AN: To be clear, these scenes are in reverse chronological order
INTERLUDE - ACROSS WESTEROS
Ser Kevan Lannister - One Week Later
Ser Kevan Lannister finished the letter in silence, his thick fingers lingering a moment longer on the parchment than necessary. Gerion's hand was steady despite the poison he described in such blunt terms. Kevan folded the letter once, carefully, and looked up.
"What will you do, my lord?" he asked
Tywin Lannister did not look up at his words. He sat at his desk staring at the golden lion banner on the wall, hands steepled before him. His expression looked to be carved from the same rock that surrounded them. Ink and parchment crowded the desk, the quiet evidence of hours spent ruling before the letter arrived.
"Respond," he said at last. "Decisively."
Kevan nodded. That was expected. "The royal fleet would be quickest."
The Stepstones were closer to King's Landing than to Lannisport by several weeks. As the Hand, it seemed natural to send the king's ships for such a task.
Tywin scoffed. "Aerys would deny the order out of spite alone," he said. "If I asked for his fleet, he would sooner burn it himself than let it sail at my command. And Velaryon is his creature. No."
He rose then, striding toward the farthest window where one could look down upon the distant Lannisport docks. Kevan tracked him without thinking, the way he always did around Tywin, as if failing to do so might mean missing something important.
"Tygett will take our galleys," his brother continued. "I want heads on spikes along every shore from Bloodstone to Torturer's Deep."
Kevan felt a grim satisfaction at that. Gerion's spilt blood demanded retribution. His rational side, however, could only focus on what such a campaign would mean. "It will be an expensive war."
"There will be no war." Tywin waved a hand. "Only justice. Aerys would brand me a traitor if he ever thought I was Corlys Velaryon come again. Or worse, Daemon Targaryen. He would say I seek to crown myself king of those measly rocks. No, Tygett will go and scour the islands for no more than a moon's turn or two, then return home."
"It shall be done, my lord," he said. "And the knight?"
Tywin turned to him. "The boy," he corrected. "Yes. He must be rewarded."
Kevan frowned despite himself. Galladon Tarth had fought bravely, certainly. Saved Gerion's life. But rewards could take many forms, and Tywin's rewards were rarely simple.
"Not Cersei, surely?" he said after a moment.
His brother's face twisted in distaste, as if Kevan had suggested marrying the girl to a hedge knight.
"Do not be daft, Kevan. I will not tie my daughter to a Stormlander lordling because he fought well in a skirmish."
Kevan relaxed a fraction. "Then how?"
"He wants ships," Tywin said. "He's made no secret of it, and so we will indulge him. Let him play the Sea Snake himself if that is his wish. And…"
"What?"
"Have someone fetch Jaime for me," Tywin ordered.
Kevan nodded promptly and crossed the solar to the door. Outside, servants stood at attention like carved figures, and a quiet word was enough to see it done.
Not five minutes later, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor, followed by the door opening sharply. Jaime Lannister entered the solar flushed and breathless, his golden hair damp with sweat. His training leathers clung to him, and he smelled faintly of horses and steel.
"You summoned me, father?" Jaime asked.
Tywin regarded him for a long moment. "Ser Benedict tells me you are improving."
Color spread further down the boy's neck, pride warring with discipline. Jaime managed a solemn nod, standing straighter beneath his father's gaze.
"You told me you wished to squire for Ser Galladon Tarth, did you not?"
Jaime's eyes shone. "Yes, father. Can I?"
Kevan watched closely. The boy's eagerness was plain. He'd blabbed about the Sapphire Knight endlessly for weeks after the tourney's end to any who would hear. Briefly, Kevan wondered if Tywin had called his son here just to crush that enthusiasm. He quickly chastised himself for such a thought.
"Perhaps you can," Tywin said, his expression unreadable. "But he is young still, as you are. I will revisit your request in a year's time. A year where you will follow my every order, attend every lesson with Maester Creylen, and continue your work with Ser Benedict. Then, only then, will I consider squiring you to Ser Galladon. Do you understand me?"
Jaime's fists clenched at his side. "Yes, father," he said, voice full of youthful determination. "I will not disappoint you."
From what he knew of the boy, Kevan doubted this zeal would last more than a few weeks, but if there was something his nephew cared about, it was training to be a great knight.
When Jaime was dismissed and the door closed behind him, the solar seemed quieter for his absence. Kevan turned back to his brother.
"Is that wise?" he said. Tywin raised an eyebrow, and so Kevan explained himself, careful with his words. "It's quite an honor for a Tarth knight to squire your son. I had thought you would send him to Crakehall or to Tygett."
"So had I," Tywin said. He fell silent for a second, his gaze drifting. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more contemplative than usual. "But my son has a talent, Kevan. A talent our brother or Ser Benedict Broom or even Lord Sumner are ill-suited to cultivate."
Kevan hesitated. "And Galladon Tarth isn't?"
Tywin did not answer him at once. He walked back to his desk, sat on his chair, and drank a sip from the wine cup before him. "I saw him sparring one day," he finally said. "First against every squire in the yard, then the knights and lords, and finally against Ser Gwayn Gaunt. Mind, that was before he revealed himself as the mystery knight. I would not have taken that meeting were it not for what I saw, Steffon's favor or otherwise."
Frowning, Kevan absorbed this quietly. Tywin did not speak lightly of men's talents. If he said this, he meant it.
"It must have been a fine showing to impress you, brother."
Tywin grunted. "He lost still. Ser Gwayn is not of the Kingsguard out of good fortune. Were they not under Aerys, I would ask of Ser Barristan Selmy or Ser Gerold Hightower to take Jaime under them."
The solar grew quiet, the brazier crackling softly.
"Tarth, then," Kevan said.
Tywin inclined his head slightly. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps."
xxx
Maester Cressen - One Day Later
The great hall of Storm's End smelled faintly of salt and smoke, the ever-present tang of the sea carried in through narrow arrow slits high in the walls. Somewhere above, the wind howled as it always did, rattling the ancient stones like a restless ghost.
Below, the maester waited by the high table, careful to keep a respectable distance. Cressen had learned long ago that maesters were best noticed only when needed. Still, curiosity gnawed at him as he watched Lord Steffon Baratheon read the parchment in his hands, his thick eyebrows rising the further he read.
When Cressen had first come to serve at Storm's End, Steffon Baratheon had been just a boy still hiding behind his Targaryen mother's skirts, and his father Ormund a man of enough vitality one would think he could live forever.
Cressen himself had thought he would serve the towering lord for many years still, but the Stepstones proved able to bring down even the most vigorous of men. A terrible war, that, one which Lord Steffon still spoke of quietly despite his boisterous nature.
It was a high honor to be chosen as maester for a Lord Paramount, one he was grateful for every day. Yet, back during his time in the Citadel, Cressen had confessed to a friend his reservations about serving the Baratheons.
They were a great family of the realm, of that there was no doubt, but the histories left by previous maester mentioned their volatile moods and an oft-proclaimed disdain for learned men and anything that did not involve killing animals and butchering men. Or was it the other wary around?
At least that was what Maester Kyrie wrote in his diary about Lord Boremund Baratheon and his son, Lord Borros. According to him and other personal diaries of maesters who served at Storm's End, many Baratheon lords through history did not even know their letters, and would often forbid their heirs of wasting their time with such pursuits instead of spending their days in the practice yard or out on a hunt.
Thankfully, and to Cressen's great shame for making assumptions, Lord Ormund was no such lord. Though certainly a martial man to his core, he knew well the importance of books and numbers for a great lord of the realm, and his heir Steffon proved himself equally as capable.
"Is everything well, dearest husband?" Cassana Baratheon asked gently. The lady was heavy with child once more, her long black hair drawn forward to fall like a curtain over her swollen belly.
Cressen thought Lady Cassana had nothing to be ashamed of, having birthed two strong sons for her lord husband and carrying a third child with as much elegance as any noble maiden just flowered.
Across from her, young Stannis continued to eat, ignorant of his father's apprehension. At twelve, the boy's appetite was voracious, and he was growing taller by the day. Lord Stannis had complained to him about recent difficulties in the yard, feeling awkward and unbalanced with a hammer or sword in hand, and the maester had explained how such clumsiness often came with sudden growth.
"Ill-tidings, my lady," Lord Steffon said, his deep voice rumbling before he barked out a laugh. "Though ill-tidings with happy endings, much like any good tale of adventure. Gods, but this has my blood itching."
Cressen found himself leaning forward despite his attempts at propriety. The raven had come from Sunspear, yet the message bore the quartered sun and moon seal of House Tarth.
The situation had puzzled him momentarily, until he remembered his lord mentioning the Tarth boy who had won the tourney and would be returning home aboard a ship purchased from the Lannisters.
A stop at Sunspear would not be uncommon on such a route, but sending a message to his liege lord during the visit was strange. Dark wings, dark words. He had heard the saying from countless mouths over the years, from kitchen maids and stable boys to famed knights and great lords.
After many decades working with the birds themselves, such superstitions held little weight for him. Ravens carried news of births, of tourneys and weddings, of seasonal changes from the Citadel. And Cressen had grown adept at parsing what kind of words came with each raven: the time of year, the condition of the seal, the sigil it bore. Each pointed to one direction or the other. With this message, however, he had been at a loss.
"I told you of young Galladon, no?" Lord Steffon went on, glancing up from the parchment.
Lady Cassana sniffed. "I heard more about the boy from my ladies than from you, Steffon. What has he done now, won another tourney?" She sighed softly. "I only hope he has not found himself a wife in his travels. I know of at least three young ladies who shall weep if the boy's been wed."
"A woman in every port, huh? It's certainly every man's dream," Steffon said with a grin. His lady wife raised a fist at him, but the Baratheon lord only chuckled. "No, that is not why I envy the boy. Galladon's ship, along with Ser Gerion Lannister travelling in an escort carrack, were beset by pirates near the Stepstones." He almost spat as he spoke the name. "A beastly place, to be sure, but the boy fought them off and even saved Ser Gerion, though the Lannister was poisoned and they had to return to Sunspear."
The previously uninterested Stannis suddenly sat up in his seat, eyes wide. Cressen felt his own brief intrigue dim. It was long ago that he had abandoned dreams of travel and adventure
"Quite the story," Lady Cassana agreed. "Does Gerion live?"
"Aye, he lives still." Steffon's face darkened now. "That is not all, though. The boy found slaves in the pirate galley's hold. Stormland slaves, taken recently from the coasts along Cape Wrath and even Estermont."
Lady Cassana gasped. "Estermont?" she asked, alarmed. "Has my father been told?"
"He will soon." Lord Baratheon turned to him, and Cressen straightened at once. "Ready letters, Cressen. To Greenstone and all the other houses along the coast. I want Wylde and Whitehead and Cafferen to know of this by day's end."
The maester bowed. "It shall be done, my lord."
"And Stannis," Steffon Baratheon said, fixing his son with a thoughtful look. The boy stared up at him, eyes curious. "I believe I found the man whom you shall squire for."
Cressen was surprised by how his stomach tightened at those words. He had come to care for Stannis Baratheon like he were his own child, and Cressen did not think sending the boy away from home would serve him well. He was already a solemn child, one prone to seek for his parent's love and approval. What would ripping him away from them accomplish?
Stannis's face fell. The excitement he had felt moments earlier vanished, replaced by a tight anxiety Cressen knew all too well.
"But… can't I just stay here and squire for you?" Stannis Baratheon asked, his voice a thin, brittle thing.
Lord Steffon frowned, but his lady wife reached out to rest a hand on his arm. "Must he go, love? Ser Gawen Wylde is an experienced man, much more so than the Tarth boy."
The lord huffed. "You are too soft on him sometimes, Cassana. A Baratheon knight must not fear leaving his mother's side. Robert did fine in the Vale, did he not?" Stannis seemed to shrink further at those words, but his father did not seem to notice. "Aye, Galladon is young, but he's proven himself twice over already, and I trust Selwyn if nothing else. He will see our boy right."
After a moment, Lady Cassana relented. "As you say, husband."
"Good." He nodded, then turned to his son. "Do not worry overly much, Stannis. This is but a thought I had. I will not be shipping you off to Tarth tomorrow. I plan to host a tournament next year or the year after, not one so grand as Tywin's, but I expect to play host for men of every kingdom. Galladon will be older then, and I will speak with him and Selwyin about this."
"Yes, father," Stannis said, head down.
Steffon continued, "Do you have your lessons still?" The boy only nodded. "On you go, then. Maester Cressen will have you speaking High Valyrian by nightfall, I'm sure."
Stannis rose and dutifully obeyed, and Cressen followed beside him, a small sad smile on his face. In the end, the maester could only hope to keep the boy he had come to love as a son for a little while longer.
xxx
POWER STONES!!!!
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