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The view from the battlements had not changed since news of Robert’s victory on the Trident reached Storm’s End. Shipbreaker Bay was still swarming with ships displaying the burgundy banners of the Redwynes, while on dry land, the castle was still surrounded by a substantial host from the Reach, under the command of Mace Tyrell.
After the royalist force was defeated on the Trident, there was hope among many besieged inside the castle that Lords Tyrell and Redwyne would take their host and their fleet to King’s Landing, to defend the last bastion of the royalists, thus ending the siege that had lasted close to a year. Stannis was quick to pour a douse of cold water on that speculation. “The last thing we should be doing is hoping for them to leave. If they do not leave, if they remain here, then they will not be adding to the strength of the royalist force. King’s Landing is the true prize. My brother’s victory there will end this war once and for all.”
His harsh reminder, indisputable as it was in content if not in form, had been ill-received. Those defending Storm’s End had been willing to follow Stannis to the ends of the earth for most of the duration of the siege, but a recent event was threatening to tip the balance to the other side. Many were still furious with their lord’s brother for threatening to catapult Gawen Wylde over the wall. Ser Gawen had been a well-regarded master-at-arms, even beloved by the younger men in the garrison. He had a sterling reputation as a brave and honorable man. If he thought it was time to surrender, it could not be because he lacked personal courage, they reasoned. He must have been trying to save the lives of those trapped inside Storm’s End from perishing of hunger and starvation, they speculated.
The youngest of Lord Robert’s brothers had spoken for many of them, when the little boy cried out, “You’re heartless, Stannis,” as he watched Ser Gawen being strapped down to the catapult. Renly had gone on to sob and plead, “Ser Gawen promised to teach me how to use a real sword. You can’t kill him! He taught you how to use a real sword, and the wooden one too.”
In the end, it was not his men’s disapproval or his little brother’s tears that stayed Stannis’ hand. It was Maester Cressen’s words, words that seemed uncharacteristically cold and calculating coming from this maester. They could not afford to waste good meat, the maester said, for the day would soon come when they would be forced to eat their dead. Ser Gawen and his three knights were sent to the dungeon instead.
As he stood beside Stannis on the parapet, watching his young lord counting up the number of ships swarming Shipbreaker Bay, Maester Cressen recalled the days when he used to call Stannis “my child,” when he would take Stannis’ hand to give it a gentle squeeze. It had been a long time since he had dared to do either.
They had considered the possibility of Paxter Redwyne taking his ships to Blackwater Bay. No doubt Tyrell would rather remain here, feasting outside the walls of Storm’s End, rather than doing fierce battle in King’s Landing, Stannis had remarked with contempt, but Redwyne might wish to do otherwise.
“Lord Redwyne will not disobey his liege lord,” Maester Cressen responded. “He may argue for sailing the fleet and marching the host to King’s Landing, but he will not disobey his liege lord if his suggestion is rejected.”
The royalist men were losing spirit, it was clear. Their daily feasting, meant to drive down the morale of the people starving inside the walls of Storm’s End, did not have the same high spirit and raucousness as before. Prince Rhaegar’s defeat on the Trident had spooked many of them. There was discontent and disagreement in their ranks as well. Some of the lords from the Reach had proposed marching to King’s Landing immediately, while others argued that they should forcibly take Storm’s End without further ado, dispensing with this waiting game that had lasted for far too long, in their view. Mace Tyrell rejected both propositions.
“He thinks to starve us into submission, and that will be his one great contribution to the war. A final battle in King’s Landing is not to his liking, I’m sure.”
“Perhaps he believes he can bargain with your brother more easily by staying out of the battle for King’s Landing, should Robert’s side prove to be victorious.”
Stannis scoffed. “And should Robert lose, Tyrell means to say to the Targaryens that he has done his duty by keeping us under siege, no doubt. Craven does not even begin to describe it.”
“He may think of it as being shrewd rather than craven.”
That did not sit well with Stannis. He glowered at Maester Cressen as if the maester had been vouching his own personal opinion, instead of trying to explain Mace Tyrell’s point of view.
Maester Cressen steeled himself. This was not going to be an easy conversation, but these days, few conversations with Stannis were. “The question is,” he said, “in the battle of morale between the two opposing sides of this siege, which side will be the loser? Theirs, or ours? Which side will be the first to lose its conviction?”
“They’re not the ones heading towards victory. Unless Tywin Lannister stirs himself from Casterly Rock to come to Aerys’ aid, Robert’s victory is –” Stannis halted, as if he thought better of what he had been on the cusp of saying. “Nothing is ever certain in this world,” he continued, “but their side should be in fear of the coming days more than ours.”
“And yet,” said Maester Cressen, “judging from the conversations I have been hearing from the men in our garrison, we are the ones on the cusp of a great defeat, the ones whose situation seems so hopeless.”
Ser Gawen, defiant even as he was being strapped down to the catapult, had warned, “Every soul in Storm’s End will perish to the last man, woman and child, while Ser Stannis stubbornly waits for his brother’s victory, which is not certain by any means. Lord Robert will return to a castle full of corpses, if he returns at all.” He added, in low voice meant only for Stannis’ ear, though Maester Cressen had heard it too, “How many men, women and children need to die so you could prove yourself to your older brother?”
Stannis looked like he had been struck. For a long while, he said nothing at all. Then, in a tightly controlled voice that alarmed Maester Cressen far more than his fury, he replied, “If you believe that our lives will be spared by surrendering, then you are a fool.”
He refused to speak of that moment with Maester Cressen afterwards, despite all the attempts the maester had made to draw him out on the subject. The only thing he would say was, “I thought an example must be made, to prevent others from doing the same, to prevent our defenses from breaking down irrevocably. Precisely because it was Ser Gawen. Trusted, beloved Ser Gawen.” Trusted and beloved by Stannis himself for many years, it went unsaid.
There were times when Maester Cressen wondered whether it was truly his words, about not wasting good meat, that had stayed Stannis’ hand from catapulting Ser Gawen over the wall, or if it was Ser Gawen’s words themselves.
Now, unexpectedly, Stannis referred to that moment obliquely by asking Maester Cressen, “Do you think my intention is as crude and self-seeking as that? That I would sacrifice countless lives solely to prove myself to Robert?”
Maester Cressen replied, with compassion, “You believe you have a duty. To your brother. To the people of the stormlands.” He paused, considering how best to say what he meant to say.
“Say what you will, maester. Speak your mind,” Stannis said, impatiently.
“What makes you think I have more to say, my lord?”
“You are fingering your maester’s chains. That is a sign you are considering whether or not to speak.”
“I do not doubt your intention, my lord, but others … others who do not know you as well as I do … they may need more overt signs from you.”
“They may need me to prove that I am not as cruel and heartless as they believe me to be? How do you propose I do that, maester? Should I be kissing babies in my spare time?” Stannis retorted.
“Your concern about the fate of … those sleepless nights, and the anguished questions you asked me about the price of duty, and the men, women and children who would be paying it, and the cost to –”
It was soon clear to Maester Cressen that he had erred in mentioning those sleepless nights and anguished questions. Stannis demanded, angrily, “I should make a public display of those concerns, you mean? Do you take me for a player in a mummer’s farce, maester?”
Maester Cressen tried again, “You should be showing them that you are a man like any other, flesh and blood like the rest of us trapped inside this castle, with the same doubts and fears that would assail any mortal. Not all the time, to be sure, that is not compatible with command, but some of the time. Even little glimpses here and there would suffice.”
This also did not receive a favorable response from Stannis, though he spoke more calmly this time. “You were speaking of morale before, maester. My brother made me the castellan of Storm’s End in his absence. I am their proxy lord until my brother returns. The proxy Lord of Storm’s End, showing doubt and fear in the face of the enemy, is unlikely to give them the courage to persist in our resistance. No, whatever doubt and fear I may harbor in my mind, I must keep to myself.” He added, in a more insistent tone that finally made him sound as young as he really was, “I must! There is no other choice. None!”
Maester Cressen sighed. How he yearned to pull Stannis into his embrace, the way he had done on the day they stood on this same parapet watching the sinking of Windproud. He had tried shielding Stannis’ eyes from that sight, but even at four-and-ten, Stannis refused to be to be shielded. He would watch, and watch to the end, praying and hating and cursing the gods all the way through.
Maester Cressen settled for placing his hand on Stannis’ arm. He had tried the other way, and it had failed, and now it seemed that he must resort to … to …
“On the question of morale, my lord … I have been thinking of a prophecy.”
Stannis frowned. “Prophecy? What sort of prophecy?”
The maester recited, in a voice that sounded like the voice of a traitorous stranger to his own ears, “When the hammer shall fall upon the dragon, a new king shall arise, and none shall stand before him.” That he, a maester sworn and chained to the Citadel should ever resort to such a thing …
“That is not a prophecy,” scoffed Stannis. “I remember my history lessons well enough, maester. It was a lie made up by that turncloak Hugh the Hammer, so he could claim the Iron Throne for himself, by declaring that his victory was preordained by the gods.”
“It was never proven that Hugh the Hammer made up the prophecy.”
“He was not a learned man. He could neither read nor write. How could he have read it on some ancient scroll?"
“Perhaps it was told to him by a learned man.”
“Have you seen this prophecy written down anywhere, maester?”
“Many accounts of the Dance of the Dragons mention it. I have read those accounts, yes.”
“But have you read the ancient source itself, the one that supposedly brought up this prophecy in the first place? At the Citadel?”
“I am only a humble maester, my lord. Not an Archmaester. And besides –”
“It does not truly matter if the prophecy was an invented one?”
“There are those who would say that all prophecies are inventions. Even ancient books and ancient scrolls were written by the hands of men.”
“This particular invention did Hugh the Hammer no good at all.”
“Perhaps the prophecy was not meant for him.”
“Say what you mean, maester. I do not have the time for riddles. Nor the patience.”
“Your brother defeated a dragon on the Trident.”
“And what of it? We are at war with dragons. What else could Robert defeat but a dragon?”
“He slew Prince Rhaegar not with a sword, but with a warhammer.”
“When a hammer falls upon a dragon.” Stannis frowned. “Surely you are not suggesting what I think you are suggesting? You are a maester, trained and chained in the Citadel. Prophecies, omens, superstitions, they are anathema to the learned, are they not? What would your teachers think, if they could see you now?”
“They trained me to think for myself, when the circumstances demand it. The Citadel could not prepare us maesters for everything we would face and encounter out in the real world. There are some Archmaesters who believe that they know all, having spent most of their lives in the cloistered atmosphere of the Citadel, but they are not among the ones I would count as my best teachers.”
“Are you telling me that thinking for yourself, you have decided to believe in this absurd prophecy?”
“The efficacy of a prophecy does not lie in its verity, my lord. It lies in the sentiment it inspires in the hearts of men and women, and the way it influences their actions.”
“So the truth does not matter at all?”
“A prophecy could become true through the actions taken by those who believe in that prophecy.”
“A self-fulfilling prophecy, you mean. Is that what you think this prophecy is? It did not work for Hugh the Hammer. He did not become king.”
“His ambition was too far-fetched. He had no claim to the throne, none at all. Robert’s victory, on the other hand, is not far-fetched. It is very likely. Not only has he slain Prince Rhaegar, his host has defeated the bulk of the royalist army.”
“If it is very likely, then why do you need the prophecy at all?”
“Because for the people trapped inside this castle, that likelihood seems so far away, my lord.”
“I will not lie to my people.”
“Truth can be a bitter draught.”
“A bitter draught is better than the sweetest of lies. A king needs no crown but the truth. You taught me those things. Have you forgotten that, maester?”
“I also taught you that the tree that does not bend would break, my lord. Sometimes our action has to fit the circumstances, despite our reservations.”
“A tree that bends too far is already well on its way to being broken.”
“You lied to your brother Renly when he asked you if the horse meat in the broth was from his pony. You said his pony had gone to the Trident to help Robert.”
Stannis flushed. “That is different. My brother is a little boy.”
“There are other little boys and little girls trapped inside this castle.”
“Their fathers and mothers are not children. The men defending our garrison are not children. Should we lie to them too?”
“There are many kinds of lies. They do not all hold equal weight.”
“I am not the sort of man who believes in giving false hope, or softening a hard truth.”
“The hard truth is, my lord, your people are dying. They are suffering. Your principle, as worthy as it might be, will not give them hope.”
“Hope.” Stannis examined the word every which way. “On the parapet, when you stood beside me and Robert as we watched the Windproud sink, you did not prattle on about hope. The septon said, ‘There is still hope until the bodies are recovered,’ but you said nothing of the kind.”
“That was a different situation.”
“Because you could not think of a prophecy at the time?”
“Because there was no turning back the tide, at that time. Here, we still have a chance. Here, we have a duty to seize that chance.”
“A duty.” Stannis paused, before asking, “What do you suggest I do, maester? Announce this prophecy in the great hall while we are enjoying our supper of rats and boiled leather? They would laugh in my face, and rightfully so.”
“No, my lord. It is better if the prophecy is spread through word of mouth.”
“Word of mouth requires a first mouth to speak the words, maester. Will that mouth be yours?”
Maester Cressen neither confirmed nor denied this.
The smuggler Davos arrived with his onions and his salt fish within a week of the beginning of Maester Cressen’s whispering campaign. His arrival, in his little ship with its black hull, black sails and black oars was taken as an omen by those who were keen to believe in the prophecy.
“No doubt he came because he had heard the news of Robert’s victory on the Trident, and thought he would be rewarded greatly for his onions and salt fish,” Stannis remarked.
“Others had heard the news too, but no one else dared to brave the Redwyne cordon,” Maester Cressen pointed out. “He risked a great deal to come here.”
“He is still a smuggler for all that.” Then, reluctantly, Stannis added, “A smuggler, and our savior.”
“Perhaps it needed a smuggler to do what he did. To dare what he dared. Every man is fitted for a purpose, my lord.”
And what had been his purpose, Maester Cressen wondered? To whisper words from a prophecy he did not believe, in a desperate attempt to prevent a revolt that he could see brewing while his lord stubbornly refused to heed his warnings? To lie in service of what he believed to be the greater good?
He owed his duty not to a single truth, but towards a larger one, he tried to console himself, albeit without much success.