Chapter 23
Part III

Stannis dropped the sword like it was on fire. If only that were all it was.

"This gift is poison. I will never take this sword out of Stygai," he promised.

He had no eyes anymore; but he felt sure that if he did, the First Servant would be giving him a look that said, I warned you.

It had been right, but Stannis did not feel too bad for that, because he had been right too. The Shadow had offered him this gift. It could not force him to take it. He could, as he had known he could, choose to stay in Stygai. Then the sword would stay there too, and all the Shadow's schemes would be undone.

The First Servant, showing heroic restraint, made no statements along the lines of "I told you so". "Without it you will die," was all it said.

"I know. Then I will die," said Stannis. He was undeterred. "Death does not frighten me. I have always been prepared to die for duty."

Even as a boy guarding Storm's End during Robert's war, he had known that.

"You will take the Shadow-sword."

There was simple certainty in the First Servant's words.

"I swear, by all the gods, I will not," retorted Stannis. He looked around: "Is there a rope to hang myself with or must I bash my head in with a rock?"

"Do not make that vow. You will not keep it," the First Servant scolded. "I wish that you would. But it is child's play for the Dark Power to make itself master of mortal hearts."

Stannis declared: "Never. There is nothing in this world or beyond which could make me take up that sword."

"You will see," said the First Servant of the Shadow in tones of ancient sadness. Then those soft tones changed to ringing cold iron:

"WHAT, THEN, IS THE BOON OF KNOWLEDGE THAT YOU WOULD SEEK FROM THE POWER OF DARKNESS EVERLASTING?"

This is a trap, Stannis thought. The Shadow wants me to ask the wrong question. Some thirst for power and knowledge of the higher arts, some piece of otherworldly knowledge that will break my mind and force me to take the Shadow-sword out of Stygai.

More fool it

, thought Stannis Baratheon softly. It is a thing of malice, and thus it judges all hearts. Judges falsely, for mine. Power? Knowledge? That was never what I truly wanted.

He was about to die. He knew he was about to die. Sorcerous secrets would be useless to him. There was only thing he really needed to know.

His voice trembled as he asked: "How fare my family?"

"IT WILL BE GRANTED," said the voice that commanded the world. "POWER OF DARKNESS EVERLASTING! LET THY WILL BE DONE!"

And suddenly the overwhelming presence of the Shadow was gone. Not just ceasing to press down so hard that he could not stand. Actually, totally gone.

The weight of a malevolent eldritch entity of the Otherworld, beyond space and time, staring straight at him was no longer crushing his soul.

He was free. He could breathe.

That was the first sensation he felt, and Stannis almost laughed out loud from the joy of it.

The feeling of being free from the Shadow's oppressive weight was so wondrous that it took him twenty seconds to even notice that he was making love with a woman. She was on top, scratching his skin so hard it drew blood, shoving him into the mattress. He felt a touch of pain—rather a lot; she was rough—and ecstatic pleasure, alongside love, or what this soul seemed to think was love. To Stannis it seemed more like infatuation, obsession. And he felt an overriding sense of contentment. This felt so good; it felt so right; this was the way the world should be.

"Put another babe in me," the woman whispered in his ear. He shuddered with pleasure, growled, and made to do just that.

The total happiness and rightness felt by the body he was inhabiting was powerful enough that it took half a minute for Stannis to understand why he was being shown this sight. The woman making love to the man he was had golden hair that splayed across his face. Her eyes were green. Stannis realised, This is Queen Cersei!

For one terrified moment, Stannis thought he had usurped the place of Robert, murdered his last brother, destroyed truly all of his family but himself. Then she shuddered deeply, moaned, and uttered, "Jaime."

The word struck Stannis like a thunderbolt. What? What is this? What does she mean? Why did she speak then of her brother—

—then he knew.

He had no time to think on it, no moment to let himself get to grips with the horror of his discovery. No sooner had he realised than he was plucked up as if by an angry god and shoved into another vision. It overtook his senses:

…BLINK.

…and he was walking in a garden, wearing a dress—a most unfamiliar feeling—arm in arm with a handsome, slender, sandy-haired youth in red velvet garb.

"…does get difficult, and lonely, sometimes," he was saying. Or rather, she was; for the voice emerging from his lips was no man's. "I try only to help him, to save him from danger brought on by his worst impulses. But he loves me not for it. The king's wrath is terrible, and he is a cruel, hard man, though the realm would never believe that." She touched a hand to her face, which was stinging—a pain so slight that Stannis, who was used to far worse, hardly noticed it; but she shuddered as if it were the great and terrible wound he had dealt himself as a sacrifice to stop the fire of the dragon in the Shadow Lands. "He is so cruel… What am I saying? A lady wife should love her lord husband. How can I speak ill of mine?"

"No, no, Your Grace," the young man assured her. "No-one could fault you." His green eyes gazed with undisguised disgust at the red mark on her face. "That was not knightly. The king is a cur. No man of honour would ever treat you like this."

"Sweet cousin, you are ever-so gentle. I only wish… wish Robert was… was like you…" She trembled, slightly, as if she were trying to be strong but might faint. The young man rushed to her side to catch her. She swayed and let herself fall into the strong muscles of his side.

She glanced into a forest pool where he could not see and thus she saw his face, gazing at her with utter adoration. In return she felt only contempt.

Fool. Pathetic. How easily led. Clay in my hands, like all men are. Still, he's pretty enough. He'll do for now, I suppose, since that oaf Stark drove off my Jaime. Jaime must never know, of course, or else he'd kill him. That would be entertaining to watch. This cub is no match for my golden lion.

Meanwhile her passenger thought: How vile is this woman, that she dreams of fucking him and laughing as her other lover kills him in the same two seconds?

"Your Grace," the young man whispered worriedly, "should I take you back to the castle?"

"No! No," she said again, more calmly, as if she were scarcely holding back her panic. In truth she felt no panic at all. She felt calm, languid satisfaction of a plan well executed. "I… I fear what His Grace might do. I would much prefer to be here, with you. Sweet cousin, can we not stay a little longer?"

She looked up at him through her eyelashes. He melted like butter before her. His eyes were soft and full of pity.

"Of course, Your Grace," he bowed solicitously as a suitor. "I am at your service, now and always."

"Always?" she breathed into his ear.

"Always." He said it like a vow.

"You must be careful saying things like that, Lancel," she murmured in a husky voice. Her hot breath was on his ear; and she pretended not to notice how he shivered. "A woman might think you mean them."

"I do mean them," this Lancel declared with all the cocksure confidence of young knights. Stannis dimly remembered that he had been such a knight, once. It felt like a long time ago.

"Will you protect me, darling cousin?"

Both Stannis and the woman knew there was only one answer a boy who wanted to believe himself a man, a squire not yet six-and-ten, would give to a beautiful woman in obvious distress asking him that.

"Always!" proclaimed Lancel.

"From anyone?" Her mouth was close to his ear, close like a kiss.

"From anyone," he declared.

"Even from the king?"

Lancel hesitated, as if seeing his peril, as if some small spot of brain inside that pretty head realised the danger he was in, as if recognising the snake in the grass.

But he had promised so much already. He could not back down now, or else he would look like a coward and a fool, and young men hated to appear as such things.

"Even from the king," he said; and she could tell he was willing himself to keep his voice hard and firm, like a promise.

He felt her heart soar with triumph. A few more, she told herself, and Stannis heard her. Just a few more woodland walks with my fool cousin who squires for my fool husband, and I will be able to broach the subject of the wine. Then I will be rid of the oaf forever.

Then Stannis was himself. He was back under the Shadow. His soul shrieked in spiritual pain. Its weight felt like the whole world was bearing down on every inch of him—absolute, indomitable, crushing.

No words were fit to describe the churning, world-devouring darkness that gazed intently at him and him alone.

Its voice had nearly shattered his mind from a touch. Even the feeling of its attention, staring at him, was overwhelming.

Stannis shuddered under the nightmarish force of that terrible presence, trying to hold it off, to think, to feel, to be himself, and at the same time trying to think and understand what he had seen.

Queen Cersei Baratheon was committing incest with her brother Ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer. They were betraying his brother, Robert the king. Another babe… Her children, at least one of them, likely all, were Ser Jaime's, not Robert's. And she planned something with her husband's squire giving her husband some wine, and hoped to be rid of him.

Murder. They planned to murder their rightful king. Stannis felt sick. And it was all to protect her abominable, incest-born babes.

Stannis realised the magnitude of the treachery of his brother's wife and the danger his brother was in.

He said to the First Servant, "The Lannisters are cuckolding my brother."

And the tormented spirit of the enslaved god said:

"Are they?"

Stannis was again torn out of his body and plunged into another vision. This time he was in a palatial corridor, ornate, decorated with dragon carvings, portraits of silver-haired princesses and princes, and tapestries depicting the glories of past Targaryens. He was running. Panting. Sweating. Eyes darting side to side with fear. Running as fast he could, picking up his heavy skirts.

He turned a corner… and skidded to a halt. Three men stood in front of him. There was no escape. Two had swords at their belt and white cloaks. The third was tall and handsome, with an elegant face, a grin, a crown and purple eyes.

"Dear sweet Joanna," he said with a leering smile. "You should not have run from me."

The woman turned on her heel and sprinted—too slow, too late. The king seized her arm and dragged her back. His grip was painfully tight; Stannis felt her pain as if it were his own. That would leave her bruised.

He felt, dimly, like a voice from a great distance, her thoughts—No, no, no!—and her paralysing terror. He felt her heart beating so fast it was like it was trying to tear itself out of her chest.

"Stop teasing," the king hissed. "Always you tease. You taunt me with a taste of your charms; you entice me and then deny me. Well, no longer."

"There was no enticing." The woman's voice was high-pitched, breathless with fear.

"Lies!" snapped the king. "Those immodest dresses you wear; the sweet whispers, 'Yes, Your Grace', 'As you say, Your Grace'—"

"They were perfectly ordinary dresses!" For a moment, her sheer indignation overpowered fear. "And—just courtesies—"

The king slapped her. Stunned, she fell, more from the shock than the pain. He had chosen carefully: he had hit her in the stomach, where it would not leave a mark for men at court to see.

"I tire of this," growled Aerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name—for it could only be he. "No longer will you tease. I will have what is mine. Ser Gwayne, Ser Gerold, hold her down."

The white knights looked pained. But, to Stannis's contempt, both moved to obey. The older man, Ser Gwayne Gaunt, first, with less hesitation, with the hollow-eyed, hopeless look of a man who had done this several times before; then the younger, Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, whom men called one of the noblest knights that ever was, a paragon of the Kingsguard. Ser Gerold looked agonised; but he did it still. Stannis saw Ser Gwayne's lips mouth something to Ser Gerold, speaking the shape of soundless words behind Aerys's back where the king could not see: 'We swore oaths to serve the king, not to judge him.'

…BLINK.

A flash like lightning in his eyes; and as quick as that, there came another vision.

He lay in a white feather-bed, stained with blood, pained and aching in parts of his body that he could not place, for he had no experience of having them.

"M'lady, it's a boy." The middle-aged mousy-haired midwife's voice was soft and fond. "Came out clutching his sister's foot. Look, they're cuddling each other."

"What is he like?" Fear, boiling fear, so hot it hurt him.

"A bonny lad. He's fine, m'lady, no cause to worry. He looks healthy…"

"Give them to me!"

I cannot explain, came the wild thought, streaked with terror for her children. I cannot let her know why; I cannot…

The midwife handed her the babes. There they were: a boy and a girl, squalling, eager for milk, both perfectly formed, with green eyes and scraps of golden hair.

"All Lannister," she breathed, collapsing with the release of pent up fear. She sagged onto the bed. From relief and joy, she started weeping.

"Aye." The midwife was using that too-soft voice, as if trying to calm a startled horse. "All Lannister. You've given Lord Tywin a Lannister heir. You can rest."

Tywin. The thought spurred grief, love, heartache, fear mixed with fondness. He must never know. I never told him what Aerys did—did over and over. My poor gallant love. It would have driven him to rage, and Aerys would have killed him. She clutched her babes close to her chest. Only just born, already she knew they were the most precious things in the world to her. It is not fair to him; but he must never know, or he would kill them.

Then it ended.

Stannis lay there, panting under the terrible weight of the Shadow-On-The-World, the cruel gaze of fire and darkness, fixated upon him, scalding his spirit, and getting to grips with the truth that he had seen.

Stannis breathed, "Lord Tywin's twins are not Lord Tywin's."

A mad urge took him, and he started laughing.

"Yes," said the First Servant of the Shadow, though it had not been a question. "The dwarf Tyrion, whom Lord Lannister despises, is his only true son. Lord Lannister is spending men, power, blood and gold to prop up a crown for the products of the rape of the woman he loved by the man he hated."

What a cruel twist of fate to the man who would do anything—commit any cruelty, break any faith, suffer any dishonour—for his family legacy. To his own surprise, Stannis felt mildly sorry for the old lion lord.

"Aerys's… Robert, who hates Targaryens above all… his wife's sons are, on both sides, Aerys's."

"Yes," said the First Servant. "House Targaryen never lost the Iron Throne. It gained a queen as soon as it lost a king. And it gained three heirs, even produced in the traditional Targaryen way: incest, brother to sister. Prince Joffrey is Targaryen on both sides. Aerys is both of his grandfathers. And he is every bit as mad and cruel as Aerys was. He is the true heir Aerys always wanted."

"That abominable creature will be king," breathed Stannis, horrified, "and men will call him 'Baratheon'."

"Yes." The First Servant spoke flatly, with no blanket of soft words to cover hard truths.

Stannis said wonderingly, "King Aerys won. He got what he wanted."

"Not entirely," said the First Servant. "He did not want his son to kill him. Aerys kept Ser Jaime close to his side. He ordered Jaime to kill the man the world thought was his father. By the end, Aerys's paranoia had grown crazed beyond bounds. He sent Varys from his side—the man who had poured poison into Aerys's ear, feeding his paranoia, yet he was not trusted then. He sent all his other knights of the Kingsguard away, leaving the royal family uncharacteristically unguarded despite his fear of attack; for he did not trust them. And certainly he feared and hated Tywin Lannister. Yet even then—when he trusted no-one else, man, woman or child, in the whole world—Aerys trusted Jaime. Did you never wonder why?"

"I did not," Stannis admitted. I should have, he thought. To not fear the Kingslayer's blade, while his fear and hatred of Lord Tywin were well known… something had been strange. "I thought it was only madness."

"Oh, it was madness," agreed the god, "but it was madness of a very particular kind. By the time he took Ser Jaime into his Kingsguard, Aerys no longer trusted Prince Rhaegar. He had long been dissatisfied with his heir. He thought him too weak, too bookish, too much his mother's son. And the eunuch Varys was whispering in his ear that Rhaegar was plotting against him. By the time of the tourney of Harrenhal, Aerys had become fully convinced that Rhaegar was his enemy. Aerys hated the prince more than your brother Robert did.

"Courtiers knew of the king's mislike. They speculated that he hoped to replace Rhaegar with Prince Viserys. But truth be told, Aerys never paid much attention to young Viserys. The boy was too young. Besides, he had disdained his wife Rhaella for years. He never wanted to be married to her. He wanted Joanna Lannister. And he wanted Jaime.

"So he took him, using the Kingsguard as an excuse to take his bastard son into his household. That was why he kept him at his side and forced him to witness every act of madness, every burning, every atrocity, though Jaime himself still does not know this. In his own warped mind, King Aerys was teaching his son how best to rule, which was of course the way Aerys ruled."

"How did Lann—Jaime Waters not know?" whispered Stannis.

"King Aerys called him 'son' often. He never said that to the other knights of the Kingsguard. But many men often call boys who are not their son 'son', just as they call them 'lad'. Jaime thought it was no more than that, then paid no thought to it. Aerys never told him in full because he knew not that he needed to. He assumed the boy already knew.

"You see, Aerys never understood why Joanna rejected him in the first place. In his mind, she should have been greatly honoured to bear children of the blood of the dragon. Aerys admired the old laws of Dragonstone—Valyrian laws, harsher by far than the worst practice of the right of the first night in Westeros—where dragonlords raped their female subjects whenever they pleased and the women ought to be grateful, even to celebrate it as good luck to bear a 'dragonseed'. Married or not, Lady Joanna should have been proud to tell her son that he was Aerys's."

Stannis deemed himself an evil man. He had fought in a sellsword company for many years. He had seen and done terrible things. He had sacked cities. He had sacrificed innocents. He had killed more men than he could count. He had looked the other way as his men pillaged and raped. He had committed that crime at the beginning of his life—not Renly, before that—the secret sin which was unknown to even Cressen and Robert, but which he would never forget and never forgive himself for.

Even for him—him, the Prince of Sunset, commander of companies, sacker of cities, perhaps the most infamous son of Westerosi shores—the extent of Targaryen madness, cruelty and arrogance took his breath away.