"Enough, Davos. I will hear no more of this bleak accounting."
Stannis Baratheon stood rigid before the Painted Table, his heavy brow pulled low over deep blue eyes. He wore his customary tight leather jerkin and rough brown wool, devoid of any lordly ornament. He had fled King's Landing with no intention of returning, his mind consumed by the certainty that the Lannisters had poisoned Jon Arryn. Lysa Arryn's frantic flight to the Eyrie had only cemented his dark suspicions. The Red Keep was a lion's den, and Stannis trusted no shadow within it.
"My lord, I know bending is as difficult for you as holding back the tide. You would not be Stannis if you yielded," Davos Seaworth reasoned, his voice raspy and quiet. "But as it stands, we have very few friends."
The Onion Knight understood the Lord of Dragonstone's peril better than anyone. Stannis was an island in every sense. Storm's End belonged to the flamboyant Renly, King's Landing was firmly in Tywin Lannister's grip, and Jon Arryn's widow had barred the Bloody Gate. Beyond the Narrow Sea, the sellsword markets were drying up.
"You are a poor envoy, Davos," Stannis ground out, his jaw muscles feathering. "I sent you across the water to Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys to find sails and swords. Instead, you return to tell me that even your pirate friends will not bleed for my coin. They flock to my bastard nephew, hiding behind his black hulls to feast on the scraps of his conquests."
"Men like Morosh of Myr and Salladhor Saan love gold, my lord, but they will not die for it," Davos sighed, touching the leather pouch at his neck. "They have found a patron who offers them victory, not just coin. With this new king rising, finding friends in the East is impossible. I only meant... perhaps an alliance..."
"You would have me recruit a mercenary king?" Stannis sneered, his lips thinning into a bloodless line. "The boy is no mere sellsword. He shares my brother's blood, and he shelters the exiled Targaryen girl. He does not lack for gold; he lacks a crown. Give a bastard power, an army, and an unearned grievance, and he becomes Daemon Blackfyre. He will seize the first chance to overturn the rightful order."
"You speak truly, my lord. But without him, we are trapped. His fleet alone could seal Blackwater Bay and starve Dragonstone."
"Dragonstone, and a few barren rocks in the sea. This is the kingdom my loving brother left me," Stannis said, his voice dripping with ancient, calcified bitterness. "I command a handful of minor lords. I have never faced a war so heavily weighted against me."
"The Lannisters remain our truest enemy, my lord," Davos pressed gently. "If you had seen the host the boy commands... the Myrish galleys, the armored knights, the Dothraki screamers... a pact could save us."
"There are matters upon which I will not compromise," Stannis stated flatly.
"It would only be an alliance!"
"With my sworn enemies? Do you think the Targaryen girl and her mad brother have forgotten who smashed their fleet and drove them from this very castle?" Stannis turned his back, staring out the narrow window toward the churning sea. "The realm is caught between a lion in the West and a bastard stag in the East."
Davos recognized the impenetrable wall of Stannis's pride. If King Robert had simply named his brother Hand, this crisis could have been managed. But Robert only looked past Stannis, as he always had.
"If the East is lost to us," Davos murmured, an idea taking root, "what of the North? Lord Stark has never loved the Lannisters. He is a man of rigid justice, much like yourself. And his wife is sister to the late Lord Arryn's widow."
Stannis paused. His rigid posture softened by a fraction of an inch. "Eddard Stark. Robert always claimed Ned was his true brother. I never saw the warmth myself... but compared to Renly and this Hammer King, Eddard is not entirely intolerable."
"It is a path, my lord."
"Leave me, Davos. I need to think." Stannis dismissed him without turning around. A war against the gold of Casterly Rock and the roaring wolf of Myr was a nightmare of logistics.
Before Davos reached the heavy oak doors, Stannis spoke again, his voice dropping into a paranoid hiss. "And Davos... keep a close eye on Lord Velaryon and Lord Celtigar. I do not trust them."
Davos nodded slowly. Both houses possessed the blood of old Valyria. They had been Targaryen loyalists before the Rebellion. If the black-and-red banners rose again across the water, Stannis was right to wonder if his own bannermen would answer the call.
Far to the north, the ancient Godswood of Winterfell was silent, thick with the scent of pine, damp earth, and decaying leaves.
Catelyn Stark found her husband seated beneath the bleeding face of the heart tree. Across his lap rested Ice, the ancestral Valyrian greatsword of House Stark. Eddard was meticulously wiping a heavily oiled rag down the rippled, dark steel.
She stepped over the massive, twisted roots, clutching a scroll bearing the heavy stag seal of the King.
"Jon Arryn is dead," Catelyn said softly.
Ned's hands stopped. He did not look up immediately. Catelyn saw the subtle tightening of his shoulders, the sudden, quiet grief settling over him like a shroud. Lord Arryn had been a second father to him. When the Mad King had demanded the heads of his two wards, Jon Arryn had raised his banners in defiance, living the words of his House: As High as Honor.
"The letter says the illness took him swiftly," Catelyn continued, her voice gentle. "Lysa and the boy are well. They have already fled back to the Eyrie."
"The gods are cruel," Ned whispered, his voice thick. He resumed wiping the blade, though his movements were slower now, heavy with memory.
"There is more," Catelyn said, taking a step closer. "King Robert is riding for Winterfell. The letter states he wishes to speak with you on matters of the realm. He brings the Queen, her children, and half the court."
Ned looked up, a faint, genuine warmth breaking through his sorrow. "We have not seen each other in years. Five years, Cat! How many ride with him?"
"A hundred knights, their squires, and countless freeriders. The Lannister brothers ride with him as well."
The warmth vanished from Ned's grey eyes, replaced by the chilling frost of the North. He had never forgiven the Lannisters for wrapping themselves in the rebel cloak only when the Targaryen defeat was an absolute certainty. The Sack of King's Landing remained a stain on Robert's crown.
Catelyn hesitated, smoothing the fabric of her dress. "Have you heard the rumors, Ned? Regarding Robert's... across the Narrow Sea?"
"The mercenary king?" Ned confirmed, setting the oiled rag aside. "How could I not? Every sailor dropping anchor in White Harbor speaks of nothing else. They say he is the King of the Narrow Sea now. He has taken Myr, Tyrosh, and the Disputed Lands. They call him a new Conqueror."
"He is just a bastard..." Catelyn murmured. The word tasted like ash in her mouth. It carried the sting of her own home, of the dark-haired boy she could never bring herself to love.
"A king's bastard is never 'just' anything, Cat," Ned said gravely, his eyes reflecting the dark sheen of Ice. "King Daeron the Good bled the realm white fighting the old king's bastard, Daemon Blackfyre. This boy commands an army of veterans, a massive fleet, and he holds the last Targaryen heirs in his hand. He will not remain in Essos forever."
Ned sighed, the weight of the coming years pressing down on his chest.
"I must prepare for war," he said quietly. "I always thought the next threat would come from the wildlings beyond the Wall. I never imagined it would be Robert's own son."
Hearing the word war spoken aloud beneath the ancient, brooding trees, Catelyn Stark could not suppress a shudder.