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"Your Grace, we should win the throne by saving the realm, not the other way around."
Davos had returned to King's Landing. Jon had given him safe passage, even sending a ship to carry him from Casterly Rock to Seagard. From there it had been two days by cart and then another ship up the Trident to Harrenhal. He had ridden two horses to death and crossed the entire continent in just ten days. The journey had left him gaunt.
"It seems you understand how to be king better than I do," Stannis said coldly.
Davos lowered his head at once.
"Do you not see what will happen now that the Iron Islands are no longer a threat?" Stannis continued, voice low and steady. "The lords of the Sunset Sea will draw closer together. Do you not see that every day that passes, that bastard whose own father he cannot name grows bolder and more ambitious? Winter is coming. What do you think will happen then? We will be forced to borrow more gold from the Iron Bank and the Free Cities at ruinous interest, or I will have to bend the knee to that bastard for grain. Which of those do you think we can stomach? Answer me."
Stannis never shouted like Robert. His anger was quieter, colder, like storm clouds gathering.
"Your Grace, I understand your concerns," Davos said carefully. "When I left, Jon… he gave his word that he would help us with the food shortage."
The words sounded weak even to Davos. Handing control of their food supply to Jon was unthinkable.
Stannis studied him for a moment, then asked, "Where is the red priestess? Where is Melisandre?"
Davos's mind flashed to the shadow creature she had birthed—the thing that had killed Renly. He hesitated.
"I asked you a question," Stannis said, impatience creeping into his voice. "Where is Melisandre?"
"Melisandre… she was left behind. Jon kept her in Casterly Rock."
"Detained, then. Of course he would not release her." Stannis sounded as though he had expected nothing less.
Davos said nothing about the truth—that Melisandre had gone willingly, and that Jon had sent her across the Narrow Sea to Daenerys. The words would not come.
Stannis thought for a moment. "Write to the bastard. Tell him to return Melisandre. In exchange, I will send back the Freys I am holding."
"As you command, Your Grace."
Davos left the solar with the lie still sitting heavy in his chest.
After Davos departed, Stannis made his way to the training yard. Two boys of similar age and build, both with thick black hair, were sparring. One was Gendry, swinging Robert's warhammer with frightening strength. The other was Edric Storm, faster and more skilled with a blade. Both were Robert Baratheon's bastards. Stannis had brought them into the Red Keep and placed them in his personal guard.
Thoros of Myr stood beside the king, watching the boys.
"These two are yours now," Stannis said. "I want them ready to serve me on the battlefield."
Thoros hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, but finally nodded. "I understand, Your Grace."
Like Davos, Thoros had no desire to see Jon and Stannis tear the realm apart. He had fought beside Jon before and still respected him. But once Jon revealed his true parentage, peace had become impossible. Two of the strongest men in Westeros were now on a collision course.
Thoros had tried to argue for delay, pointing out that Jon had not yet claimed the throne. Stannis's reply had been blunt: the bastard might not be calling himself king yet, but his people already were.
Stannis wanted the boys for their blood—king's blood—for whatever blood magic Thoros and the red priests could provide. For now, he kept them close as guards.
A young cupbearer—Davos's son, the boy also named Stannis—approached. "Your Grace, the Vale army has arrived."
Stannis gave a short nod. "We'll go see them."
After a quick change of clothes, Stannis rode out through the northern gate with his escort to meet the host from the Vale.
Bronze Yohn Royce led them, clad in his ancient bronze armor etched with runes that his house claimed could turn aside steel. His two grown sons rode beside him. Behind them came lords and captains from Houses Waynwood, Hunter, Redfort, Belmore, and others. Their banners snapped in the wind.
From the high ground, Stannis looked down at nearly forty thousand men—eight thousand horse, fifteen thousand archers, and fifteen thousand foot. Over a thousand fully armored knights rode in the front ranks. Longbowmen stood with their great bows slung across their backs like a moving forest.
It was an impressive force.
"Lord Royce," Stannis called. "How many men does the Vale bring to my cause?"
"Eight thousand cavalry, fifteen thousand archers, fifteen thousand infantry—thirty-eight thousand in total, Your Grace. And one thousand one hundred knights."
Stannis was pleased. The Vale had answered the call in strength. Fear of Jon played a part—many believed that if he truly was a Targaryen, he would eventually turn on them—but so did old grudges. Bronze Yohn wanted blood for his son's death at Loras Tyrell's hands.
Among the Vale lords, Stannis spotted one face he had not expected: Petyr Baelish, leaning on a cane.
"Lady Lysa entrusted me with command of the Eyrie's forces," Littlefinger said smoothly, "and oversight of the army's supplies."
Stannis gave him a flat look but said nothing. Baelish had once tried to push Queen Selyse toward sacrificing Maester Aemon. The man was ambitious and slippery, but for now he was useful.
Stannis addressed the gathered lords. "Any man who brings me Jon Snow's head will be granted Casterly Rock and all its lands."
A murmur ran through the knights. Casterly Rock was wealth beyond measure. Still, many of the older men looked doubtful. Jon's reputation had already grown into something close to legend—slayer of the Mountain, breaker of kings, the bastard who had risen higher than any before him. Taking his head would not be easy.
That evening Stannis hosted a modest feast for the Vale lords inside the Red Keep. The army camped outside the walls. Casks of Arbor gold were sent out as thanks.
Littlefinger was present but kept to the edges. Stannis did not consider him a serious threat. The man was a climber, nothing more.
The Vale had been the first to arrive in force because they were closest. The Stormlands host was also trickling in—perhaps ten thousand men, far less than they could have mustered before the Blackwater. The losses there had been devastating.
As agreed, Stannis had sent Oberyn Martell and the Dornish army to hold Storm's End. Their presence there would pin the Tyrells in the Reach and prevent them from marching north easily. It was a clever rotation of forces—Dorne did not have to march the length of the realm, and the Stormlands did not have to split their strength.
Stannis felt his position strengthening by the day.
His strategy was straightforward: march into the Riverlands, seize Harrenhal, and cut the North off from the south. At the same time he would send ten thousand men to reinforce Harrenhal itself, keeping pressure on Jon's supply lines.
The pieces were moving into place. For the first time since taking the throne, Stannis allowed himself to believe victory was within reach.