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Stannis Baratheon’s Absolutely Unofficial Guide to Diplomacy

Dragonstone, Solar of Stannis Baratheon

The stone walls of Dragonstone were cold enough to make knuckles ache, but that never bothered Stannis Baratheon. He paced the solar with a single-minded intensity, hands locked behind his back, brow furrowed. The only light came from the hearth, which spat and hissed at its own smoke. Rain lashed the arrow-slit windows; somewhere out of sight, the wind was howling. In the center of the chamber, four chairs had been arranged in a grim little circle.

Davos Seaworth perched on the edge of his seat, trying not to look too much like a condemned man. Selyse Florent, Lady of Dragonstone, sat bolt upright beside him, lips pressed so tight they seemed more wound than feature. On her other side, Melisandre of Asshai reclined, flame-haired and serene, hands folded in her lap.

Stannis cleared his throat. The noise cut through the rain and wind like an axe.

“My lady wife. Ser Davos. Lady Melisandre.” He nodded to each in turn, his expression as warm as cold steel. “You are here because I require… consultation.” He nearly choked on the last word. “It has been suggested I might improve my dealings with—” He paused, searching for the right phrase. “—those less fortunate than myself in wit or principle.”

Davos managed not to smile. Melisandre nodded, serene as a priest at a funeral. Selyse looked confused.

“Who suggested this?” she asked, her tone sharp with suspicion.

Stannis did not dignify the question with an answer. He kept pacing. “Diplomacy. They call it a virtue at court. Robert had charm. Renly has… whatever he has. I have justice. Or so I am told.” He spun on his heel, fixing Davos with a look. “Ser Davos, what is your opinion of my charm?”

Davos thought carefully, knowing there was only one safe answer but also that Stannis had never favored the safe over the truthful. He cleared his throat. “You are… direct, Your Grace. Folk respect that. Mostly.”

“‘Mostly,’” Stannis repeated, voice as dry as salt. “And when they do not?”

Davos spread his hands. “Then they are likely to remember what happened to those who forgot it.”

A flicker of something like satisfaction crossed Stannis’s face. Melisandre’s lips curled into a soft smile, as if she found the exchange amusing in a way mortals could never understand.

Selyse spoke up, voice brittle. “You are chosen by R’hllor, lord husband. You need no charm. A king’s strength is in his righteousness, not his tongue.”

“Not his tongue?” Davos murmured, just loud enough to earn a glare from Selyse.

Stannis pressed on, undeterred. “Nevertheless. The realm is rotten. If I am to win it, I must speak to men who are, in every respect, undeserving. I must—” He faltered. “Negotiate. Bargain. Perhaps even flatter.”

Melisandre, eyes agleam with firelight, spoke for the first time. “Words are wind, Your Grace. But wind feeds the flames.” She said it as if it were a profound secret, rather than a simple observation about how fires work.

Davos suppressed a smile. Stannis looked unimpressed. “Very well. Let us suppose I am forced to parley. What do I say?”

Selyse leaned forward, eyes bright with zeal. “You tell them of the Lord of Light! Speak to them of the coming darkness and the salvation only you can offer.”

Davos risked a glance at Stannis, who was frowning deeper than ever. “If I might, Your Grace,” Davos began, “most lords would rather hear about trade, or taxes, or safe roads than about the end of the world. Not everyone sees what the Lady sees.”

Melisandre regarded him coolly. “The night is dark and full of terrors, Lord Seaworth. Even a blind man can feel the cold.”

Davos spread his hands, feigning surrender. “Even so, most men like a bit of warmth in their bellies before hearing of the cold outside. If you offer them hope—hope they can touch, not just hope they can pray for—they’re more likely to listen.”

Stannis grunted. “So I must lie?”

Davos shook his head. “No, Your Grace. Just… emphasize the right truths.”

Stannis turned to Melisandre. “Should I speak of flames and shadows to the lords of the Reach? I suspect Lord Tyrell prefers wine to fire.”

Melisandre’s gaze flickered. “Lord Tyrell will kneel or burn.”

Selyse beamed. “Hear that, husband? So simple.”

Davos risked a cough. “It might be simpler, Your Grace, to promise a higher price for his grain.”

Stannis stared at him. “Bribery?”

Davos shrugged. “In the Reach, they call it hospitality.”

Melisandre looked faintly offended. “Gold cannot buy loyalty.”

Davos smiled. “No, but it can rent it, for a time.”

Stannis pinched the bridge of his nose as if fighting off a headache. “Let us practice. Suppose you are Lord Ashford, and I want your support. How do I begin?”

Selyse immediately straightened, hands folded in her lap. “I shall play Lord Ashford.”

Davos tried not to wince. “If you wish, my lady.”

Selyse’s impression of a Reach lord was a sight to behold. She puffed herself up, attempted a rough male voice, and announced: “I, Lord Ashford, serve the King in Highgarden and care greatly for my turnips. What do you want, Lord Stannis?”

Davos had to hide a cough behind his hand. Melisandre’s eyes glimmered with amusement.

Stannis stared at his wife, unblinking. “I want your swords, your coin, and your undivided loyalty. You will not find a more honest king in Westeros.”

Selyse—still Lord Ashford—sputtered. “What do I get for it, then? All my men dead for your stubborn pride?”

Stannis drew himself up. “Glory. Justice. The defeat of the usurpers who have made a mockery of the realm.”

Davos spoke up in a wobbly falsetto, “And perhaps a tax reduction on your turnips, my lord?”

Stannis glared. “This is not a market stall, Davos.”

“It is, Your Grace,” Davos replied, “only the stalls are higher, and the goods bloodier.”

Melisandre interjected, voice smooth as silk. “If you would like a demonstration of persuasion, Your Grace, I am always willing.”

Stannis eyed her warily. “Very well. Persuade me, Lady Melisandre. I am Lord Stark. My banners are cold, my halls colder. Why should I kneel?”

Melisandre’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because the night is dark and full of terrors, and only in your service will you find the light. You may think your honor will keep you safe, but the cold winds will find you, as they always do. Only R’hllor offers warmth.”

Selyse looked impressed. Davos, less so.

Stannis nodded, only slightly mollified. “Not bad. But the North is slow to kneel.”

Davos said, “If you want the North, you have to let them think it was their own idea.”

Stannis gave him a look of utter disbelief. “What sense does that make?”

“It’s how it is, Your Grace. The North remembers—mostly the times someone else tried to tell them what to do.”

Selyse, returning to herself, muttered, “The North remembers blasphemy, too.”

Stannis turned to his wife. “Not everything is about blasphemy, Selyse.”

Selyse gasped. “Everything is about blasphemy!”

Melisandre smiled. “In this, your lady wife is correct. All things serve the Lord of Light.”

Davos, unable to help himself, muttered, “Except the turnips.”

Stannis ignored the muttering. “Enough. We have learned that the Reach prefers turnips, the North prefers to decide, and everyone else prefers not to listen. Is that diplomacy?”

Davos grinned. “It’s a start, Your Grace.”

A gust rattled the window. The wind howled. Stannis stalked to the hearth, staring into the flames as if they might offer answers.

“Very well. I will practice.” His voice carried the grim finality of a man announcing his own execution. “Selyse, you will be a proud lord. Davos, you will be a stubborn one. Melisandre, you will be… yourself.”

Selyse straightened, chin high, already warming to her role. “I am Lord Tarly now. Convince me.”

Stannis drew a long, resigned breath and squared his shoulders. “Lord Tarly. I require your sword and your support. In return, you will have the gratitude of your king, the respect of the realm, and perhaps—” his mouth twisted in distaste, “—an extra cask of Arbor gold for your hall.”

Selyse, channeling Tarly, sniffed. “Only one cask? For my support? My men bleed as much as any. Your brother Robert would offer three casks and a lordship for less.”

Stannis’s jaw clenched. “I am not Robert. You will have what justice allows.”

Davos, gentle but with an edge, chimed in. “Nor is Lord Tarly a fool for gold. He’ll want more than wine and promises, Your Grace.”

Stannis shot him a look, eyes sharp as flint. “You—be silent. Your turn is next.”

Melisandre’s voice, honeyed and cool, slipped between the rising tension. “Perhaps less ‘require,’ more ‘invite,’ Your Grace. Honey gathers more flies than vinegar.”

Stannis glared at the flames, as if daring them to contradict him. “Very well. Lord Tarly, I invite your sword and your support, in the spirit of justice and the promise of a better realm. You are known for your loyalty. It is a quality I value.”

Selyse pressed her lips together, unimpressed. “So you need me, but offer nothing. Not gold, not glory, not even a place at your table. If that is your best, you will sit the throne alone.”

Stannis bristled. “I do not barter in glory. I do not deal in empty promises. A lord’s worth is measured by his word.”

Davos, eyebrows raised, offered, “With respect, Your Grace, every lord expects a little—flattery. Perhaps mention his victories. His line. His, ah, skill with a sword. Something to sweeten the taste.”

Stannis didn’t so much as blink. “If Lord Tarly wants praise, he can look in a mirror. I offer what I offer.”

“Which is?” Selyse’s tone sharpened, leaning into the role.

“Justice.” Stannis’s voice cut clean as ice. “My justice is the realm’s justice. None above it, none beneath it. A king who cannot rule himself cannot rule the realm.”

Davos gave Melisandre a pleading look, as if begging her to intervene. Melisandre only smiled, the flames mirrored in her eyes. “Most men hunger for more than justice. Their hearts are small and weak. They fear darkness more than dishonor.”

Stannis shook his head. “If he fears darkness, let him light a candle. I am not in the business of coddling cowards.”

Selyse’s eyes narrowed. “Tarly is not a coward. He is a man of faith. Tell him how his cause is righteous.”

Stannis pressed his mouth into a flat line. “If I say every man’s cause is righteous, the word means nothing.”

“Say his is righteous,” Davos said, patient, “and let him believe it. That is how you win lords. Not with truth, but with the truth they wish to hear.”

Stannis snorted, the sound bleak as the sea against the Dragonmont. “Lies.”

Davos shrugged, surrendering with a tilt of his head. “If it brings them to your banner—does it matter?”

“It does to me.” Stannis’s glare could have blistered paint. “I will not play the mummer for men who value banners more than oaths.”

Melisandre regarded him, eyes glinting in the firelight. “Even a mask may serve the Lord’s purpose. Flames dance; they do not always burn straight.”

He rounded on her, voice flat and clipped. “Enough riddles. If a lord cannot see justice, I have no use for him.”

Davos lifted both hands, the gesture halfway between peace and despair. “Your Grace, let me try. I’ll be Lord Rowan this time. Selyse can advise you; Lady Melisandre can judge your performance.”

Melisandre inclined her head, voice purring with amusement. “I shall be the flame by which his words are judged.”

Stannis regarded them both with a look that managed to insult the whole process. “Proceed.”

Davos straightened, voice rising in mock grandeur. “I, Lord Rowan of Golden Grove, have heard your summons. What do you offer a loyal Reachman who has a thousand mouths to feed and fields trampled by war?”

Stannis did not hesitate. “Order. Taxes fairly levied, not extorted. The protection of the realm and the rights of your house respected by all.”

Davos widened his eyes, pushing. “No pardon for rebels? No golden harvest? No promise of a seat at your council?”

Stannis’s tone turned even more rigid, as if reading from a law book. “You would buy loyalty with bribes. I win it by law.”

Davos pressed, voice softer. “Law is well and good, but grain fills more bellies than justice. Would you deny your subjects bread to keep your conscience clean?”

Stannis paused, and for a moment looked as if he might actually consider. But the opening snapped shut. “I will not beg. I will not lie. If they will not fight for what is right, let them fight for nothing at all.”

Melisandre’s voice lingered, soft and dangerous. “Words are wind, but wind feeds the flame. Your words could ignite loyalty, if you would only breathe them into life.”

Selyse cut in, quick as a slap. “Or smother it. Lords are proud. They do not kneel for scolding.”

Stannis’s expression soured. “I am not their nursemaid.”

Davos shook his head, giving up none of his good humor. “No, Your Grace. You are their king. But even kings must sometimes bandage wounds they did not cause. Men want to feel chosen, not commanded.”

Stannis stood silent. The fire snapped and spat.

Then, with grim inevitability, he tried once more. “Lord Rowan, the realm is wounded. Stand with me, and your house will stand in the light of justice. Stand against me, and you will face the consequences. That is my offer.”

Davos whistled under his breath. “There it is—the carrot and the stick. Only the carrot’s a stick, too.”

Selyse sniffed, folding her arms. “It is enough for a true man.”

Melisandre’s lips barely moved. “Or enough to make them true in your service, if you would let them.”

Selyse, seeing that Stannis was at the end of patience, pressed her lips tight, squared her shoulders, and—without a trace of irony—changed the pitch of her voice and the set of her jaw. “Very well. Now I am Lord Crakehall of Crakehall. I have lands, cattle, and a keep full of sons. My banners have served the Lannisters, and the gold flows west. Why should I ride to Dragonstone for a king whose banner has never flown over my gate?”

Stannis didn’t so much as blink. “The Lannisters are false kings, false friends. They filled your halls with promises and the realm with corpses. When the time comes, their gold will not shield you from retribution. Stand with me, Lord Crakehall, and you will have the protection of law. Your sons will have a future. Your cattle will be left unburnt.”

Selyse, as Crakehall, looked offended. “Unburnt cattle. That is your offer?”

Stannis didn’t flinch. “I am not a merchant. I do not haggle. You will have security and peace. Your sons will not be sent to die in the Lannisters’ squabbles.”

Davos, arms folded, voice low, said, “Lord Crakehall’s banners don’t move for promises of peace. He’ll want to know what you do when the Lannisters turn your way. He’s not about to risk his house on a losing side.”

Stannis’s reply was iron. “Then let him know I do not lose.”

Selyse made a dismissive gesture. “The Lannisters have ten times your numbers, and gold besides. If you want my support, you’ll have to give me more than threats. My cattle are safe for now. My sons are not yet at war. Why should I gamble everything for you?”

Stannis stared back at her, unmoved. “Because when lions fall, they crush those beneath them. Stand aside and be trampled. Stand with me and be spared. It is not gambling—it is survival.”

Davos sighed. “He’ll want a guarantee. Lords do, Your Grace. If you can’t give gold, give your word. Give hostages if you must.”

Stannis’s jaw worked. “My word is worth more than gold. As for hostages—my family does not leave Dragonstone. If a lord cannot trust the word of a king, he does not deserve to be called a lord.”

Selyse, as Crakehall, gave a little shrug. “Then perhaps I will wait and see who wins. The wind changes fast in the west.”

Stannis’s glare was thunderous. “If you wait for the wind, you’ll find your banners burned. I offer justice, not the weather.”

Davos, sotto voce, “He’ll stay in his hall, and so will all the rest, unless you make them want to come.”

Stannis turned to him, every inch the judge. “I will not play games. If they do not come when called, I will remember.”

Melisandre, silent so far, offered only, “Some men need the darkness before they seek the light, Your Grace.”

Stannis made no sign he’d heard her.

Selyse was not finished. “Enough of cattle. Now, I am Lady Blackwood of Raventree Hall.” She straightened, folded her hands, and tried for the somber dignity of an old river house. “My lands are troubled. My ravens are restless. The Brackens threaten us at every turn. Why should I bend the knee to you when you know nothing of the Trident?”

Stannis’s face was granite. “I know this—every river must flow to the sea, and all the Trident’s streams join the realm. The Iron Throne is not a seat for river lords or marsh kings. Your troubles are the troubles of the realm. The Lannisters use your feuds to weaken you. If you serve me, you will have my justice.”

Selyse, as Blackwood, gave a thin smile. “Justice is well and good. But the Brackens have friends at court. The Lannisters send them gold. What does Stannis Baratheon send?”

“An end to corruption. A law that binds lord and peasant alike. The Brackens will have what is owed them, and not a copper more.”

Davos cut in, “She’ll want more than law, Your Grace. A promise of favor. A sign that you remember old loyalty.”

Stannis did not budge. “If Lady Blackwood serves the realm, she will have its gratitude. If she seeks bribes, she will find herself disappointed.”

Selyse, not giving up, “Suppose I have no coin for your wars. My men are tired. Why not leave me be?”

Stannis’s stare was cold as the Wall. “Because war does not leave the innocent untouched. If you wait, you will find the war comes to you.”

Melisandre’s eyes glimmered. “The night is dark and full of terrors. Only in the fire will the faithful find safety.”

Selyse, still in character, frowned. “Ravens bring tidings of fire from the east. Why should I trust a king who burns idols?”

Stannis was ready. “Because I do not burn for pleasure. Only for justice. The gods are many; the realm is one.”

Davos pinched the bridge of his nose. “A touch softer, Your Grace. Perhaps mention that the Blackwoods kept faith with the Targaryens, and you remember who kept their oaths.”

Stannis grunted. “If they kept faith, they will not find me forgetful. If not, they will wish they had.”

There was a long pause.

Selyse finally let her hands drop, tired of the exercise. “Perhaps you should try the Stormlands, husband. There are lords there who know your name.”

Stannis did not relax. “Names mean nothing if the men behind them are hollow. I have no use for empty oaths.”

Davos, with a tired laugh, “If you want them to march, Your Grace, you’ll need more than iron and memory.”

Stannis ignored him, turning back to the fire.

Selyse, ever adaptable switched her role instantly, adopting a pinched, sanctimonious voice. “I am Lord Florent. My banners have served the Baratheons for generations—”

Stannis gave her a look that could shatter stone. “Your banners bent with every wind that blew.”

Selyse broke character, bristling. “That is unkind, Your Grace.”

“It is the truth,” he said, unmoved.

Davos, valiantly holding the thread together, adopted a voice of exaggerated pomp. “I am Lord Redwyne, master of the Arbor and a thousand casks of the finest wine. Why should I pour so much as a cup for a king who offers nothing in return?”

Stannis folded his arms. “Because your wine will sour if the realm rots. Because justice is the root that keeps all vines alive. You will have your reward if you are loyal. If you are not, you will lose more than wine.”

Davos gave him a sidelong look. “I imagine Lord Redwyne will toast that with a cup of vinegar.”

Selyse, undeterred, piped up, “Perhaps we should try someone from the North. The Manderlys, maybe.”

Stannis considered, then nodded. “Very well. Davos, you will play Lord Manderly.”

Davos puffed out his cheeks, adopting a rounder, more ponderous tone. “I am Lord Manderly, and White Harbor is loyal—loyal to House Stark. What makes your cause worth dying for?”

Stannis hesitated, then delivered his reply with the severity of a judge passing sentence. “The Starks are gone. The North needs order, not memory. Stand with me, and your house will be secure. Stand against me, and you will lose everything.”

Davos folded his hands, playing stubborn. “Words like that will win you no friends, Your Grace.”

“Friends are for men with time to waste,” Stannis replied. “I have a realm to save.”

Melisandre’s eyes caught the firelight, gold and red. “Yet sometimes the fire needs time to catch.”

Stannis ignored her. “I will not beg for what is mine by right.”

Selyse pursed her lips, unimpressed. “No one is asking you to beg. Only to persuade.”

Stannis gave her a withering look. “Persuasion is just lying with softer words.”

Davos ran a hand through his hair, exasperated but not without respect. “And what if you run out of lords to offend, Your Grace?”

Stannis did not smile, but his stare was unbreakable.

Selyse, however, refused to let the matter rest. With a stubborn lift of her chin, she tried another gambit, voice thick with Westerlands gravel. “Suppose I am Lord Crakehall. Our hills are full of stone, our herds thick as spring grass. Why should we throw our lot with you, when Lannister gold fills our coffers and our cellars both?”

Stannis did not so much as twitch. “Because Lannister gold will not keep the wolves from your door when the realm is aflame. Tywin pays his debts, but only so long as he profits. When his fortune turns, he will turn on you as well. I do not turn.”

Selyse, as Crakehall, looked amused. “Bold talk from a king with no gold to speak of. Gold keeps a keep, Stannis. Men like to eat. If you want my swords, give me something heavier than justice.”

Stannis’s response was instant. “I give you certainty. The Lannisters buy loyalty and then discard it. I reward those who keep faith and punish those who break it. You will never wonder where you stand with me.”

Davos, not even bothering to break character, piped up with a tired smile. “And if that’s not enough? You’d let the whole West turn against you on pride?”

Stannis glared at him. “If pride is all they have, let them keep it. I do not pay for what should be freely given.”

Selyse, sticking to Crakehall, grunted. “You’ll get little from the West then, Your Grace. We keep what we earn. And we don’t ride for a king who promises only honesty and hard bread.”

Stannis did not move. “Better hard bread than sweet lies.”

Davos muttered, “That’ll fill their bellies.”

Melisandre, almost fondly, said, “A single true flame burns brighter than a hundred false ones, Your Grace.”

Stannis grunted. “Flames and bellies. If men starve for truth, let them.”

Selyse abandoned Crakehall for a new face, straightening and smoothing her skirts. Her voice softened, took on the weight of old grief. “Now I am Lady Blackwood of Raventree Hall. We have bled for kings before, Stannis Baratheon. My house remembers every slight. Why should we fight for a king who sits so far away, in a keep of stone and salt?”

Stannis’s reply came as a rumble. “Because salt and stone are the bones of the realm. I am not a king for feasts and pageants. I do not forget those who keep their word. Serve me, and you will not be overlooked.”

Selyse, as Blackwood, fixed him with a shrewd stare. “And if I do not?”

“Then you may serve another,” Stannis said, “and hope their memory is as long as mine.”

Selyse was not finished. “What of the Brackens? My house’s ancient enemy. Would you have us fight together?”

“If it is justice you want, justice you will have,” Stannis said. “If you want vengeance, look elsewhere. The realm is not a playground for old quarrels.”

Selyse folded her hands in her lap. “Your cause does not stir the blood.”

Stannis’s voice dropped, gravelly. “Then let it stir your sense.”

Davos, quietly, “The Blackwoods want respect, Your Grace. A little warmth, a nod to old wounds—”

“I am not a healer,” Stannis said. “I do not sew up what others have torn for sport.”

Selyse let the part drop, rubbing her forehead as if physically tired by the exercise. She glanced at Davos, as if hoping he’d take the next round.

Davos obliged, shifting into the Stormlands, voice rough, almost jovial. “I’m Lord Estermont, your mother’s kin, and my men have held Greenstone for generations. We know your face, but the sea’s been hard these years, and Lannister gold buys good ships. Why should we risk what little we have for you?”

Stannis’s reply was harder than the stones of Dragonstone. “Because you are kin. Because the Baratheons stand together, or not at all. If you have forgotten the name you carry, I have not.”

Davos, with a small, sly grin, “And if we prefer the gold, and the peace it brings?”

Stannis shook his head. “Gold is cold comfort when you drown. If you betray your blood for coin, you will have neither coin nor kin when the storms come.”

Selyse, taking the part of Estermont’s wife, said with a sharp edge, “Your words are as hard as your keep, nephew.”

“Better hard words than empty ones,” Stannis replied.

A long silence followed. The fire crackled. The wind rattled the heavy shutters. Somewhere in the castle, a servant’s footstep echoed, uncertain.

Davos finally broke the hush, dropping all pretense. “Your Grace, if this is how you woo your lords, best start building higher walls.”

Stannis was unmoved. “Walls stand when men do not.”

Selyse pressed her lips together, then said quietly, “Perhaps tomorrow, we might try flattery.”

“I will not flatter,” Stannis said, voice flat as slate. “If lords want lies, they may go to King’s Landing.”

Melisandre watched him, a private smile on her lips, as if she saw something noble in his stubbornness—or something amusing.

Davos only sighed. “Seven save us.”

For a moment, it seemed as if the wind itself was pausing to listen. The fire spit and snapped in the hearth, sending a spasm of light across Stannis’s face.

Selyse folded her hands as if in prayer, then shifted her voice to something deeper, more stony. “Let us try the Vale, then. I am Yohn Royce, Bronze Yohn, and the Vale’s blood runs thick. We look to our own, and the Eyrie stands tall above the storms. Why should we open our gates for Stannis Baratheon, when the Lady Arryn guards her son and the lords prefer peace?”

Stannis fixed her with a stare as hard as the mountains. “Because peace is only the lull before the next war. Gates close, storms come. When the Lannisters turn their gaze east, the Eyrie’s height will not save you. I offer unity, not isolation.”

Selyse—still Yohn Royce—thumped the table. “Unity bought at the price of old friendship? We’ve no love for Lannister lions, but neither do we run at the first call of a stranger. The Vale keeps its own counsel.”

Stannis barely shifted. “Stranger or not, I am the king by rights. When the realm is divided, even the highest stone can be worn away. When the Vale calls for justice, will the lions answer? Or will they take all you have?”

Davos, quietly, “Royce is a proud one, Your Grace. He’ll want respect, and maybe a chance to swing his own sword.”

Stannis answered without hesitation. “He will have all the battles he wishes, if that’s what he seeks. The war will find him, whether he opens the gates or no.”

Selyse—slipping, weary—sighed, “Not all men want war, Stannis. Not all lords hunger for it as you do.”

Stannis looked at her, expression unreadable. “Then let them hunger for peace, and see what scraps the lions leave them.”

Melisandre tilted her head. “The true king must sometimes wait for the mountain to come to him, not climb every crag alone.”

Stannis was unmoved. “If the mountain does not come, I will build a road.”

A gust of wind moaned at the stones, the sea thrumming on the rocks below. Selyse pressed on, determined.

“Suppose I am Ser Harte of the Crownlands—no great lord, but a knight with three villages and a keep barely worth its mortar. I have my smallfolk to consider. They do not care for kings, only for bread and safety.”

Stannis’s gaze was bleak. “The realm was built for men like you, not for the great lords who squabble over bones. You will have bread and order—so long as you serve. Defy me, and the Lannisters will come for you, and I will not weep.”

Selyse, adopting a softer tone, tried once more. “Your Grace, you offer threats as gifts.”

“I offer truth,” Stannis replied. “Men can eat truth, if they have the stomach for it.”

Davos pressed a palm to his brow, the gesture halfway to a prayer. “Most men would rather eat bread, Your Grace.”

Stannis said nothing.

The fire dwindled, the wood collapsing inward. Shadows danced across the walls, their shapes uncertain.

Davos stood. “Is this how you mean to win your war? By sheer force of will and a talent for making enemies?”

Stannis stared at the dying flames. “If that is what it takes.”

Selyse’s voice wavered, all the parts and roles left behind. “The other kings flatter, bribe, promise the world. You promise only hardship.”

“I promise what I can give,” Stannis said. “And I give what is owed. Nothing more.”

A long, tired silence. Melisandre finally rose, firelight glinting on her red hair. “The night is long. The dawn will come for those who serve the true king.”

Davos shook his head, lips quirking up in a weary half-smile. “Let us hope, my lady. For tonight, the dawn seems a long way off.”

Stannis didn’t answer. He stood at the hearth, as immovable as the stone itself, and watched the embers burn down to ash.

Selyse lingered, her hands clenched in her skirts. She cleared her throat, marshaling one last effort, her voice growing thin and uncertain. “One more, husband. Someone less bold. I am Ser Harys Swyft. My sigil is a goat, and men say I am timid as one. My house was never first to charge, nor last to flee. What say you to men like me?”

Stannis turned, his voice flat as the flagstones. “If you are too fearful to serve, go hide behind your walls. The realm has little use for goats in a war of lions and stags.”

Selyse, as Swyft, wrung her hands. “But what of my daughters, my lands? I only wish to keep them safe.”

Stannis replied, “Safety is earned, not begged for. If you wish for your lands and your daughters to endure, stand by your king and do your duty. Or hide, and see how long luck keeps you from ruin.”

Davos, unable to help himself, muttered, “Perhaps a kind word for the timid, Your Grace. You may have more goats than lions before this war is done.”

Stannis scowled. “Then let them find courage, or find another lord.”

A gust of wind rattled the windows; even the fire had grown tired of the whole exercise.

Selyse straightened, took a breath, and this time her voice came out nasal, sly, and uncannily sharp.
“Now I am Lord Walder Frey of the Crossing. I have sons beyond count, daughters even more. King Robb wanted my bridge and got my banners, though not half as many as he hoped. Now another king comes knocking. Why should I throw my old bones behind you, Lord Stannis? I have stood by many a king, and most of them ended up in the ground or running for it.”

Even Melisandre blinked at the sudden transformation.

Stannis’s face twitched—just once—at the unmistakable mimicry.
“Because the realm is not a bridge for you to sell to every bidder. You have wavered and waited, made promises and broken them. With me, there are no bargains. Serve, and you will have your place. Defy me, and your house will fall with the rest.”

Selyse’s Walder twitched his lips in a mock pout.
“Promises? You say that as if breaking a few vows is a hanging matter. What’s a vow or two among lords, eh? Robb Stark took my crossing and promised a match, but his banners are north again and so is his pretty little wolf maid. A king’s word is only as good as his need. What do you need from old Walder, then?”

Stannis barely blinked.
“I need your banners. I need your swords. I need your oath, and for once I want it kept.”

Selyse’s fingers tapped the tabletop in an uneven rhythm.
“Oaths, oaths, everyone wants oaths. I could have half the realm’s swords in my hall by wedding, if I let my girls wed out of turn. What will you give me, then? A lordship? Gold? A seat on your council, maybe—someplace warm and close to the fire?”

Stannis’s reply was immediate, every word shaped like a blade.
“I give what is deserved. No more, no less. If you stand with me and keep faith, you will have your reward—if not, you will not outlive your treachery.”

“Harsh words for a man who sits alone on an island,” Selyse’s Walder grumbled, though her eyes were bright with mischief.
“I’ve outlasted Targaryens, Baratheons, and Starks. What makes you think I’d wager on a king who won’t even offer a marriage pact? At my age, I expect a little flattery.”

Stannis’s gaze was unblinking.
“I am not here to flatter you, Lord Frey. I am here to command. Your daughters are your own affair. Your bridge is yours so long as you remember who built the roads on either side.”

Selyse, undeterred, grinned her old man’s grin.
“Suppose I wait. Suppose I let the lions and the wolves tear each other to scraps. I’ll have my bridge, my house, my sons. Why put my neck out for you? You’re not the first king to call at my gate, and you won’t be the last.”

“Wait, then,” said Stannis. “Wait until the wolves come for you, or the lions, or the storm. See which king remembers your name when the game is done. If you serve me, you will not be forgotten. If you hedge your bets, you will have no one left to gamble with.”

Selyse made a show of scratching her chin.
“A hard bargain. Suppose I let my banners sleep and send a few swords to every side, as is my right. Men must live, after all.”

“If you try to serve every king, you serve none. Loyalty split is loyalty lost,” Stannis said. “And in the end, you will stand alone on your bridge, surrounded by enemies who remember everything.”

Selyse’s Walder squinted, voice lower and more cunning.
“Enemies are like grandsons—always multiplying. I’ll tell you, Lord Stannis, a wise man keeps his head down until the banners settle. I’ve done well that way.”

Davos, at last unable to hold his tongue, barked a laugh.
“Careful, Selyse, or he’ll have us all married off before dawn.”

Selyse-as-Walder gave Davos a sly side-eye.
“Plenty of daughters left, Smuggler. Maybe I’ll send one to Dragonstone, if his lordship here ever learns to smile.”

Stannis’s mouth twitched, almost a frown, almost a smile—no one could be sure.
“Let your daughters keep their distance. Let your banners hang where they will. When the time comes, Lord Frey, you will find a crossing goes both ways. The next king to ride across may not leave you standing.”

A brief, companionable hush fell. Selyse finally shed the character, massaging her temple.

Davos, unable to let the last word pass, said,
“Best give up, my lady. Walder Frey could talk the Night’s Watch out of their black cloaks, but our lord here—he’d sooner burn the bridge than pay the toll.”

Stannis fixed them all with that flat, eternal stare.
“There will be no tolls. There will be no bargains. I will not buy what is owed.”

The wind howled louder, pressing against the old stone, but inside Dragonstone the silence was thick, stubborn, and absolute.

Selyse stood, gathering her dignity and exhaustion about her like a heavy cloak.
“We have tried, husband. Perhaps the realm will see sense, if its lords will not.”

Davos rose as well, voice carrying the faintest spark of a smile.
“Or perhaps the realm will yield before Stannis Baratheon does. Either way, I’ll sleep easier tonight knowing the Seven Kingdoms are in for a surprise.”

Melisandre lingered by the fire, red hair shimmering in the half-light.
“The dawn will come. The world may yet warm itself by the king’s flame.”

Stannis neither smiled nor frowned; the corners of his mouth did something undecidable. He watched them preparing to leave, then spoke—voice as steady and certain as stone, but not unkind.

“Let them come. Let them test my resolve. A king’s word is his bond, and I will not speak honey for men who crave salt. Yet the realm has survived worse. So have I.”

He glanced up—just for a moment—and in that flicker was something dry, almost wry, as if the joke had not been lost on him after all.

“Besides. If I ever decide to charm a lord, you will know I have been replaced by a mummer in my skin.”

Davos couldn’t help it; he laughed outright, and even Selyse’s lips twitched. Melisandre’s eyes sparkled.

“Enough.” Stannis’s word cut through the laughter, but there was less finality and more form, like the closing of a long, strange play. “They will take what I give or take nothing at all. I will not twist my tongue for the likes of them.”

The wind battered at Dragonstone’s walls, but inside the solar, for a moment, there was warmth and a flicker of something close to camaraderie.

Davos paused at the door, grinning back over his shoulder.
“If you ever change your mind, Your Grace, I’ll find you a bard to teach you flattery. Or at least a decent joke.”

Stannis didn’t look up from the dying fire.
“Send him to the cells. I have no use for liars.”

Selyse gathered her dignity with a muttered prayer about stubborn men and thankless gods, sweeping out in a flurry of silks and sighs.

Melisandre glided after, scarlet and serene, murmuring something about the patience of fire and the wisdom of stone, as if either ever managed to change its nature.

The king was left alone with the embers and the howling storm.

For a moment, silence claimed Dragonstone.

Stannis folded his hands behind his back, glanced at the empty chairs, and, with the world’s most reluctant satisfaction, muttered to the shadows, “At least Walder Frey will never accuse me of being too agreeable.”

He allowed himself the faintest flicker of a smile—really just a rearrangement of the lines on his face—then turned to the window, as if expecting the realm itself to knock and beg for justice.

Dragonstone stood as it always had: battered, unyielding, and thoroughly unimpressed by the noise of kings.

So did its master.