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Stannis waited for the scream, as his young squire’s body was consigned to the flames. It never came.
Of course not. The dead do not scream.
Bryen Farring had succumbed to the cold and hunger. Bryen had been a well-built lad, bigger and stronger than Stannis’ other squire, Devan Seaworth.
What if it had been Devan? How could he have told Davos the news? My war took another one of your sons. Five now. The only ones left are the little ones you named after me and my lord father.
Fool, he thought, as he reminded himself that Davos was dead too, slain by Wyman Manderly and his treachery. He would not have the chance to tell Davos anything. He would have had to tell Pylos to write to Davos’ wife in that case. She must despise me. As well she should. All the widows and orphans of the dead despising him. This is war. People die. What choice do I have?
Ned Stark’s sons were all dead as well, e xcept his bastard at the Wall. Stannis’ jaw clenched as he thought of the stubborn, defiant Lord Snow. A green boy daring to defy him, when he was the only one who came when the Night’s Watch called. But the boy was knowledgeable about the ways of the north. The mountain clans did come to Stannis’ side as the boy predicted, and together with the men Stannis brought from Dragonstone, they liberated Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn.
But now the northmen wanted something else from him. To liberate Winterfell from the Boltons, and to rescue Ned Stark’s daughter from a marriage to Bolton’s bastard. In truth, he knew it had to be done; he would not be able to convince the northmen to support his claim as king as long as Roose Bolton and his bastard held the north.
But it rankled too, seeing the obvious love and pride the northmen felt for Ned Stark and for his family. “Ned’s daughter,” they kept saying. Not Lord Stark’s daughter, but Ned’s daughter. “Ned,” said with so much affection and love that he did not think possible to have come from such tough and battle-weary men.
I could live a thousand years and win a thousand battles, and no man would ever say my name with such affection.
And then there were the southron lords constantly comparing him to Robert, predicting what bold and daring feats Robert would have done to liberate Winterfell, a pointed rebuke to what they saw as Stannis’ lack of boldness and daring.
I have won battles too. I held Storm’s End for a year, took Dragonstone from the Targaryens, crushed Victarion Greyjoy at sea, defeated Mance Ryder and his wildlings, but the only thing people remember are Robert’s battle prowess years in the past. And they do not even remember me holding Storm’s End for a year while we starved. They only remember Ned Stark lifting the siege. Even Robert only remembered that.
Stannis thought of the day Ned Stark came to lift the siege. Davos had slipped through with his onions and salted fish, and that had mercifully delayed the inevitable starvation. But not halted it completely. They lost more good men and women, even children. Yet Stannis had held firm. Robert told me to hold Storm’s End, and I will hold it until the last man or woman.
By the time Ned Stark and his fleet arrived to break the siege, news of Robert defeating Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident and the Mad King’s demise had already reached Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne. A battle had proven to be unnecessary.
Still, Ned Stark had walked into Storm’s End greeted as a liberator and a savior. His ships had arrived laden with provisions. “King Robert,” the men had shouted in unison. “Lord Stark,” their chant had continued.
Stannis had waited for Ned Stark in the great hall. Renly had insisted on trailing after him, even after Stannis had told him that it was not Robert coming home.
“But it’s Ned. Robert’s Ned. He can tell us about Robert.”
“You will not call him Ned. Lord Stark, that is who he is,” Stannis had snapped.
“But Robert always call him Ned,” Renly had pouted.
“We’re not Robert, and it is not our place to call him Ned. He is the Lord of Winterfell now. Lord Eddard Stark. Do you understand?”
Renly had ignored Stannis’ question and started running to the door as Ned Stark was walking in. He grabbed Ned’s hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Ned had bended down, both knees touching the dusty floor, to look Renly in the eyes. His expression was full of pity and sadness, as he looked at the thin, pale boy. The pity rankled Stannis.
I did the best I could. For him and for everyone else. We were down to rats, before the smuggler arrived with his onions.
Stannis cleared his throat, and said, stiffly. “Lord Stark. Storm’s End is in your debt.”
Ned rose from the floor, and moved closer to Stannis, his arms outstretched. The hug took Stannis by surprise. He did not know what to do with his hands.
“Not at all,” Ned said after he had released Stannis from the hug. “Mace Tyrell dipped his banners immediately once he saw our fleet coming. He must have heard the news of Aerys’ death. You did well holding Storm’s End this long. Robert did not think that it was possible.”
Robert does not think me capable of much , Stannis thought.
“How is my brother? We had heard news that he was injured at the Trident.”
“He is mending well in King’s Landing.”
“Does he .. does he have need of me there? Or somewhere else?”
Ned looked uncomfortable. “I told Robert that perhaps … it could wait. Or he could send other men. To give you time to mend.”
“I am not injured, Lord Stark.”
“Yes, of course, but –“
“What does my brother command me to do?”
“For you to take a fleet and capture Dragonstone, the Targaryen stronghold. Aerys sent Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys there after Rhaegar was slain. Robert is concerned that they could be smuggled out before Dragonstone is captured.”
The queen and the younger son. But what about Rhaegar’s wife and children?
“What about Princess Elia and her babes? Did they escape to Dorne?”
Ned started to sway on his feet. Stannis managed to grab hold of his arms before he fell. He led Ned to a chair.
“Should I call our maester?”
“No, there is no need. Forgive me, it has been a long journey.”
“A long war,” Stannis said.
“A very long war,” came Ned’s mournful reply.
He lost his father and brother, and his sister has yet to be found. Stannis thought of the pain of losing his parents, and for the first time in his life, felt a connection to Ned Stark.
“I will ask them to prepare a room for you to rest. And for your men.”
“No, we cannot stay. I still have to find my sister.”
“Of course.”
There is something else he wanted to tell me. No, perhaps something he needed to say, to anyone willing to listen. I wish Maester Cressen is here, Stannis thought. He would be better at listening to a man unburdening himself.
Stannis waited, while Ned composed himself. “Princess Elia and her two children are dead,” Ned finally said.
Stannis stayed silent. He did not think a question would be helpful at that moment.
“Tywin Lannister and his men arrived in King’s Landing before we did. Aerys opened the gate for him, thinking … thinking that his former Hand would be his savior, I suppose. Tywin’s men butchered Princess Elia and her children.”
But Tywin Lannister’s brutality is not the worst part for you , Stannis thought. There is something else.
“He arranged the bodies, like a gift for Robert. Here, proof of House Lannister’s loyalty to you, after sitting out the war for so long. And Robert … he … he seemed glad. It was my father Aerys burned to death, my brother Aerys murdered, and my sister Rhaegar took, but Robert’s blood thirst for the Targaryens is greater than mine. Even for the helpless and innocent Targaryens, the ones who did us no wrong.”
Ned was looking at Stannis with imploring eyes. Explain him to me. Tell me about your brother, his expression seemed to be pleading.
I can’t. He was more your brother than he ever was mine.
With that thought, Stannis knew immediately what to tell Ned.
“You are his brother, his family. Your family is his family too, your brother his brother, your father his father, your sister his sister.”
From Ned’s startled expression, Stannis knew that he had not managed to completely erase the trace of envy and bitterness from his voice as he spoke of how Robert saw Ned as his brother. But there was relief too, on Ned’s face, as if Stannis’ words had managed to convince him, for now, at least, that Robert’s conduct was not solely driven by blood lust.
Stannis remembered a different occasion later, when he saw contentment and happiness on Ned Stark’s face. When Ned came to Dragonstone for Stannis’ wedding, accompanied by his wife and young son. Lady Stark. Catelyn Tully. Stannis had not met her before. Men found her beautiful, he knew, from the way heads turned as Ned Stark walked into the feast hall with his wife and son.
He remembered the way Ned and his wife had looked at each other, as they sat on the table, their young son between them. The way his hand gently caressed hers as he passed her a dish. The way their heads moved closer and closer together, whispering to each other, as if the world had suddenly been vanquished of everything and everyone else, and they were the only two people left in it.
He loved her. And she loved him.
She had been betrothed to Ned’s older brother Brandon, Stannis knew. Brandon who had been better looking, stronger, faster, more joyful and full of laughter than solemn, stodgy Ned, the story went. But the woman staring at Ned Stark with love and affection in her eyes did not seem to regret marrying the younger brother.
If Robert had died and his betrothed had to marry me, I doubt she would be looking at me with that same look in her eyes.
Lyanna Stark. Robert’s betrothed was Lyanna Stark, Ned’s sister. He could not imagine her now; he had never met her. He knew her only from Robert’s stories. She grew more beautiful, more gentle, more gracious and more perfect with each telling of the story, especially after her death.
The dead are always perfect, their perfection unmarred by further sins and grievances. And their imperfections erased by time and fading memories. How could the living ever dream to compete with the dead? Stannis reflected.
He almost felt sorry for Cersei. Almost.
Stannis suddenly realized that he was not the only one transfixed, watching Ned Stark and his lady wife. Robert was watching them too, a wine goblet paused halfway to his mouth, an expression of such pain and yearning etched on his face.
Oh, Robert!
But he knew there was nothing he could say to Robert to help ease the pain. Robert would not take his sympathy kindly. Who are you to pity me, you, the man who has never known love? Robert would say, inevitably.
We used to be separated by the distance from Storm’s End to the Eyrie. But now we are closer physically, in the same city at King’s Landing, in the same hall for this feast. Yet, we have never been as far away from each other as we are now.
He silently willed Ned to turn to Robert and notice his pain, to do something, to say anything, to ease Robert’s pain. Ned was the only man who could, by virtue of their shared loss of Lyanna, and by their bond of brotherhood that was stronger than anything Robert ever felt for his own flesh and blood. But Ned was busy attending to his young son, who had dropped a spoon, and by the time Stannis looked at Robert again, he had gulped down the wine and was standing up to leave the table.
Robert was on his way to bed Selyse’s cousin Delena Florent in the bed prepared for the bride’s and groom’s first night, as it turned out.
Enough , he chastised himself. They are both dead now. They cannot hurt me, or help me. But his mind seemed to have a force and a will of its own these days, wandering and roaming through the past, as he stared and stared at the flame in the watchtower.
It was a much earlier memory this time. Not long after his father’s and mother’s death, when Robert had brought Ned to Storm’s End for a visit. Robert’s letters from the Eyrie had always been full of stories about Ned Stark, Jon Arryn and the Eyrie. But mostly about Ned, and how wonderful he was. But when Ned finally arrived, he seemed a shy, quiet young man, not at all boisterous and full of energy as Robert.
Why does Robert like him so much? He’s almost as stodgy as me, his younger self had thought.
They had gone riding in the woods, the three of them. Robert was telling Ned the history of Storm’s End. “A castle built for love,” he declared grandly.
Stannis scoffed. “More for folly. All the dead and dying, for the sake of one woman.”
That had incited Robert’s wrath. “What do you know about love? Or about women?”
Stannis was about to reply, when Ned suddenly interrupted, “Durran should have built his castles more inland. He should not have built them too close to the sea. He was tempting fate too much.”
Robert laughed and laughed, as if Ned had said the funniest thing in the world. He slapped Ned’s back, before saying, “See? Ned always has the best idea.”
He never laughs at anything I say in that way.
The sight of the two of them, riding side by side, was too much to bear all of a sudden. Stannis rode away from them, out of the woods, almost unseeingly, until he realized that he was on the beach. He dismounted and started walking to the edge of the water.
He heard the footsteps of another. He turned back to see Ned.
“Where’s Robert?”
“He saw a boar he wanted to go after.”
“Why didn’t you go with him?”
“Your master-at-arms is with him.”
That does not answer the question of why you are not with him , Stannis thought.
Ned made sure to fold the bottoms of his breeches so they would not get wet, before walking next to Stannis at the water’s edge.
More stodgy than I am, thought Stannis. And yet, he makes Robert laugh, and I never could.
They walked side by side, without talking. It was strangely peaceful, walking with this boy he had never met before, this boy he knew only from the stories in Robert’s letters.
He’s very different from the way I thought he would be.
“Robert reminds me of my brother Brandon,” Ned said suddenly, with a smile.
“In what way?”
“Oh, the way they’re very excited about doing things, and not afraid of trying anything. I am more cautious, and slow.”
There was such pride and admiration in Ned’s voice, talking about his older brother and Robert.
He has his brother, and now he has Robert too.
“I suppose you’re more the cautious type too?” Ned continued.
“The stodgy, insufferable type, according to Robert.”
“Robert misses home when he’s at the Eyrie,” said Ned, suddenly changing the subject. “He misses his brothers. He misses –“
Stannis held his breath. What does he miss about me? He both did and did not want to know.
“He missess hawking with you.”
He stared at Ned’s guileless face. Were they mocking me, laughing at me and Proudwing?
Perhaps not. Ned did not seem the type who would laugh at the humiliation of another. And Stannis knew instinctively that Robert would not have told the story to Ned in that particular way. In Robert’s telling, it would not have been a story about Robert laughing at his brother’s misery. He would have told it in such a way that painted him in a good light, that made him look like kind and loving brother.
Because Ned’s good opinion matters to Robert. He probably told it as a story about him teaching his poor, pitiful younger brother hawking.
The thought was infuriating to Stannis. The shoreline seemed endless, stretching as long as the eyes could see. He wanted it to go on forever, to keep walking and walking before Robert came bounding in, sucking out all the air in the vicinity.
“It’s a beautiful beach. I have never been on a beach before,” Ned said, sounding shy.
“I suppose Winterfell is too far inland.”
“And the Eyrie too high up a mountain.”
“Do you think … no … forget it.”
“No, go on, please. I want to know.”
“Do you think the nature of a place … influenced the kind of people living there?”
Ned’s smile was like a sun coming up over the horizon.
“I’ve thought of that too! Stubborn Baratheons, weathering storm after storm, willful and determined, just like their castle.”
“Well, I am not as stubborn as Robert.”
“You are stubborn in your own way.” Ned stated it as a fact.
“And what about the Starks?”
“Your turn,” Ned said.
Stannis thought for a moment. “The harshness of the environment, and living so close to the Wall, with the threat of the wildlings ever present, made the Starks wary creatures. Even your House words do not boast of the greatness of your House, like other families, but serve as a warning, as a word of caution.”
“Winter is coming,” they said, together.
Ned looked very pleased. “I think you might have the making of a northman, Stannis Baratheon.
“I don’t think I have the making for anything,” Stannis muttered under his breath.
Strangely, Ned seemed to know what he was thinking. “In the north, we are not judged solely by how fast we can ride a horse, or how well we can wield a sword. Our way is the old way. It is about honor and duty.”
“And then there are your old gods. The weirwood trees, with saps that look like blood.”
“I suppose you find that strange? Southerners often do. They consider our gods primitive, without all the rules and rituals of the Seven.”
Stannis scoffed. “Rules! What good are rules, if the Seven behave in just as fickle a manner and without any order, like any primitive gods?”
His bitter words stunned Ned, who cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable.
Oh, why did I say that?
He walked quickly, almost at a run. Ned was not following him. He did not hear any footsteps except his own.
He will think me strange. And he will tell Robert about his strange brother, and Robert will smirk and say – oh, that is only Stannis, he has always been strange.
He was so mired in misery that he did not hear Ned’s approaching footsteps until he felt the hand on his shoulder. He turned around to see Ned, breathing heavily. He must have been running to catch up with me.
“Robert told me, about watching your father and mother … about the shipwreck.”
“I prayed,” he blurted out. “I prayed to the Seven the whole time, until the bodies were found.”
“I know. Robert said that was what he remembered most about that day. Stannis with his head down, praying.”
Was that even true? Stannis thought now, years and years after that walk on the beach. Ned would not have lied just to make me feel better. He was a boy steeped in honor, even then.
It does not matter , he told himself again and again. The past is the past. We will march to Winterfell and take it, or die trying. That is the only way forward. Memories and ghosts and their boyhood selves were like fragments of a song heard from across a vast ocean. They will not help me defeat the Boltons.