"Enough! Davos, I don't want to hear such dispiriting words from you!"
Stannis Baratheon slammed his palm against the edge of the map table, his stern voice cutting through the damp, salt-tinged air of Dragonstone's war chamber. His thick eyebrows shadowed sharp blue eyes, and though he wore only a tight leather jerkin and coarse brown trousers, he looked as rigid and unyielding as a drawn blade.
Ser Davos Seaworth, standing opposite him, bowed his head. The Onion Knight had seen this mood before—the iron-faced stubbornness that defined Stannis Baratheon.
Stannis had fled King's Landing with no intention of ever returning. Lannister power had grown like a cancer, strangling the capital. Jon Arryn's sudden death and Lady Lysa's frantic escape had only reinforced Stannis's belief that the Lannisters had murdered the Hand. His suspicions evolved into something darker—paranoia. Stannis was now convinced that the lions pulled far more strings in the capital than anyone else dared admit.
"I know bending is as alien to you as the sea pouring itself into a cup," Davos said gently. "Were you not this unyielding, you would not be Duke Stannis. But right now…"
He hesitated, searching for the right words. "…we have very few friends."
Davos understood Stannis better than anyone. The duke was cornered. Storm's End was in Renly's hands. King's Landing bowed to the Lannisters. Jon Arryn's widow—mad, fearful Lysa—had locked herself in the Eyrie and refused all appeals. North of the Narrow Sea, across ships and storms, perhaps allies could be found—but nothing was certain.
"And across the Narrow Sea…" Davos sighed. "Even there, support is scarce."
"You are a poor envoy, Ser Davos," Stannis snapped. "I sent you across the sea—to Myr, to Tyrosh, to Lys—to find friends. Allies. But you return only to say that not even pirate lords will send me a single ship. The weaker ones have already pledged their loyalty to my bastard nephew, and the bolder ones hide behind their black galleys, feasting on the scraps of war!"
Stannis's mouth tightened into its familiar iron line—a mouth made for scowls and judgments.
"My old associates valued gold above all," Davos admitted. "Moros of Myr, Salladhor Saan of Lys, the captains of the sellsail fleets—they once chased coin without hesitation. But men who love gold will not die for it. And besides… they have found a patron with deeper pockets."
Stannis's jaw clenched.
"Because of the new king's appearance," Davos continued carefully, "it has become far more difficult to recruit allies. What I mean is… perhaps we cannot treat him as an enemy."
Stannis snorted. "I would almost prefer a mercenary king—one who loves gold and only gold. But that Bastard…" He spat the word like poison. "He has my brother's blood. And he has the exiled Targaryen girl beside him. He lacks neither gold nor fame. He lacks only a crown. And a bastard with power, money, and ambition…" Stannis's voice grew colder. "…is a threat to every lawful order. Just like that traitor Daemon Blackfyre."
"You are not wrong," Davos said. "But the fact remains—we have no friends. His fleets, his Dothraki screamers, the Wolf Pack mercenaries… they all serve Gendry now. Even if he does not help us, we cannot allow him to ally with our enemies."
He gestured toward the sea map.
"With so many ships under his banner, he could seal Blackwater Bay. Dragonstone would be isolated."
"Dragonstone…" Stannis exhaled. "A fortress of black stone, and a few barren rocks in the Narrow Sea. That is all my brother has left me."
His voice was flat with self-mockery.
"Yes, I have lords who follow me. A handful. Scattered. Too few to matter." Stannis's fingers drummed against the table. "It seems I have no choice. I have never fought such a bitter war."
"Duke, the Lannisters remain our greatest enemy," Davos reminded him. "If we could find aid—an army, a fleet, even a few trustworthy allies—everything would change. If you had seen those men across the sea, the sellsword legions, the screaming Dothraki, the Wolf Pack knights… if we only had a fraction of such strength—"
"Some things," Stannis interrupted sharply, "cannot be compromised."
"We only speak of alliance," Davos insisted.
"Alliance? With former enemies?" Stannis snorted. "Viserys and the girl have not forgotten who drove them from this island."
He paced around the table.
"There is a simple solution to all this," Stannis muttered at last. "Resist House Lannister from the west… and Robert's Bastard from the east."
Davos understood immediately.
If Robert Baratheon—living King of the Seven Kingdoms—had only once acknowledged Stannis's rightful claims, much of this suffering could have been avoided.
But there was no "if" in the world of men.
Still, Stannis's words sparked an idea.
"In that case," Davos ventured carefully, "perhaps we could contact Lord Stark."
Stannis paused mid-stride.
"Eddard Stark?"
Davos nodded. "Historically, Lord Eddard has never trusted the Lannisters. He is known for honor and justice. And his wife, Lady Catelyn—her sister is Jon Arryn's widow. They share blood ties through House Tully."
"Hm."
Stannis's rigid expression softened by a hair's breadth.
"Robert often said he and Eddard were like brothers," he muttered. "He never said such things about me. But compared to Renly… and that Bastard Gendry… Eddard Stark is not entirely detestable."
Davos bowed. "Shall I prepare a raven?"
"You may leave, Ser Davos," Stannis said tiredly. "Let me think."
Davos nodded. He understood the gravity of their situation better than anyone. Even with allies, they had little to bargain with. Without allies, they had nothing at all.
"Oh, and one more thing," Stannis added sharply as Davos turned to go. "Keep a close eye on House Velaryon and House Celtigar. I do not trust them."
Both families had once served the Targaryens loyally. If the black-and-red dragon banner ever rose again, Stannis feared that their loyalties might shift—or perhaps had already begun shifting.
---
— Winterfell —
The courtyard of Winterfell lay quiet and cold beneath the shade of ancient walls, but the Godswood was even quieter. Beneath the heart tree's crimson leaves, Eddard Stark washed Ice, the great Valyrian sword of House Stark.
Catelyn Stark approached, her expression troubled.
"My lord," she said softly. "A letter arrived. From King's Landing."
Ice stilled in Eddard's hands.
"Lord Jon Arryn is dead."
Eddard's shoulders tightened. His breath came out slow and heavy. Catelyn knew how deeply Jon Arryn's death would wound him.
Jon Arryn had been more than a liege lord. He and Eddard had once been foster brothers—family by everything except blood.
When the Mad King had called for their execution, it had been Jon Arryn who rose in rebellion, living up to House Arryn's ancient words: High as Honor.
"He died suddenly," Catelyn continued. "Though he was old, he was still vigorous. Too vigorous, some would say. But the letter insists it was a sudden illness. Lysa and the boy have returned to the Eyrie unharmed."
"The gods…" Eddard whispered, lowering Ice. "I feared such news would come. But not so soon."
"There is more," Catelyn said. "King Robert is coming to Winterfell."
Eddard blinked. And then—for the first time in days—a faint smile broke across his stern features.
"We have not seen each other in many years," he murmured. "Five years at least."
"How many accompany him?" he asked.
"About a hundred knights, and their retainers," Catelyn said. "Along with many hired swords and half the royal court. The Queen and her children included. Where the King goes… the court follows."
"That gives us some time to prepare," Eddard said. "A party of that size will travel slowly."
Catelyn hesitated, then added, "The Queen's brother is with them as well."
Eddard's face darkened again. He had never forgiven House Lannister for joining Robert's rebellion only at the final moment—after victory was certain. Their opportunism sickened him.
Catelyn bit her lip.
"My lord… have you heard the rumors from across the Narrow Sea?"
"The Mercenary King?" Eddard asked. "How could I not? Every sailor in White Harbor talks of him. They say he rules Myr and Tyrosh. They say he commands sellswords, fleets, Dothraki, and even the Targaryen children."
Catelyn lowered her gaze.
"But… he is just a bastard."
"A king's bastard is no trifling thing," Eddard replied. "Long ago, Prince Daeron fought King Aegon's bastard, Daemon Blackfyre. Bastards with power and followers can shake kingdoms."
He sheathed Ice with a heavy sigh.
"This boy—this child with armies and ships—he will not stay across the sea forever."
He looked northward, toward the dark horizon and the endless snows.
"It seems I must face war once more."
Catelyn trembled.
"War, my lord?"
"Aye," Eddard said quietly. "But not with the wildlings beyond the Wall."
He turned toward the south.
"But with King Robert's own bastard."
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