Chapter Text
Storm’s End was surrounded by her enemies. Stannis had paced these walls for months during the great siege, glaring impotently at the same banners that met his eyes today: the grapes of Redwyne, the towers of Hightower, and the striding huntsman of Tarly. All of these were drowned under a thicket of gold roses, for Mace Tyrell had arrived with a host to rival the king.
Yet instead of being brought to swift, bloody justice, these traitors would be feted on Baratheon coin while seated at Stannis’ own table: Robert had chosen Alester Florent’s eldest niece as Stannis’ bride.
Tactically, it was a masterstroke. Tyrell had declared for the Mad King and Jon Arryn needed to keep Highgarden in check. The Florents were the most powerful and rebellious of Tyrell’s bannerman. At the height of summer, the Florents could raise two thousand swords—a paltry number compared to Tyrell’s fifty, but still a dangerous thorn in the heart of the Reach.
A Florent bride was still a backhanded compliment. Stannis had watched his men dig up the dead while the Florents feasted within sight of the castle walls. To break bread and bed with them—as Robert had crassly put it—was a slight Stannis could barely stomach. There were many seething pockets of rebellion in Westeros. Surely he could have been matched to a Dornish woman, or one from the Iron Islands.
The path winding around the castle battlements curved towards the sea, and the roses wilted before the lion of Lannister and the stag of Baratheon, which leapt from a thousand flags of a thousand tents scattered drunkenly over the heather. Robert had brought the power of the Crownlands with him, while the queen’s western allies were more sparsely represented. In the far field—so far that Stannis strained to see—were five wind-whipped grey tents clustered together like barnacles. The turtle of Estermont, the quartered moon-and-sun of Tarth, and the seahorse of Velaryon flew from their pennants.
My bannermen, Stannis thought sourly, then looked towards the sea. He is late.
Stannis finished his tour of the outer walls and started down the steps toward the inner keep, where he could at least pretend to have some control over the preparations going on inside. Once, Storm’s End had been home. Hold, Robert had ordered, and Stannis had held to the bitter end. Storm’s End had been his to hold for rest of his life. Instead, Robert had shunted Stannis off to remote Dragonstone and rewarded Storm’s End to their brother, Renly, a boy of nine, who had been evacuated long before the siege. Surely, Robert had wanted a man to succeed him in the stormlands, but that honor had passed to Ser Cortnay Penrose, who ruled in all but name for his young ward.
So engrossed was Stannis in his brooding that he did not notice the servant at his elbow until he cleared his throat.
“Lord Stannis?”
Farwain had been in House Baratheon’s service since before Stannis’ birth, but he was no longer Stannis’ man. He was Renly’s. Renly, Robert’s shadow. Renly, the next Lord of Storm’s End. Renly, Renly, Renly. Stannis forced a response out from behind gritted teeth. “What is it, Ser Farwain?”
“His Grace has sent for you, my lord,” Ser Farwain replied. His voice betrayed no familiar inflection.
Stannis briefly debated ignoring the summons, but a quick glance at the cloud-shrouded sun changed his mind. It was barely noon. Robert had probably just woken up. He could not be drunk yet.
Stannis was wrong.
The king had been up since daybreak, sparring with his former enemies. After their bout, the king had declared a wine break on its second cask when Stannis arrived. Robert and his ten companions were roaring drunk, while the white-cloaked Kingsguard stood at attention around the debauched scene. Ser Barristan Selmy was expressionless, but Ser Trant leaned on his sword and Ser Lannister was yawning openly.
”Your Grace,” Stannis prompted.
Robert glanced away from his wine cup long enough to acknowledge his presence. Then he returned his attention to Silveraxe Fell. “Then, the wench lifted her skirt and...”
Silveraxe added a suggestive comment to Robert’s ribald tale and the king bellowed with laughter. His cup whipped through the air, spraying Stannis with Dornish red.
“Ah, why the sour face, Stannis?” Silveraxe hiccupped as Stannis wiped the wine away. “Have you seen the Florent girl?”
“No,” Stannis replied curtly. “Lord Alester says it is ill fortune.”
Robert and his cronies broke into a storm of laughter.
“Probably doesn’t want you getting cold feet,” Raymun Darry said. “You’d have to pay me to exercise the lord’s right on her.”
“Was her father secretly a Frey?” asked Gerion Lannister.
Robert waved his hands and the lords quieted instantly. “Tell me, little brother: have you ever fucked a woman?”
Stannis ground his teeth. If this was why Robert had summoned him—
“He hasn’t,” Raymun Darry said gleefully.
Robert grunted. “No surprise there. Is it your duty to remain a bloody maid?”
“It is my duty to continue the Baratheon name by fathering legitimate sons on my gods-appointed wife,” Stannis said curtly. At Stannis’ age, Robert had had at least two bastards and marriage to Cersei Lannister had not slaked his thirst.
Robert’s blue eyes flashing with anger, but Darry leaned in front of him to leer at Stannis. “So do you know where to put it?”
“Watch your tongue, ser,” Stannis snapped. “I have heard your family hides Targaryen banners in its vaults, and I have a mind to see if it’s true.”
Darry drew his sword and took a wobbly step forward. “I won’t let that remark go unchallenged.”
Robert pulled Darry back into his seat. “Don’t be a cunt, Stannis.” He shoved Silveraxe off the bench to his left and patted the seat. “Come here.”
“Your Grace, I have wedding plans to attend.”
“Your king and elder told you to sit.” He finished off his horn. “I have important wisdom to pass down, from one brother to another.”
Robert’s fraternal sentiments towards Stannis had evaporated soon after he met Eddard Stark in the Eyrie. Stannis had idolized his brother in his early years, which by necessity had mutated into respect for his king—tempered by the slight of Dragonstone, and now of the Florent wife. Robert remained his elder, his kin, and his king, and no matter how much Stannis hated the command, he sat, placing all his weight on the balls of his feet so he could spring up at any moment.
Robert put his hand out and a servant standing behind him handed him a ripe peach. “Fresh out of the Reach.” He squeezed it lightly. “Just like your lady wife.”
His drinking companions guffawed obediently.
The king took out his hunting knife and took a clumsy slice out of the peach. He made a few more cuts and showed Stannis the mutilated results. “See this?”
Stannis focused on Robert’s hand rather than the fruit itself. His fingers were glistening with sweet juice. “Yes.”
“This peach is Selyse Florent’s cunt.
“It won’t be that sweet,” Gerion Lannister opined. He called to a servant, “Is there any fish?”
The men suggested a few other foods more suitable for the demonstration as Stannis struggled to justify his exit.
Robert punched his shoulder with enough force to knock him off the bench. “Pay attention. I’m doing you a bloody favor. There are two holes on a woman’s cunt. Here—” Stannis glanced slightly off to the side as Robert stabbed the peach “—and here.” He stabbed the peach again. “The first one gives you sons. The second one gives you—”
“An angry vixen,” Silveraxe said sagely.
“Thank you for the instruction, Your Grace.” Stannis stood up, but Robert yanked him back down again.
“I’m not done yet. First, you should check if she’s wet. The—”
Jon Arryn appeared at Stannis’ elbow and coughed politely. “A word about the wedding, my lord of Dragonstone?”
Stannis could have embraced the man. “Of course.” He bowed to Robert and barely stopped himself from sprinting away. Fortunately, Arryn walked swiftly into Storm’s End. He was perhaps more familiar with the castle than Stannis was these days. Arryn had had the unenviable task of pacifying a kingdom while Robert whored, drank, and occasionally presided over a skirmish or knighting ceremony. Stannis deeply resented how Robert thought of Arryn as a replacement for their own father, but there was no denying the man’s talent for statecraft.
“It is the Tyrells, my lord,” Jon Arryn said. “Mace Tyrell has heard he will be seated next to Alester Florent for the wedding feast, and not at the high table. He demands that he and Lord Florent change places so that he might be closer to the king.”
“When Robert raised his banners, Mace Tyrell sided with the Mad King. He is lucky to be asking for a place at my table instead of begging for mercy before the headsman,” Stannis complained.
“Nevertheless, Mace Tyrell is alive and he is asking for a different seat,” Jon Arryn said. “This is not a time to be dwelling on past grievances, my lord.”
“Is that not the purpose of this wedding? Three thousand swords and a knife against Tyrell’s neck, for a Florent maidenhead?”
Arryn shrugged his broad shoulders. “Let us hope Mace Tyrell remains too absorbed with the table arrangements to consider it such.”
“His infernal mother will.”
“Then thank the gods that Lady Olenna is at Highgarden.”
Perhaps the only thing the gods have given me on this day, Stannis thought. “Lord Alester is to be my good-father. He will remain where he is. Kick one of Robert’s drinking companions off the high table and let Mace Tyrell take his seat.”
“You have seated a criminal at your right hand, Lord Stannis,” Arryn said slowly. “Perhaps we could move Lord Florent—”
“I will not move the savior of Storm’s End to satisfy the pride of the man who nearly starved me to death,” Stannis snapped. “Move Ser Fell to a lower table for Tyrell.”
“The king will be displeased.”
“This is my wedding, and it is foul enough that I must needs watch the pageantry of the Reach stuff their faces in the same keep where I watched loyal men boil their boots,” Stannis said. “Send Robert to me.”
Stannis could scarcely wait for the wedding. Surely one virgin Florent—no matter how well dowered or strategic—was not worth this much trouble.