that old fool, seemed to have taken fright on the day of the storm; Robert was away warring; and Renly…

No. He preferred not to think of the brother that had betrayed them all.

With Renly's murder he had forsaken his vow and once more taken up the arts of sorcery. The three-eyed crow had ruined all by telling him of the fate of his mother and father, and had thus lain waste to a promising path. But that path had proven the only way to keep his elder brother safe. Storm's End would have fallen elsewise. The Tyrell army outside the walls prevented any resupply by land, and the Redwyne fleet's blockade had been too thorough. Nobody had pierced it. They did not have enough food to last much longer. The taste of food did not please him but he was not starving any more, and nor were his good Stormlanders. With Renly's death, not mere beasts but a boy with the blood of the Storm Kings in his veins, he had placed the missing piece of the puzzle whose previous failure had killed his mother; he had done a deed so dreadful that its echo could control the mightiest magic he could conjure, chaining the world's winds to do his bidding. Through that sacrifice he had brought hope to the Baratheon defenders and death to his enemies.

All at the price of his little brother's scream.

He went to the sept, often, for appearances. He had no faith in its gods; if they had power, they should not have let him do what he had done to his mother and father. But it would not do to be seen as apostate. He knelt there often, for peace and quiet, listening closely to the septon's words about the Seven Who Are One and how they loved and guided their flock of mankind, and thought, If only it were so.

It was some weeks after the storm he had called—Stannis could not say precisely when—when Lord Mace Tyrell dipped his banners.

At the time Stannis was in the single tower of Storm's End at the time, rising high into the sky like a gauntleted fist, but he frequently flitted into the thoughts of birds and beasts and so he was aware of it before anybody told him. The sight of it left him so taken aback that he withdrew from those thoughts and ran straight to the nearest window to see it with his own eyes.

It is true, he thought, breathless with excitement. What a coward. A year I have endured here, unbroken, and Lord Mace pulls down the rose as soon as a stag arrives to trample on it. He took the form of a bird and flew forth to look beyond the horizon, and, sure enough, he saw a host with Baratheon banners fluttering overhead. He has returned. He has come. He has come home for me.

Stannis rushed to his room, giddy as the boy he had once been. He barked his orders to the servants and saw to it that he was clad in his finest clothes and that the great hall and the kitchen were prepared for a great feast, with wild boar and Dornish red. (He would not drink Arbour wines nowadays.) There was no time to listen to the babbling of men trying to speak to him, only to give commands. He had had enough of pretending to heed the petty concerns of courtiers. This mattered more. Storm's End must be at its best for the memories of his guest. All would be as Robert desired it, ready for the warmest of welcomes. Stannis's faith had been rewarded. Well, not the breaking of the siege—he had had to do that part of it himself—but everything else. He had ruled Storm's End on his elder brother's behalf for those long years between his lord father's death and the beginning of the war, and then he had assisted his lord brother in the mustering of men and the calling of banners for war. Then they had parted ways on a clean, crisp winter's day, and Robert had promised with a great laugh that it would feel like less than a moment ere they would see each other again. It had been hard, dangerous work, yet it had been so easy to be swept up by how swift and busy and glorious it all was. He had failed to repel the Reachmen from the Stormlands and in a sad stream of retreats he had been forced back to Storm's End, but he had held the castle, and Robert had triumphed, ready to return to him.

At last the hour arrived, and men from the host outside walked through the Tyrell host, whose soldiers parted timidly to allow them. His soldiers opened the main gate—not wholly, only enough to let a small party of a dozen men through, lest this be some form of elaborate trap—and they entered. In the courtyard of Storm's End, surrounded by soldiers, Stannis awaited them.

Not one of them was his brother.

Stannis's smile vanished from his face. His hopes, risen so high, fell sharply. Who dared to interrupt this moment? If this were a Tyrell trap he would make them beg for the fate of the Redwynes.

"Ser Stannis Baratheon, castellan of Storm's End," the leading man said, "greetings. I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North in your royal brother's name."

Eddard Stark. The thought felt like a punch to the gut. He has not come. All those moons, that whole year, he had hoped and dreamt and pledged to himself that all would be well when Robert came home, and instead Robert had disdained Storm's End and sent the man he liked to speak of more than he spoke of his brothers.

My hopes were hollow, thought Stannis Baratheon. My only salvation came from myself.

"Are you well, ser?" said Lord Eddard, breaking the silence.

Stannis failed to restrain a snort of hollow laughter, and strangled it at once. Even Eddard Stark was more concerned for him than Robert was. "Why, nothing is amiss, my lord." Nothing but dying dreams. "Come. We have a feast prepared for you."

Mace glanced behind him. It was full dark now, past sunset, but in the starlight he could still see a glimmer of pale grey stone where the top of the tower of Storm's End rose tall and terrible into the sky.

"Pass the word around," Mace said. "We halt."

It took a while for his commands to reach throughout the great host of the Reach, but they did. Soldiers swore and sighed with relief, and tents sprouted all about him like mushrooms after a heavy rain. Ordinarily the men would sit about the cookfires for a while after eating, talking to their comrades in arms and fletching arrows and sharpening their swords, but there was none of that today. The men ate sparsely and swiftly, though they still had no lack of food thanks to the bounty of the Reach, and went to sleep soon afterwards.

The standards of Mullendore, Merryweather, Hightower, Rowan, Cuy, Ashford, Tarly, Oakheart and dozens more flew in the air above him. They were drenched wet and sopping, but for all that he might make a show of it their prettiness mattered nothing whatsoever to Mace; what mattered was that he retained the allegiance of the Reach. Winning that allegiance, gathering the whole strength of the Reach behind him, had been his achievement, a feat unmatched among his ancestors the Lords of Highgarden since Lord Lyonel fought in the Young Dragon's Dornish wars. If it had come to battle, even the great rebel host under Lord Eddard Stark would not have had an easy victory. Robert Baratheon bore no grudge against Mace, as far as he knew. He had been careful to keep it that way. The new king had no good cause to move against him, so long as he was reasonable and bent the knee now that the war had been decided; it would cost Robert dearly for a submission he could gain easily by peace.

Mace had judged this chaotic moment ill-suited for grand ambition, for Westeros was greatly divided and he suspected that whoever won would make many powerful enemies, so he had sculpted his plans not to take power but simply to put House Tyrell in the best position to survive, no matter which side won. His plans had succeeded. House Tyrell had shown itself to control the Reach more thoroughly than it had done for well over a century. The other Great Houses' estimates of his House's ability to command its unruly bannermen would rise accordingly, and that would be a boon for his descendants. Robert Baratheon sat the Iron Throne, having deposed the dragon kings, but the House that Aegon the First had raised remained in Highgarden despite the fall of his less capable descendants, undiminished, strong, and ready to seize some future opportunity that may be more to their liking.

And yet…

He had come here with a fleet, and his cousin Paxter commanding it. He left with neither. That did not feel like victory.

Mace still vividly remembered that day. He had been far from the worst of it, sitting in a tent, pissed on by the rain but in no true peril. But Paxter, poor man… Mother be merciful, that must not have been a pleasant way to die.

Weather alone it may be. There should be no hesitation in ascribing it to that. This entire kingdom that he was riding out of was famous for its storms. But it would gladden Mace's heart, regardless, were he never to return here.

He had marched his host past sunset in the hope that he and his men could sleep out of sight of the single tower of Storm's End, but it was too tall, and still stubbornly soared over the horizon. That comfort was denied him. He would sleep under its shadow tonight.

He dreamt, of course, of the storm that had descended shockingly swiftly upon him. The day when the winds had gathered without warning, screaming from a hitherto-cloudless sky. The day when thunder roared and lightning fell so plentifully that he had never seen the like. The day when the waves transformed in minutes from anthills to mountains, rising from the wind-whipped waters to smash sailors' bones and ships' timbers alike asunder…

This time he was not watching from afar. He was on the Arbour Queen, speaking with Paxter, as he had done many times before. Her sailors shouted curses and prayers as they desperately tried to bail out water and to keep control of where she was going. It was fruitless. The enormous wave that he had seen from afar plucked her up on its crest; Mace felt the sheer force with which it scooped up the great war-galley like a toy, an impact of water on wood that made his bones tremble; and it hurled the ship viciously onto the protruding rocks.

The warship broke like a glass. Mace clutched at a piece of wood, but was torn away by the fury of the blow. He soared through the air in a terrified moment, only just long enough to comprehend the horror of it, and then slammed into the churning waters.

The blow struck him hard enough to snap bone, and Shipbreaker Bay felt colder than the Wall. The two duelling sensations ran through his body and made mincemeat of any other thought. He would have cried out, but he had no speech. The water surrounded him and dragged him down, and he could not breathe, breathe, gods, he could not breathe…

Oh no you don't, came a soft whisper.

A grip of steel picked him from the water, like a child holding an olive between his fingers. Sopping wet, freezing cold and brutally beaten, he glided smoothly and slowly up out of the sea, held by something he could not see. Higher and higher he rose, forced to look down, watching his own men perishing beneath him, looking as small as the carven toy ships that he liked to give his sons.

He rose higher, up and up and up. Mace struggled against the terrible grip and found no way of stopping its resistance. He screamed, but his voice vanished in the vastness of the storm.

At last he came to a halt. The impossible grip let go, and he collapsed. For a terrifying moment he was in freefall; then he struck hard stone and cried out from yet more broken bones.

Shivering, sopping and sobbing, he reclined there, a battered beaten thing. Gradually he became aware that he was on a balcony, and that he was not alone. A door was behind him. Beneath him, the balcony was wrought of pale grey stone, and Shipbreaker Bay was far beneath him. Above him, facing away, stood a man.

The man was gaunt and slender, and garbed all in black. His head was hooded. Nothing about him was not black, save only for his hands. His thin, skeletal hands were red and dripping.

Did you think you could escape me? said the same voice that had whispered. It did not come from the man with the red dripping hands. The voice was everywhere and nowhere.

"No," Mace wept, "never, no, please…"

You will never escape me, the voice promised. Nowhere in the world is hidden from my sight. Flee as far or near as you please, perhaps to a place where none have even heard of Storm's End. It will avail you nothing. You may think yourself safe for a time, while I attend to other things… but there will come a day when your dreams turn to dust before your eyes.

Mace tried to stand. His legs could not sustain him; they collapsed beneath his weight, and his body struck hard stone, and a fire of pain consumed him, and he cried out in agony.

In the waking world you think yourself a lord of hosts, yet you are nothing, thundered the voice from the sky. You are sightless, powerless, an ant beneath my feet. All that you can do is scream against the storm. The man with the red dripping hands turned around. His face was a hollow-cheeked waste. He smiled. And I promise you, you will scream.

The last time Ser Stannis Baratheon had entered King's Landing, he had been a little boy. Now he was a knight, a castellan, a sorcerer, and he came at the head of an army. Eddard Stark and a small party of highborn companions had left them at night along the way, in secret, and by agreement of the other commanders it fell to Stannis, as the brother of the new king, to lead the great host of Westermen, Valemen, Stormlanders, Northmen and Rivermen back to the capital whence they had come.

Stannis wished that Stark had gone away a few days earlier. If he had, it would have been child's play for Stannis to arrange a skirmish of outriders, guiding events with orders below and eyes above, and then the Tyrells would have had their day of reckoning.

That pleasure had had to be delayed. Not too long, of course—the Tyrells would doubtless betray Robert and it would be better to kill them before they had the chance—but Robert had commanded him to come at once, and Stannis would not disobey him.

Pink granite walls rose high before him, and two towers framed the huge arch of the River Gate. The gate was so wide that Jon Umber, Brynden Tully, Lyn Corbray and Tygett Lannister could ride beside him all at the same time, while Robert's uniformed men, brandishing polearms, lined both sides of the road. There were seven such great gates in King's Landing, which Stannis judged as pious as it was unwise. Storm's End had fewer and smaller ones, which made it more defensible.

Casually, without losing a whit of his balance on his horse, he swept the city with an eagle's eye—or rather, several eagles. Many of its houses were ashen ruins. Men were still at work even now, repairing the damage that the city had suffered when it had been taken by Lord Tywin's treachery. When Stannis had been a small boy, King's Landing had seemed magnificent. Now, as a man grown, he perceived that its walls were not as tall as Storm's End's, nor anywhere near as thick and stout, and the gentle riverbed terrain would make it easier to dig tunnels through the earth beneath them than it would be at Storm's End, wrought of and upon stone. And one thing remained constant from his recollection: the stink of shit assailed his nose so powerfully that he would have retched if not for having smelt worse things in the siege, from reeking dying loyal men who had sickened from the starving.

Pathetic, thought Stannis. Three-hundred years and the best the Targaryens could make was this? It's more fit for a pigsty than the seat of a great lord. So far have they fallen from the days of Aegon the Conqueror.

Contemptuous and silent, Ser Stannis rode along River Row with his commanders beside him. It felt strange to see black-on-golden banners of his House upon the Red Keep's flagpoles while he remembered red-on-black. He had always known Robert would rule Storm's End one day, but Robert as king…? Now that was something else. Stannis was not sure how he felt about that. After his lord father died, his brother had thrust the governance of the Stormlands into his own younger, untested hands in order to play at boyhood for a few years longer in the Eyrie. That did not speak well of Robert's virtue for statecraft. But Robert had been very young too, only a scant year his elder. If he had had a foster father to flee to, so that he could grieve without having to immediately assume the heavy burden of responsibility, Stannis did not know whether he would have done the same.

He may not know what to do, he thought, but I will help him, as I helped him in the Stormlands for the past five years. And if he makes enemies, for whatever the cause, then I will destroy them, each and every one, till no man dares to raise a hand against him.

Baratheon men lifted the great bronze portcullis, and he rode into the Red Keep to meet the king.

A groom took his horse, and he was escorted into the fierce square squatting form of Maegor's Holdfast, whose defensibility even Stannis's critical eyes approved of. He was given a room to refresh himself for a few hours from the hardships of the road, and afterwards he was led to the Great Hall. As he stepped forth through the oaken doors he saw that the high, narrow, subtly tinted windows were made of new stained glass, depicting stags in the woods and warhammers on the Trident instead of the deeds of House Targaryen. The dragon skulls that had snarled around the room were gone. The walls of the Great Hall felt empty and bare without them.

The guards who had escorted him made their excuses. The room could have seated a thousand if it had the chairs for them, or held even more. It held two. Stannis's footsteps echoed on the stone as he walked towards a throne of swords.

The man sitting on it was clean-shaven, with close-cut black hair and blue eyes, bigger and brighter than Stannis's, on a face unmarked by any great scar. He was dressed ornately in black and golden silks, in which Stannis was unaccustomed to seeing him—for he preferred rougher wear—and he had grown, mayhaps, even taller than he had already been. But he was not utterly changed; it was him; there could be no mistaking it.

"Brother," Stannis called across the room, rejoicing in the sight. Relief coursed through him. "I… I cannot say how… how glad I am to see you again, in such good health."

Robert studied him intently, eyes widening.

"Gods be good, Stannis, how are you alive?"

Stannis had almost forgotten. He was not such an artifice of skin and fleshless bone as he had been before the storm. "It used to be worse," he said in his defence. "And to answer you, the Tyrells did this, to me and to many of your loyal men. They withstood valiantly for you. You should be proud of them."

"I am proud of them," King Robert said. He sighed. "Seven hells, Stannis, I know you hate Mace Tyrell. So would I if I were in your shoes. But he has bent the knee to me, and I'm no Aerys. For that, I will leave him unmolested."

It was a blow, but not an unexpected one. Lord Eddard had told Stannis of his brother's position. "So be it," he said, bowing his head. "He is no Baratheon man; he hates and disdains all sons of the Stormlands. He will betray you one day, I am sure of it, and I will be there to kill him when he does."

"I can't argue with that," Robert said with a wry twist of his lips. "You're well?"

"Well enough," Stannis said honestly. "It was hard, bitterly hard, but I survived. I held on for you, and one of the storms of our homeland came to save us and scatter our foes."

Robert nodded slowly. "I heard Renly fell."

"I'm a man grown," Stannis said. "Renly was a child. When we all were starving, he had not the strength to hold on. He chose to fall into the sea; he did not want to live as a besieged Baratheon."

He spoke the words easily. As far as Stannis was concerned, it was not even a lie.

Robert closed his eyes with grief. "Poor child," he murmured.

"My heart grieves for him," Stannis said. "I wish he'd chosen otherwise."

Silence fell heavy between them.

It was the elder brother who broke it. "Where are Ned and his men?" Robert asked at last. "Maester Cressen didn't know."

So that's who he's been talking to. Stannis had wondered how Robert knew of Renly. "He and his party went south. He told only myself, the Blackfish and a few select others, so that the commanders of the army would not think he had been forcibly taken. I argued against it; I told him he should have brought an army with him; but he believes the Lady Lyanna must be somewhere in the Reach or Dorne, and he has gone, discreetly, to look for her."

"My bride. Would that she were here now. Mayhaps she would have some idea of how to help me." Robert looked pained. "Trust me, Stannis, pray to all the gods that they never curse you with a crown. I've been king less than a year and I already despise it. I am surrounded by lickspittles and snakes, men who'd praise the scent of my shit if it could help them get a moment of my time to listen to their damnfool petitions. It isn't even just the lords. Lord Tywin is as grasping and presumptuous as any of them, and won't stop going on and on about that pretty daughter of his, yet he's no worse than some of the guildmasters. The dyers and the masons, especially… ugh. Jon helps a lot. I don't know where I'd be without him. But I need my queen to give me comfort at my side."

"I hope she returns to you soon." Stannis seized the opportunity. He had never been good with words. Here was something he understood. "I… I do not… I don't know about comfort, Robert, but I can try to help you. I can lighten your burden. You can trust me, rely on me."

"I hope so," Robert said softly. "What would you have of me, then, Stannis? The Stormlands?"

"No!" Stannis was horrified. "When I say I would lighten your burden, I don't mean to steal what is yours by right. I am not grasping. You are king, yes, but you are also Lord of Storm's End by blood right, as our lord father's eldest son. There are older laws than kingship. By the blood that runs in both our veins, I owe you my utmost obedience. I am not here to seek favours from you, Robert; I am your faithful servant. Believe that."

Robert studied his face. "I do believe it. What do you ask of me?"

"Only to let me serve you well," said Stannis. "The realm bleeds, Robert. The Targaryens still hold Dragonstone. With Lord Tywin's fleet burnt to cinders, the realm possesses no defence at sea strong enough to confront the royal fleet or the rebellious ironmen. And the Tyrells squat in Highgarden, doubtless plotting our grisly ends: a weed that must be cut before it chokes your reign. Needs must all those things be put to rights. I ask you for no honours or lands or titles, only that you let me help you, as your loyal household knight. You need do naught but give the order. Send me to Mace Tyrell or Balon Greyjoy or Viserys Targaryen and in your royal name I will destroy him."

"For the last time, Stannis, I'll not let you destroy House Tyrell," Robert said with a sigh, as if Stannis were being tedious. "That's the only true choice among those three you offer me, and I have no doubt that's by design."

"Your trust in that man dismays me… but no, it is not."

"We've no fleet," Robert said bluntly. "The ships of Gulltown and White Harbour aren't nearly enough. Until we build one, Balon Greyjoy and the dragonspawn are untouchable."

Stannis allowed himself a little smile, colder than the Wall. "Doubtless Paxter Redwyne thought himself so."

"What do you mean to do?" asked Robert. "Do you mean…" He trailed off.

"Just trust me, Robert. You need not worry how it is done. The septons teach that the Seven are one, and the Smith breathes the wind, and the Father favours the just. Do they not?"

"They do."

"Well, there is justice in your cause. The winds sank the Redwyne fleet for sailing against us. I am confident they'll sink whoever they need to."

Robert was trembling. "Gods… good gods. I hoped… I never… Cressen was right, gods damn you. He was right."

"Of what?"

"You called the storm," Robert said. "The storm that slew Lord Paxter and sank his fleet. I can see it in your face, don't you dare to deny it."

Stannis saw no use in lying. "I did. I was taught how in my dreams, and I've been dreaming of these things since we were children."

"Since we were children," Robert repeated, and shuddered. "Gods. Would I be the price for a storm to slay Viserys Targaryen?"

Stannis recoiled in shock. He knows!

"You don't even deny it," Robert snarled with disgust. He stood up from the Iron Throne and walked down its steps, looming over Stannis. His was the dread figure of a king, proud and tall. "How could you, Stannis? How could you?"

"He betrayed us!" Stannis roared. "That's why! In his last words he spat on your name and begged me to betray you to the dragons! He said he would rather be a Tyrell since they had food and we had none, and he hated our family!"

"He was a child!" Robert reached out with a claw-like hand and plucked Stannis into the air, gripping him by the neck. "He was starving and he wanted food! He was your brother! You consort of demons, you murderer of kin, you monster!"

Stannis writhed against his brother's grip. His legs could find no purchase on the ground. He had a shortsword at his belt, but his brother's other arm was tightly wrapped around his own; he could not reach it. Robert's mind was inflamed by rage and purpose; he could not be skinchanged, and there were no other men or birds or beasts nearby to help. And gods, Robert was so strong. Stannis's struggles grew more feeble and eventually died away. One twist of that gigantic hand and his neck would snap like a twig.

It was a strange thing, to realise that he had no way at all to prevent himself from dying.

"Are you going to kill me?" he gasped.

"Gods, am I tempted. But no." Robert let go his grip. Stannis crashed against the throne room's floor and pain shot through his legs and chest. "Whatever else I am," his elder brother said with blood-boiling contempt, "I will not let myself become you."

Stannis struggled to his feet, bruised and humiliated.

"You will not trouble my realm and murder my subjects ever again," King Robert commanded. "From this day forth you are banished from the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Don't test me, Stannis. Come within eyeshot of my shores and you'll be pursued as an outlaw. Any man, woman or child who sees you will have free rein to crush you like the snake you are."

Stannis was too proud to beg, but he came close to it then. He lifted his eyes in appeal. "Everything that I have done, I've done for you."

"I know," Robert said, "and there is nothing in the world that more disgusts me."

Hot tears fell from Stannis's eyes. On that note, without retort, he spun on his heel and strode away.

Those were the last words he and his brother ever spoke to one another.

On his journey across the Narrow Sea, Stannis brooded on his brother's words. Not Robert's, but those he had exchanged with Renly.

"If he loses Storm's End the war is as good as lost," Stannis had said, "and if the war is lost, the Mad King will kill him cruelly. We need to protect him, Renly, just as you would protect me. You want to protect our brother, do you not?"

"I'd protect you," Renly had retorted.

Renly had wanted to leave Storm's End with him, to abandon their absent brother:

"I only saw Robert for a few weeks. He came here for our soldiers and went away again when he got them. Before, I didn't see him for years. I think you didn't, either. Did you?" Stannis had wanted to deny it, but his younger brother had seen the truth on his face before he had time to think of a reply. "Right. We shouldn't starve for Robert. He wouldn't starve for us."

Stannis hated the thought with a passion. He despised it and sought to banish it from his mind, but his banishment was less thorough than Robert's. He remembered Robert preferring his friends in the Eyrie to his brothers, and Robert's thoughtless mockery of Proudwing, and Robert ignoring Storm's End in the war and after it, and the smile of the brother who had never mocked him and always looked up to him, the brother whom he had raised almost like a father, the brother who had loved him and been loved. The thought remained, and festered:

Was he right?

No. No. No. He dared not turn back, dared not falter, dared not allow that doubt to eat away at his thoughts. His course was set and could not be undone. He had a duty to Robert, as the younger brother must defer to the elder. He was Baratheon, of Robert's House, more than he was Stannis Renly's brother; that mattered above all.

He had to believe that. He had to.