Dragonstone is a lonely fortress in the sea, a cold, damp wasteland, surrounded by storms and harsh waters all year round, with the smoky silhouette of a volcano behind it. Its gloom is beyond words.
The high walls of Dragonstone Castle are covered with ancient Valyrian-style gargoyles, hellhounds, and long-winged dragons, numbering over a thousand.
When Stannis first arrived, he was displeased by these grotesque gargoyles all over the city, and though time passed, his resentment remained.
Stannis was in the Round Table Hall atop the Stone Drum Tower, and at this moment, only his confidant, Ser Davos, was with him.
The Round Table Hall is famous for the map table built by The Conqueror, which is fifty feet long, about twenty-five feet at its widest, and less than four feet at its narrowest.
The entire table has no flat surfaces; its top depicts the Seven Kingdoms of Aegon's era, with all the rivers, mountains, fortresses, cities, lakes, and forests. It has accumulated nearly three centuries of glossy lacquer.
On the map table, near the location of Dragonstone, there is a raised seat that offers a panoramic view of the entire table, and Stannis sat there.
"Is there a letter from King's Landing, Davos?" Stannis asked.
Stannis wore a tight leather vest and coarse brown wool trousers. He was broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with a taut face, hardened like iron from long exposure to the sun. Although he was not yet thirty-five, only a thin fringe of black hair remained on his head, like the shadow of a crown, encircling his ears. His beard was trimmed short and neat, a blue shadow covering his square jaw and the hollows of his cheekbones.
"No!" Davos shook his head.
"I knew it. I served my brother Robert for fifteen years, helping Jon govern the country so Robert could eat, drink, and gamble! By rights, Old Jon should have retired to the Vale long ago, but he clung to his position.
It's one thing for my brother not to trust others, but now that Old Jon is dead, he still hasn't considered appointing me as hand of the king!" Stannis's words were devoid of emotion, as was his custom.
"I thought about it, he'll still give that honor to Eddard Stark! His true brother isn't me, but Ned Stark!"
"My Lord, this is not the time for sulking," Ser Davos advised. "Besides, being in King's Landing isn't necessarily a good thing. Hand Jon is dead, and King's Landing reeks of lions!"
"That's right! King's Landing may not be a good place, but how much better is this Dragonstone? Honestly, I didn't want Dragonstone at all; it's a dreadful place! I took it because Robert's mortal enemy was entrenched here, and I defeated the enemy, fulfilling my duty as a brother. But how did Robert thank me? He appointed me Lord of Dragonstone, but gave the lands and taxes of Storm's End to Renly!"
This old grievance deeply hurt Stannis, and he couldn't escape its scars.
Dragonstone's past greatness was built on dragons. Without dragons, Dragonstone is now barren and weak. Stannis commands only a few minor Lords, and the outer island territories are mostly rocky and sparsely populated, making it impossible to raise many soldiers!
"Forget it!" Stannis pondered. "The key is no soldiers, no taxes; I can't even protect myself!"
Davos sighed inwardly. Steadfastness was Stannis's essence, but Stannis lacked charisma and charm; few people truly liked him. The Lords of Storm's End pledged allegiance to Renly, and now, the bolder ones might even be observing a bastard Across the Narrow Sea.
"My Lord, our true enemy is the Lannister, there's no doubt about that! What if you could fight alongside your brothers and relatives!"
"I will never compromise, unless they first acknowledge my place in the line of succession and fulfill their duties as younger brothers and descendants."
"Renly is out of the question! We will certainly need to recruit Mercenaries and sailors Across the Narrow Sea in the future, but you know, many of those Mercenaries rely on Commander Gendry's influence! They either fled to Tyrosh to make a living or directly surrendered to the Free Army."
"He's just a young punk, my brother's bastard!" Stannis said. "Although he hasn't usurped the throne yet, I don't think he's far from it. He cherishes that little girl, the remnant of the true dragon, doesn't he just want that crown! If I compromise with him, it will only tear the kingdom apart even more!"
"Even so, Commander Gendry's forces are currently busy governing Myr and preparing for future wars with the slave city-states! At least at this stage, we might still have time to negotiate."
"Negotiate? I find it quite helpless; that kid is as ambitious as Blackfyre. I can only rely on you; you have some connections in Lys and Myr!" Stannis looked at Davos. "Salladhor Saan, Monford Velaryon, and Ardrian Celtigar are not particularly capable, but these are all my brother left me."
"I will do my best! Although I am older, my skill in handling black ships has not diminished!" The Onion Knight promised. Compared to the courtiers of Storm's End, he still felt that Mercenaries who valued money would be more reliable. The vassals were unwilling to champion Stannis's rights because they did not love him.
Dragonstone's Old Maester Cressen also entered the Round Table Hall at this time; he was too old, and climbing the stairs was a torment.
"Old Man, I knew that whether I called you or not, you would come," Stannis said, looking up.
"In the past, you would have woken me," the Old Man said.
"You were younger then; now you are old and sick, and need sleep." Stannis never learned flowery language, nor did he hide flattery. He spoke his mind, never considering others' feelings.
"As master of ships, is your unauthorized return to Dragonstone not disrespectful, and have you not apologized or explained to the King!"
"Explain! Robert didn't explain when he bestowed Dragonstone upon me, nor did he explain when he desperately searched for a hand of the king. By rights, once he became King, Storm's End should have belonged to me!"
"Robert certainly treated you unfairly," Maester Cressen replied cautiously, "however, at the time, he had his reasons. Dragonstone has historically been the stronghold of the Targaryen family, and he needed a strong person to rule here, while Renly was just a Child then."
"He's still a Child now!" Stannis said. "A vain, arrogant Child who disrespects his older brother! I fulfilled my duty to Robert, but what about Renly?"
Cressen was too old, and Stannis no longer wanted to hear his advice.
Even though Maester Cressen often felt like a father, ever since the raging sea claimed Lord Steffon's life, Robert, Stannis, and Renly... became like his three sons, whom he raised himself.
"Let's go, Old Maester, let's leave the Lord to himself!" Davos suggested.
Stannis stood alone before the Round Table, his shadow covering the mouth of the Blackwater Rush and King's Landing.
"Stannis, my Child, you are not an orphan; there are people who love you!" the Old Maester thought. Regardless, he should prevent the brothers' conflict.
Davos and the Old Maester went downstairs, and in the front courtyard, they encountered Shireen and the jester Patchface.
Little Shireen was as shy as ever. Trailing behind her, skipping lightly and moving strangely, was her jester, Patchface. He wore a toy helmet made of an old tin bucket, with two antlers tied to the top, from which cowbells hung, making different sounds with his shuffling steps: clank, thud, jingle, clang.
Meeting this Child made the Old Maester even more distressed; this was Stannis's second tragedy. My poor, melancholic son!
As a young girl, Shireen had contracted greyscale and nearly died; though she escaped, she was left with a terrible disfigurement: half her face down to her neck was stiff and necrotic, with a dry, cracked, peeling surface, interspersed with black and gray spots, feeling like hard stone to the touch.
"Have you seen my father, Master?" Shireen asked.
"Yes!" the Old Man replied. "The Lord is busy with some matters!"
Just then, Patchface suddenly shouted. The jester rattled his bells. "Under the sea, it's always summer!" he chanted, "Mermaids have seaweed in their hair, silver seaweed woven into gowns, I know, I know, oh oh oh!"
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