Nerd in the North 6-8

The rising sun over the lands of the Reach offered light but brought little warmth. Stannis Baratheon preferred it that way. 

Yet, the grey light of the dawn served its purpose at least in part; stripping away the romance of the night to leave only the hard edges of the world in full view to all.

His jaw clenched. …pathetic.

All those with the will to see it.

The rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms stood atop the ridge, wind biting at his face with the familiarity of an old enemy. Stannis Baratheon stared down at the sprawling mess that was his brother’s army just past the seat of House Caswell, lips held in a tight line. 

To call this an army would be an insult to battle; a riot in silk more than anything.

The encampment of the foolish Reach lords and traitorous Storm lords sprawled across the meadows like a drunkard upon the streets of Flea Bottom. Pavilions of gold and green, blue and red, erected with no attention to order; without grid, without discipline. The smoke of a thousand cookfires rose lazily into the morning sky, drifting on the wind as tinny trumpets blared in the distance.

The noise signaled nothing of importance, no drills to run or enemies to be aware of; just the waking of men who would sleep past the rising sun otherwise, secure in their arrogance.

The sight of it all was spoiled meat festering in his gut, a heaviness that demanded nothing but a purge. There was no strength to witness, no vigilance to garner respect; just a fetid wound of excess and revelry. Knights and squires drunk at sunrise; summer lords both stumbling out of tents expensive enough to outfit a warship simply to piss on the grass, laughter echoing in the chill air. 

Stannis could not help the deepening scowl on his face at the total mocking disregard for war and law both. The sound of his teeth, the grinding behind closed mouth and clenched jaw, was loud in his own skull, a rhythmic noise that marked the passing of patience. As if this was a tourney. He clenched his fist tight at his side. Some sort of mummer’s show.

There was a time, a time long past, when he would simply harden his eyes and turn up his nose at such a thing. Years upon years of dealing with both his brothers had left him with an understanding of the behaviors and mentalities of men such as these. It was merely something he had to live with, a fact he had grown to accept.

However, in the time since the passing of the Red Comet, since the Red Woman’s head had rolled from her shoulders and the air had smelled of ash and burnt copper, Stannis had felt the change in the marrow of his bones. 

A clarifying.

His blade sang where it sat at his hip, the sound a comfort still though it urged him toward what needs must. Not some ancient relic dug from a tomb, nor a Red prophecy wrapped in lies and shadow, but a blade of good castle-forged steel that he had sharpened himself on the whetstone of Dragonstone and blessed with the unquenchable Light of He who sat above the Seven. 

As light as the blade was, it bore a heaviness all the same, purpose giving it weight no man could hold without blessing. 

“They feast.”

The words of his Hand were a murmur as the man stood beside him, squinting against the rising sun. Seaworth’s shortened fingers tapped against the hilt of his dirk, the rhythm steady despite the tired look on the face of the once-smuggler. 

Grey in the beard, and lines deep around the eyes like furrows in a plowed field, the man was showing his age. “While the capital prepares for siege. While men die in the Riverlands.”

“They feast because they believe the world is a game.” Stannis carried no anger in his voice, no wroth in his response; only the grinding inevitability of a millstone turning grain. “My younger brother believes a crown as something to be won by smiles and favors.” Like Rhaegar come again, yet with no right. 

He spoke again, mouth barely moving through grit teeth. “He knows nothing of sacrifice and service, honor or duty. The laws of gods and men are mere suggestions to Renly, guidelines to be discarded when they chafe like a new boot.”

Deep blue eyes turned to Davos, the man wearing his Handship like an ill-fitting doublet, forever-shifting and tugging at the collar under his new role. Yet the man was honest and he forced his feet steady as the responsibility weighed on his aging shoulders. The only honest man in a kingdom of liars and flatterers.

“Look at them, Hand. Tell me what you see.”

Davos sniffed as he raised the far-eye to his face, the back of a gloved hand wiping at his dripping nose. “I see men, Your Grace, a lot o’ men. A lot o’ horses, too. More lances than I can count. The Tyrells brought the whole flower show with ‘em.”

“You see numbers.” Stannis’s jaw tightened with the correction as he gestured out with one gauntleted hand. “I see rot.”

The motion swept out at the colorful chaos miles away, open hand forming a fist. “Mace Tyrell. A fat fool of a man, one that besieges castles by sitting in front of them and eating his fill until the defenders starve. Mathis Rowan, another idiot; yet one without the stomach to lead, simply following the loudest voice in the room. And Renly, a fool to round them all out; my brother that plays at war while the realm bleeds.”

“They got the numbers, though.” The Flea Bottom accent was thick as gruel as Davos tilted his head, lowering the far-eye. “Rot or roses, don’t think it really matters if they got enough on their side. A hundred thousand swords is a hundred thousand swords, your Grace.”

Stannis turned his head again, attention firmly on his Hand. “You believe that?”

“I believe that even a drunk knight can kill you if he falls on you heavy enough….” Davos coughed into his hand. “…your Grace.”

“Discipline beats numbers. Every time.” Stannis turned back to the camp, gaze fixed on the largest pavilion, a monstrosity of green velvet that stood at the center of it all. “These Reachmen… they are soft. Not a one of them have ever made the hard choice or lived with an empty belly.”

I have.

The thought came with the gnawing memory of Storm’s End. The hunger that clawed at his belly until it felt like it would eat itself had yet to fade even after so many years past, the smell of boiling leather and the taste of rats and despair never too far out of reach. “Renly thinks to starve King’s Landing with Tywin in the Riverlands.” 

The words almost spat themselves free, distaste in each utterance from his lips. “To be the hero who rides in with food after the smallfolk have eaten their dead. He craves the love of his lessers like a babe craves the teat.”

“He’s got it, though.” Davos’ response was quiet, soft almost. “The love. The smallfolk… they shout his name. They like the shiny things. The songs. They like a king who smiles.”

“Love.” Stannis bit the word out, teeth slamming together hard. “What has love ever done? Love does not hold a line. Love does not enforce the law. Robert loved his wine and loved his whores. He loved being king, but he hated ruling. And look at his end.”

He looked at Davos, eyes no different from flint. “I do not want them to love me, Davos. I want them to obey. Because it is right. Because it is the law.”

“Aye.” The Hand nodded slowly. “But men follow gold and gifts. Just the way of the world, Your Grace, even if it ain’t right.”

Stannis’s frown deepened as the king paced a few steps along the ridge, saying nothing back even as Davos kept speaking. “They say he has a new Kingsguard, one he calls the Rainbow Guard. Loras Tyrell leads it. No white cloaks, just seven colors for the Seven.”

“Mockery.” Stannis ground out the word. “Blasphemy. Heresy. The Kingsguard are white. For purity, for the void of self. Renly degrades them like he does everything else, dressing them in colors like harlots, creating titles to flatter his friends. It is… disorder.”

“He’s your brother, your Grace. Still your blood.”

The wind whipped at Stannis’s cloak as he stopped his pacing, snapping the heavy fabric like a sail in a gale. “He made himself my enemy by stealing my birthright. He stole from my daughter by crowning himself.”

A thief in silk, Stannis clenched his fist. And little more.

“If you are to fight him, your Grace…” Davos trailed off, looking down at the sea of tents. “With your blessing… your power, It’ll be a slaughter. Stormlander against Stormlander. Brother against brother. The lions will laugh in their towers while we bleed the South dry.”

“I know what will be. I know blood will shed, Davos.” Frustration bubbled up and tightened behind his teeth as Stannis snapped. “Do you think I desire any of this, to wade through the blood of my bannermen, that of the brother I shared a womb with?”

Davos shook his head.

“But I cannot yield, Hand. To yield is to accept the lie that justice has no place. To yield is to say that the law does not matter. That merely the most wealth, or the prettiest face, makes one a king.” Eyes narrowed past the ridge, horns still blaring. “If I yield, Davos, the realm falls. Any lord with an army can declare himself king. There must be… order.”

“Is there no other way, your Grace? Parley? Talk to him? Maybe… maybe he don’t know…”

“He knows.” Stannis interrupted. “The incest, the bastardry, the betrayal; he knows of it all and yet he does not care. He thinks the throne a chair to be taken and nothing else.”

Stannis looked down at his hands; hard hands calloused from the sword and nothing like the soft, perfumed palms of his brother. “I sent him terms. My messengers claimed he laughed. I offered him the heirship, until a son is born to me. He offered me a peach.”

“A peach.” He spat the word again. “He thinks this a mummers’ farce.”

“Maybe…” Davos hesitated as he scratched at his beard. “Maybe we don’t need to fight the whole army. Just… cut the head off the snake.”

Stannis looked at him sharply. “Assassination? Poison? Cowardice.”

“No.” Davos said. “Not that. But… if Renly wasn’t king… the lords would go home. Or come to you.”

“They would.” Stannis nodded slowly. “They are sheep. They follow the bell.”

“So we ring a louder bell, your Grace.”

Stannis turned away, looking back at the camp as the sun rose ever higher. “I will not act in the shadows, Davos. I am not the Red Witch or that fat spider in King’s Landing.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

“I am the King.” There was no boasting in his voice, nothing but the simple truth that resonated in his blade. “And the King acts in the light.”

Stannis took a low breath, the cold air filling his lungs, sharpening his mind. “But enough talk, Davos. Words are wind. Acts are iron.”

Stannis reached across his body and drew the sword.

There was no sudden flare of fire; no theatrical burst of power like the trickster’s powders of Robert’s drunkard of a Red Priest. 

Instead, the steel simply was.

It shone with a harsh, uncompromising white-gold light, the blade neither warm nor comforting as it outdid the dawn. There were no soft shadows to hide within in front of his sword as it threw every imperfection and every flaw into sharp relief under the pure light of judgment.

“Write the letter.” Stannis commanded, not looking away from the light of the blade, his eyes reflecting the harsh glow. “I will not waste the blood of Westeros on a child’s vanity. I will not let the lions laugh while we slaughter our own.”

“He meets me.” Stannis said, the words falling like stones into a deep well. “Single combat. The judgment of the Father, witnessed by all. Him and me. Let the gods decide who is the true king.”

Davos hesitated, shifting his weight, looking at the glowing blade and then at his king. “Renly… Renly has changed, my liege. The men say… they say he charms the birds from the trees. That he cannot lose. That he moves like the Warrior himself come down. That he glows, sometimes.”

Stannis turned, the white light of the sword illuminating the hard lines of his face, the hollows of his cheeks, turning him into a statue of old marble. He did not blink.

“Then he has nothing to fear from justice.” Stannis said.

He sheathed the light.

The snap of the blade entering the scabbard was the loudest sound in the world.