Chapter 168 — The Stag and the Viper
Storm's End
One of the most impregnable fortresses in all the Seven Kingdoms, its walls rose nearly a hundred feet at their highest and were forty feet thick; even the sea-facing side measured some eighty feet across.
Legend said Brandon the Builder had laid spells upon it so strong not even the gods themselves could shake its foundations. Since the day it was raised, Storm's End had never fallen.
Yet now, the ancient stronghold seemed steeped in grief.
"They still haven't been found?"
The new Lord of Storm's End stood at the head of the long table, voice low, most of his face swallowed by shadow.
Spread across the oak surface lay the sea's cruel answer: a gold-threaded stag banner, bleached and frayed by saltwater, and several warped, dark planks — wreckage from a shattered ship.
"The sea is too vast, Robert."
Opposite him, Stannis Baratheon stood ramrod straight. His already severe features were colder than the winter gales outside.
"The currents shift. Wreckage drifts. Bodies…" His voice did not waver. "Bodies could have gone anywhere. Finding a few corpses in the open sea is nearly impossible."
Professional. Precise. Bloodless.
To Robert, it almost sounded like mockery — as though Stannis were silently reminding him that swinging a hammer from horseback did not teach a man the ways of tides and storms. Raised in the Vale, Robert had known mountains, not oceans.
Still, he knew his brother's nature. The irritation passed in a flash.
"He killed them, Stannis."
Robert lifted his head. His clear green eyes burned, rage coiled so tight it seemed ready to tear him apart. His broad shoulders strained beneath his leather coat like a bow drawn to breaking.
"Our father and mother — that bastard king did this!"
His fist slammed the table. The sodden stag banner jumped.
"He didn't want that lecherous prince marrying into a powerful house, so he sent Father on a task meant to be impossible!"
"But Father succeeded."
His voice broke into a roar.
"That Targaryen bastard — this is a plot! A damned plot from start to finish!"
He sounded like a bear goaded past reason.
Stannis did not flinch.
More than the confirmed deaths of their parents, he suspected another flame fed Robert's fury — a girl named Lyanna Stark.
But he buried the thought. Duty and stubborn reason ruled him.
"We have no proof, Robert."
He said it like a verdict.
"Anger is not evidence. Suspicion is not evidence. They will only place us in a weaker position."
"To accuse a king of murder requires ironclad proof."
"Proof?!"
That word only made Robert explode.
"To hell with proof!"
"Our parents' deaths are proof enough! If you're too craven to avenge them, then hand the fleet over to Renly and let him command! I swear, even a two-year-old would show more courage than you!"
An open insult.
Renly Baratheon was barely two.
Stannis said nothing.
He only stared back at his brother — unblinking, unyielding — their eyes locked like drawn steel.
As the air between the brothers grew so tense it felt ready to ignite, a voice full of scorn shattered the silence.
"Idiots!"
"Utter, complete idiots!!!"
They both turned.
The Master of Laws, dressed in an extravagant velvet robe, was guzzling wine straight from his cup while ranting loudly.
"The king would never do such a thing!"
"King Aerys and your father fought side by side in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. They were close friends — and kin, for that matter!"
"And the mission His Grace gave Lord Steffon was clearly meant to position him to replace Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King. Why would he murder a loyal servant working on his behalf?"
"I say you've let that northern bitch scramble your brains, or you're trying to use your parents' deaths to mask your own ambitions, Robert Baratheon!"
"Shut your mouth!"
Robert spun around, rage flaring. He jabbed a finger at him.
"Don't forget what you are now, Symond Staunton. You're my prisoner!"
"Oh, please~~~"
Symond rolled his eyes, utterly fearless.
Not because he was brave — but because experience had taught him Robert wouldn't truly harm him.
Since arriving at Storm's End, the new lord had showered him with rich food, fine clothes, and a steady rotation of women sent to his chambers nightly.
Most men would've melted under that kind of treatment.
But Symond Staunton was no ordinary man.
Lord of Rook's Rest. The king's most trusted Master of Laws.
"You should let me return to King's Landing, Baratheon."
He took another drink, determined not to betray the king.
"I'm sick of the fish stink and damp beds here. Send me back, and perhaps I can still put in a word for you before His Grace."
Robert let out a harsh laugh.
"Go back to King's Landing?"
"Don't forget — you're my accomplice in the 'kidnapping' of Rhaegar Targaryen."
"Oh — almost forgot to tell you."
He smacked his forehead theatrically.
"Tywin Lannister has reportedly recommended his brother Kevan to take over as Master of Laws."
"So… I'm afraid you're no longer on the small council, Lord Staunton."
Symond's goblet slipped from his hand. Red wine spilled across the table.
He stared at Robert, stunned.
Abandoned?
I've bled myself dry for the realm for years — gone a few months and I'm discarded like trash?
"Stay put in Storm's End," Robert said, rising. His tone turned teasing — but edged with steel.
"The air may be bad, but at least your head's still on your shoulders here."
"And when I sit that damned iron chair…"
"I'll make you my Hand of the King, Symond Staunton!"
Symond's eyes went wide.
Hand of the King.
The title slammed into him. Greed flashed deep in his pupils.
Wasn't this what he'd schemed for all along? Fighting Qarlton Chelsted, the Velaryons, and Tywin himself in King's Landing?
For a moment, his breathing faltered.
Then he snapped back to himself.
"Ha!"
He burst into sharp laughter.
"Keep your ridiculous fantasies, traitor!"
"My blood runs loyal to House Targaryen! You could pile gold from here to Shipbreaker Bay and I still wouldn't serve you!"
"I am Master of Laws by the Seven's witness! My loyalty belongs only to the Iron Throne!"
"I'd rather starve — jump from the highest tower of Storm's End — than serve you, Robert Bara— mmph!"
Robert clamped a massive hand over his mouth.
Veins bulged in his forehead.
When Symond kept struggling, Robert grabbed a heavy metal ladle from the table.
Thunk.
Symond went limp.
Peace returned.
Robert exhaled, weighing the ladle in his hand.
Oddly comfortable.
Am I meant to be a cook instead of a warrior?
He shook the thought away.
"Drag him out. Gag him."
"And send four women to his room tonight. I refuse to believe he's that hard."
The guards hauled Symond out. The doors boomed shut.
Only the Baratheon brothers remained, the hearth crackling.
"How many lords have answered?" Robert asked after a pause, voice steady again.
"Most of them," Stannis reported with military precision.
"Though we lack proof, the claim that the king murdered Father has convinced the majority. Given His Grace's… reputation."
"Only Felwood, Fawnton, and Grandview haven't responded. The rest of the Stormlands have pledged men and banners. Blood for blood."
"Fell, Cafferen, and Grandison appear to be moving toward Summerhall with parts of their household guards."
Robert snorted.
"Three Targaryen lapdogs. Trying to hold Summerhall so Reach armies can strike Storm's End."
"Good."
His fists clenched.
"Let them wait there. Soon they'll learn what betraying their liege truly costs."
Stannis watched silently.
He knew Robert was being driven by revenge and ambition alike, the Stormlands now a war chariot already rolling — impossible to stop.
All he could do was execute orders flawlessly.
Robert paced.
"Eyrie… no reply yet?"
"Not yet. A letter should be on its way back. Jon Arryn is your foster father — he may side with us."
"The North already has. A raven came two days ago. They promise alliance. Once Storm's End moves, they march south."
"However…"
"Say it."
"Your friend Eddard Stark has been named Lord of Winterfell by the king."
"Yesterday we received word from Riverrun — he's married Lysa Tully and is gathering Riverlands forces. He's said to be marching north to reclaim Winterfell."
Robert slammed the table again.
He could not understand how his closest friend could ignore his sister and brother's deaths, accept the title, and oppose his own father's cause.
After a long silence, Robert exhaled heavily.
"Bring me the old Martell."
"If we're this deep already, we need every ally we can get."
"Tell him this — Robert Baratheon will wed Princess Elia Martell… here, at Storm's End."