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When Steffon Baratheon was a little boy, he dreamed of riding a dragon called Stormdancer. Renly had never heard this tale from his father’s own lips, but he knew of it nonetheless, having heard it from his older brothers. He had drawn many pictures of his father riding Stormdancer. In some of the pictures, his mother was riding with his father, and in others, the second rider was Renly himself, or one of his brothers. He never drew his father riding a dragon alone. There was always someone accompanying Steffon Baratheon when he took to the sky with Stormdancer, in these pictures drawn by his youngest son.
This time, Renly drew three dragons flying side by side, each of a different size. The smallest dragon looked more like a bird, truth to tell, though the largest one looked somewhat dragon-like. He brought the picture to show to Stannis, while Stannis was occupied with the task of re-inspecting the monthly accounts of the castle, after the steward had done the first round of inspection.
Stannis glanced at the picture, very briefly. “Which one is Stormdancer?” he asked, without any preamble. Maester Cressen would have started with a praise, not a question.
Renly replied, sounding both hurt and annoyed, “None of them. None of them is Stormdancer. He’s not in the picture. Don’t you know by now, what Stormdancer looks like, in my pictures?”
Stannis avoided the question by asking his own questions. “He’s not in the picture? Why not?”
“Stormdancer has gone to his ee … ee … ee-something rest, in Valyria.”
“Eternal rest?” Stannis wondered who it was in the castle who had taught Renly that phrase. The septon, most likely. Stannis was lost to him, and lost to the gods, but the septon still considered Renly to be his most precious charge.
“Yes, eternal rest! Stormdancer’s flying days are over. These three dragons though, they’re still flying.” Renly waited a beat, before adding, “You’re not going to ask me who they are?”
“Who are they?”
“They’re his sons. Stormdancer’s sons. He has three sons, just like Father.”
“His sons. I see.”
Renly pouted. It was clear that he found Stannis’ replies so far to be less than adequate. He crossed his arms. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“You’re not going to ask me their names?”
Stannis sighed. Why must everything be asked first? Couldn’t the boy just tell him? Maester Cressen claimed that Stannis himself was just the same, when he was Renly’s age, but he did not remember any such thing. He remembered pestering his mother with questions, but he did not remember ever pestering her to ask him questions.
Renly, of course, did not have a mother he could pester with questions. The thought sobered Stannis. He studied the drawing more intently, instead of the merest glance he had given it before. “What are their names? Do their names all begin with Storm, like Stormdancer?” he finally asked.
“This one,” said Renly, pointing to the largest dragon, “is Stormhunter. He is Robert’s dragon, because Robert loves to hunt.” Renly stopped there. He eyed his brother, expectantly.
Stannis knew his part by now, though he played it reluctantly. He pointed to the second largest dragon and asked, “And this one? What is his name?”
Renly’s face brightened. He seemed eager to explain. “This one is Stormcounter. He’s your dragon, because you love to count.”
Stannis was taken aback. “I love to count? Who told you that?”
Renly shrugged. “No one. I just … well, I just know.”
“What do I love to count?”
“Oh, many things. Horses and knights and swords and arrows. And coins, you count them too. You love to count your grudges most of all, Robert said, but I don’t know what that is.”
Stannis frowned. Even when he was absent from the castle, Robert could still make his presence felt, and felt very deeply. His reach stretched from the Eyrie to Storm’s End, further than the wingspan of any dragon. Counting grudges indeed! As if that was the only thing Stannis ever counted. Well, someone had to be the one keeping the count, while the Lord of Storm’s End was having too much of a good time frolicking in the Vale.
Renly asked, “Are grudges like barrels of wheat? You’re always counting how many barrels of wheat we have in storage.”
Stannis stifled a laugh. Grudges were like barrels of wheat? What else would the boy think of next?
Renly stared at his brother. “Did I make a funny?”
“A funny?” A jape, Renly must have meant.
“You were going to laugh. You almost did, but then you didn’t. I saw it. I really did!”
“I was not about to laugh,” denied Stannis, with grave dignity, he thought.
“You were too!”
“Was not!”
“Were too!”
Stannis groaned. What in the seven hells was he doing? Arguing with his little brother as if he were still a little boy himself? Renly seemed to be enjoying it, however. The boy was grinning from ear to ear.
“It’s not wrong to laugh, if you hear a funny. It won’t make you forget how many barrels of wheat we have.”
“Why would I forget? I have it all written down. This third dragon, what is his name?”
“Stormlaughter.”
“Because he’s not afraid of the storm, and he laughs at it instead?”
“No!” Renly lowered his voice and whispered, “I only pretend that I’m not afraid of the storm, because I don’t want to look like a baby.”
“Why is his name Stormlaughter, then?”
“You have to guess.”
“Is it because his japes are so amusing that he can make the storm laugh?”
Renly giggled. “A storm can’t laugh! I’ve never heard a storm laughing in my life.”
There was their ancestor Lyonel Baratheon, who was known as The Laughing Storm, but he, of course, was not a real storm.
“Do you give up?” asked Renly, after he had shot down two more answers from Stannis.
“Just tell me the answer. Why is the smallest dragon called Stormlaughter?”
“Because he loves to laugh, of course,” Renly declared.
Stannis laughed. He did not try to stifle it this time. The dragon’s name was Stormlaughter because he loved to laugh. Of course. He should have thought of it himself. It made perfect sense, considering the names Renly had given the other two dragons. The boy’s logic was impeccable.