Dont forget to Vote, Review, Comment,
its makes me happy ... moreinpatre>>> CaveLeather
The Hall of a Hundred Hearths had been scrubbed cleaner than it had been in years. Even the black soot around the great fireplaces had been scraped away. Fresh logs were stacked in neat pyramids inside the hearths, crackling and popping as they burned.
The only thing that had been neglected were the banners of the great houses hanging above the fireplaces. The blue falcon of House Arryn and the red rune shield of House Royce were both stained dark along their lower edges from years of smoke. No one had bothered to replace them.
Nearly every lord of knightly rank or higher had gathered. Bronze Yohn Royce, now one of Stannis's most trusted men, would have sat near the front, but his seat remained empty for now. He would enter with the king.
Yohn's two sons sat on either side of his vacant chair. A little farther back sat the other Vale lords who had remained loyal to Stannis, along with the core of the King's Men. The seats farther from the high table belonged to the lesser lords—men with small lands, small armies, and little influence. Power still decided who sat where.
Roland Connington was one of them. He sat with his arms crossed, slouched in his chair, looking half-asleep. His family's lands and titles had not yet been restored, so he was forced to sit among the outer circle. He knew the future looked bleak. Two paths remained: bend the knee to Jon and watch the Targaryens rise again, or retreat north into the Vale. The Bloody Gate could be held, but once inside they would be trapped. Jon could simply fortify Harrenhal or build siege works in front of the Gate and starve them out. It would be a slow death. Men would grow homesick. Soldiers would desert. The Vale could not feed this many mouths, not when the Reach was the only kingdom truly rich in grain.
Roland had no desire to kneel to Jon. That would mean giving up any chance to restore his family's name. He tuned out the low murmur of conversation around him.
Across the hall, a pair of gray-green eyes moved like a snake's, watching the guards posted outside. Stannis had placed his bastard nephew Gendry in his personal guard. When Selyse arrived with her own escort, her men had taken over security inside the Tower of the Hand. Gendry and the rest of Stannis's sworn shields had been sent to the walls.
At the front of the hall stood a wide throne where Jaehaerys the Conciliator had once named his successor. A few paces away sat a sturdier, slightly ornate chair reserved for Queen Selyse.
"The King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Stannis Baratheon the First!"
Every lord rose as Stannis entered. Young Stannis, Davos's son, walked at his side as cupbearer. Bronze Yohn Royce followed close behind. Selyse came last, walking farther back than any of them. In her heavy, richly embroidered gown she almost looked like a servant trailing after her king rather than his queen.
Stannis, Selyse, and Yohn Royce each took their seats.
No one in the hall was a fool. They all understood what was coming. Jon's position at the God's Eye could not be broken. The Tyrell army was drawing closer every day. Jon's terms were generous. Stannis had no real choice but to accept. Even if he refused, his own lords would not follow him into certain death. The army was already wavering.
"My lords," Stannis began, voice steady, "I have seen your loyalty. But we have been betrayed. The southern host marches north. We must abandon the Riverlands for now, gather our strength, and strike again later. I have decided to withdraw to the Vale. From there we will retake King's Landing and reclaim what is ours. The fleet of the Three Daughters will arrive soon."
The announcement was met with silence and disappointment. No one cheered. They had marched all this way and gained nothing. Abandoning the Riverlands meant giving up Harrenhal, the key fortress that threatened King's Landing to the east and could bottle up the Vale army at the Bloody Gate. As for the Three Daughters' fleet—well, promises were cheap.
Some lords simply picked up their cups and drank.
From the middle of the crowd, Petyr Baelish caught Selyse's eye and gave a tiny nod.
Selyse summoned young Stannis. One of her maids handed the boy a finely worked wine pitcher and told him to pour for the king.
"Your Grace," the boy said, "the queen bids me pour for you."
Stannis nodded and glanced toward Selyse. He looked at her longer than usual—three or four heartbeats. Enough that several lords noticed. Selyse sat up straighter but could not meet his eyes. Stannis finally looked away. His throat was dry from speaking. He lifted the cup and drank deeply.
Petyr's gray-green eyes dropped, hiding the satisfaction in them.
Selyse let out a slow breath and turned her face aside.
Stannis cleared his throat and continued. "We must strengthen our ties with the Free Cities while we hold the Vale. We will stockpile grain and supplies for the winter ahead—"
He coughed. Once. Twice. Then the coughing would not stop.
"—and prepare for the coming cold. We must—"
The coughs grew violent, tearing out of him in harsh, wet bursts. His face darkened from red to purple. His eyes bulged. Blood vessels burst in the whites. Thick, bloody spittle ran from his nose and mouth. He clutched the edge of the table to stay upright.
" Your Grace!"
"Maester! Fetch the maester!"
"Stand back! Give him air!"
The lords nearest the high table surged forward, but Selyse's guards moved quickly to block them. No one was allowed close to the king without permission.
Only young Stannis rushed to his side. Stannis's weight came down on the boy like a falling tree. The cupbearer went down beneath him.
Yohn Royce and the King's Men realized at once what was happening.
"Poison!" someone shouted.
They tried to reach the king, but Selyse's guards held them back with leveled spears.
"Let us through!"
"Seven hells, move!"
"His Grace needs help!"
Chaos erupted. A voice from the back screamed, "Assassin!" More armed men poured into the hall—men wearing the queen's colors but faces no one recognized. They fell on the unarmed or lightly armored lords with brutal efficiency. Steel flashed. Blood sprayed across the ancient stone floor.
Yohn Royce shoved forward, trying to reach the king. A blade punched through his chest from behind. He turned, eyes wide, and saw more of the queen's men cutting down anyone who moved toward the high table.
Selyse sat frozen, brown eyes wide and shaking. Stannis's last words echoed in her skull.
Shireen is my heir.
He had not cast her aside. He had not cast their daughter aside. What had she done?
A cold, hard hand settled on her shoulder. She jerked and looked up into Petyr Baelish's face.
"Your Grace," he said quietly, "there is no turning back now. You must take control. You are the Queen Regent."
"Regent… me?"
Petyr's grip tightened. "Yes. You."
Selyse's voice was small and broken. "What… what was in the wine?"
"The Strangler."
She repeated the name like a prayer she did not understand. Then the horror hit her fully.
"Stop!" she screamed. "Stop this! Save the king! Save the king!"
No one listened. Her own guards ignored her completely. When Petyr stepped toward the dying king, they parted for him with quiet respect.
Stannis was still alive. Barely. His blue eyes, already clouding, found Petyr's face. There was still enough life in them to recognize the man standing over him.
Petyr drew a dagger and drove it into Stannis's arm. The king's body jerked.
"You took my hand for being a minor lord?" Petyr hissed. "Why not take Mace Tyrell's instead? You always did love to bully the weak."
He stabbed again, this time into Stannis's thigh.
"You broke my leg for the same reason. Did you think I would forget?"
Stannis stared up at him, blood bubbling at his lips.
Petyr leaned closer, voice low and vicious. "The poison is called the Strangler. Your wife poured it into the pitcher with her own hands."
He grabbed Stannis by the hair and wrenched his head toward Selyse. The queen was weeping, face bloodless, staring back at her husband with eyes full of terror and regret.
Petyr continued, almost gentle now. "As for your ugly daughter… you named her your heir. That saves me some trouble. I will crown Shireen queen. The Baratheon name will live a little longer. You can die knowing that much."
He drove the dagger into Stannis's throat and leaned his full weight on the hilt until the blade was buried to the hilt in flesh.
Outside, thick snow began to fall over Harrenhal. No one beyond the tower walls knew that inside, the king of the Seven Kingdoms had just been murdered.