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“Every child is different,” her own mother had told Cassana when she was pregnant with her second son. That had been her mantra over the years, as she watched her two sons grow from babes suckling on her breasts to boys of twelve and eleven. Robert at twelve was almost as tall as his father, broad-shouldered and muscular, and already turning heads in his direction.
Stannis looked a child still, his features not as clearly defined as his brother. A strange boy, her father had remarked more than once, the last time within his grandsons’ hearing. The memory of it angered Cassana still.
She gently removed her husband’s hand that was cupping her breast, fastened her robe and walked to the window. He didn’t stir from his sleep. She envied his peace of mind at times. Even before she drew back the curtain, she could already envision her younger son running across the field, with Proudwing perched on his shoulder. And sure enough, there they both were, Stannis and that bird with her singularly ill-suited name.
“He’s trying to train that damn animal hawking again,” Cassana muttered under her breath.
She blamed her father for this too. Stannis had been content playing with the wounded hawk he found and nursed back to health inside the castle. The bird would follow him from room to room, eating grains from his cupped palms. That was the state of affair, until the day her father arrived at Storm’s End for one of his visits, and recklessly suggested that Stannis took Proudwing hawking with Thunderclap, Robert’s pride and joy.
That first attempt had been a disaster. Proudwing absolutely refused to leave Stannis’ shoulder at first, and when she finally did, she flew straight into a tree branch. Robert had recounted what happened with glee at the dinner table, while her younger son sat silent and tight-lipped. She knew that look of stubborn, sullen determination on his face. And sure enough, he had been waking up before dawn each morning to train Proudwing to fly.
She had admonished her older son later, with the same words she had said many times before. You must be kinder to your brother. You are your father’s oldest son, and the heir to Storm’s End. Others will follow your lead. If you treat your brother badly, then they will too. She raged inside at how hollow her own words sounded, after too many repetitions, but what else was there to say? Robert had looked contrite, apologized, and then gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. She could not help but smiled, even as she worried that Robert’s easy and instinctive charm could so easily curdle into something more menacing later, if left unchecked.
How different they were, her two sons, born from the seeds of the same man, carried inside the same womb, albeit at different times. Charming, funny, joyful Robert, who laughed at everything and had a smile for everyone, who was loved and adored by almost everyone in the castle, from the master-at-arms to the cooks.
And Stannis? She did not want to think of him now. You occupy too much of my thoughts. It’s not fair to your brother.
“What are you doing?” Steffon Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, her nominal lord and master, her dear husband, finally stirred from his sleep. He walked stark naked to the window, towering beside her.
“Put some clothes on. The servants might see you.”
“What servants? It’s too early for them to be running around.”
“Not too early for your son to be running around with that blasted bird.”
Incredibly, her husband seemed proud. He had that “there’s my boy!” look on his face. She was too tired to start an argument, so she said nothing. He sees only the will and determination, but not the anger and sadness driving that will and determination.
“He is half Targaryen,” her grandmother had warned Cassana, soon after her father had successfully arranged the match, which he considered a great coup for House Estermont. “You know what they say about Targaryens. Half of them are mad. The gods flip a coin every time a Targaryen is born.”
“Well, he is only half Targaryen, so it’s more like flipping a four-sided coin, where only one side spelled madness. There is a higher chance that he is sane,” Cassana had pointed out. She had liked the look of Steffon Baratheon from their first meeting, and her grandmother’s disapproval did not deter her.
“You are too clever for your own good, Cassana,” her grandmother had snapped. “Men do not want clever wives.”
“So I should be dumb instead?”
“No, but you should be clever enough to hide your cleverness.”
The truth was, Cassana had spent most of her life hiding her true self from others. Her impatient self, the self who abhorred empty courtesies and insincere pleasantries, who was always on the verge of coming out with sharp, biting remarks. She had realized from an early age that the world was not kind to girls and women who were perceived to be unpleasant or difficult. Or headstrong. Smile and look agreeable. Say yes now even if you disagree, and find a way to get what you really want later. She had taught herself all these from an early age.
So it frustrated her that her younger son, who reminded Cassana so much of herself, would not learn the same lessons to accommodate the world. I need you to learn this so you would be happy, so you would be beloved, so you would live a fulfilled life. She wanted to scream those words at him at times. You are not a girl and you will not grow to be a woman, but you are the younger brother of a charming, adored and beloved boy who will most likely grow to be a charming, adored and beloved man, and the world will judge you severely for lacking his qualities.
She had tried explaining this to her husband once, had tried making clear to him all her fears, concerns and worries regarding their younger son.
“But perhaps he is different,” Steffon had replied. “Perhaps Stannis truly does not care what other people think of him.”
She had given her husband an incredulous look. How is it, she wondered, how is it possible that this kind, gentle, thoughtful man, this loving husband and father, how could he be so entirely clueless about one of his sons?
“Of course he cares! Why else do you think he’s so unhappy and miserable?” She had shouted those words too loudly, and her husband’s wounded look cooled her anger.
“I never thought he was miserable. Only that … well, only that he does not show his joy the same way as Robert. But if Stannis is truly unhappy …” Steffon’s words trailed off into silence.
She sighed. He continued, “What did we … what did I do wrong? Did I fail him in some way?”
She went to him, gently stroked his hair and whispered, “No, my love. You did nothing wrong. Every child is different, my mother used to say.”
They had not revisited that conversation since. She rested her head on her husband’s arm, as they stood at the window watching their son desperately trying to coax Proudwing to soar. Fly, she silently prayed, please fly for him. The bird refused to take flight, and her heart broke into a million little pieces. She buried her face in her husband’s arm, unwilling to watch more. But then she heard him laughing.
“What? Did she fly?”
“No. But look!”
She held up her head, and looked. Stannis had Proudwing perched on his palm instead of his shoulder. The bird was kissing him on the cheeks, one after the other in quick succession, over and over again. He wouldn’t like her being too close to him, was Cassana's first thought. But incredibly, her son was laughing. He was actually laughing! She wished for time to stop, to catch him in this unguarded moment of unexpected joy, and to immortalize it forever.