AN: Long chapter today.
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Lord Selwyn Tarth sailed back to our home island one day after we arrived at Storm's End.
Beyond writing a letter for him to carry back to Tarth with orders for my men, we did not speak much that night. Lord Steffon feasted us in the great hall alongside his knights and household, but despite sitting together up in the high table, what passed between my father and I was nothing more than a few glances, politely exchanged and politely ended. Lord Selwyn had never been a demonstrative man at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.
In the morning I followed his escort down the cliff road to Durranton to see him off. The Bay was grey and flat, the horizon smudged with low cloud, and the Pride of Tarth sat at the end of the dock looking enormous against the small wooden berths around it, bobbing in the gentle swell. There was a faint smell of rain coming, and the gulls were making a noise about it.
He stopped me by the quay when the escort had moved back and it was the two of us with nothing between us but the sound of water against the pilings.
He put his hand on my shoulder. Not the formal grip of a lord instructing his heir. The other kind.
"Watch yourself in that rat's nest, son." His hand tightened. "You'll be wise not to trust anyone you meet there."
I nodded. "Yes, Father." The words felt inadequate.
He didn't let go. Down by the water, his men were already working the gangplank, and somewhere above us one of the Pride's officers was calling out instructions in a carrying voice. My father looked at the dock for a long moment, then back at me.
"One day," he said, "I hope you will find it in your heart to trust your old man as much as he trusts you."
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. He held my gaze for one more second, then released my shoulder, turned, and walked up the plank without looking back.
I stood there and watched the ship make ready to leave, the oars coming out, the water beginning to churn white at the hull, and I was doing something genuinely embarrassing by the time the gap between the Pride and the dock was wide enough that he couldn't have seen my face even if he'd turned.
He didn't turn.
I watched until the ship had cleared the bay mouth and the white cliffs swallowed it from view. Then I straightened up, wiped my face on my sleeve, and made a decision about Arianne.
She wanted to keep her secrets. I understood why. She was young and frightened of what she carried, and the way people in this world treated anyone who brushed up against the higher mysteries, especially a girl, was not a history that would inspire confidence.
But she was not the only one carrying it now. My father had just stood on a dock and told me he trusted me, and I had stood there and said nothing, and if she thought I was going to keep buying her secrecy with that man's good opinion then she was going to discover what it felt like to be overruled by her older brother.
We were having a family meeting when I returned home. Whatever she thought about it.
xxx
The rest of my stay in Storm's End came and went before I realized.
I met Lady Cassandra Baratheon only once throughout the week. Spoke with her briefly when I encountered her in the gardens on a day the sun came out, burning off the morning mist. She'd been walking the paths slowly, one hand on her maid's arm for support, the other resting on her still-swollen belly. Having just given birth to little Renly Baratheon, she hadn't come down to eat in the great hall even when Lord Steffon had feasted my father the night we arrived.
She was gracious but clearly exhausted. We exchanged pleasantries about the weather, about Tarth, about the health of my mother. Nothing of substance. After a few minutes, her maid gently suggested she should rest, and Lady Cassandra excused herself with visible relief.
Stannis Baratheon was a different matter.
He was twelve, or close enough to it, and you could already see what was living inside the boy, waiting. The jaw was there, a jaw you couldn't argue with. The eyes that measured everything and forgave very little.
Even if I had not read about him, I knew he was going to be one of those men who treated the truth as a personal moral obligation and expected everyone around him to share that feeling, and hadn't yet had enough contact with the world to understand how unusual a position that was.
You could also see he did not seem to like me, which I found faintly funny given that we had spoken for a combined total of perhaps two hours.
When I met him in the yard and his father asked me to give him some pointers, you'd think the boy was trying to kill me with his blunted sword given how aggressive he was. He came at me like I'd insulted his mother, every swing committed fully, no holding back despite our difference in height and age.
"Keep your elbow in," I told him after blocking another wild overhead strike. "You're leaving your whole side open."
He adjusted immediately. The next attack came tighter, more controlled. His footwork shifted without me having to say a word about it.
I'll grant him that he was excellent at following advice and correcting his own form. But he did not open up even one bit. Not a fan of practice yard banter, young Stannis.
"Good," I said when he got the stance right. "Now try it again, but this time—"
He was already moving. Didn't wait for me to finish. The practice sword came around in an arc that would have been genuinely dangerous if he'd had more weight behind it.
"You're a quick study," I offered, hoping to get some kind of response.
There was a quiet, "Thank you, ser," but nothing beyond that. Only that grinding intensity, jaw set, eyes hard and focused.
When I tried talking to him over dinner in the evenings, asking about his interests and his life in Storm's End and how he felt about the stories of Durran Godsgrief, he answered me as cranky as an old crab pulled from beneath its rock. Sharp words, no follow-up questions. Every response clipped and perfunctory, like I was wasting his time.
"Do you train every day?" I asked.
"Yes."
"With the master-at-arms?"
"Usually."
"What weapon do you prefer?"
"Sword."
It was like pulling teeth. Truly, a pleasure to converse with.
At one point, I caught Lord Steffon watching us from across the hall, an amused smile playing at his lips. He knew exactly what I was dealing with.
It seemed like the future Renly Baratheon—whose baby form I'd glimpsed only briefly, a squalling bundle in a nursemaid's arms—was right about his brother. Stannis did, in fact, have the personality of a lobster. Hard shell, snapping claws, and deeply uncomfortable out of water.
Or perhaps I just hadn't been able to crack him open in the few times we spoke. Get him talking about something he actually cared about instead of deflecting with monosyllables.
In any event, Stannis Baratheon did not join Lord Steffon and I when we left Storm's End for King's Landing. We rode out with a sizable escort as befit a Lord Paramount of the realm. Twenty knights in full armor, their plate gleaming despite the dust of the road. Another twenty men-at-arms in mail and leather followed behind. Not exactly an army, but sufficient for a lord who'd been summoned by the king in a personal manner and not to assume any particular office.
At least, that's what Lord Steffon told me when I asked about the size of the company.
I knew that eventually, Aerys Targaryen would ask him to sail to Essos and find a suitable Valyrian bride for Prince Rhaegar. Knew how that voyage would end: shipwreck and death in sight of home, Lord Steffon and Lady Cassandra both drowned while their sons watched from the battlements of Storm's End.
But I wasn't entirely sure of the timeline. Couldn't remember if the voyage happened immediately or a year from now. The books had been vague on dates, and the show had only ever mentioned the event in passing.
I rode near the front of the column and watched the Stormlands go by, which was its own kind of pleasure. We stopped the first night at Bronzegate, a compact, well-kept castle, where Lord Buckler hosted us with roasted boar and strong wine. The man was loud and gregarious and also clearly gratified by the visit of his liege lord.
The night after, we slept in view of the Wendwater Bridge, in a drafty inn that smelled of mildew and old smoke. Then came the Kingswood, the road swallowed up by oak and elm overhead and the light coming through dappled and pleasant after the open country. The air turned cool and green-smelling, rich with the scent of moss and rotting leaves.
Despite my own worries, we found no trouble in the woods. Whether that was because it was too early for the Kingswood Brotherhood to be active, or because they had enough brains not to try anything with a forty-man-strong company, remained a mystery.
Some of the villages along the way mentioned bandits on the road. Innkeepers grumbled about outlaws on the wooded trails over ale. Village chiefs complained to Lord Steffon of unnamed merchants robbed some three weeks prior when we stopped to water the horses. But that just seemed like the usual noise you could find anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. Highwaymen and outlaws had always plagued the roads and woods.
I tried not to make more of it than what it was. They could talk to me when a Joker-esque knight started terrorizing the countryside and the Brotherhood became something more than common thieves.
Either way, nothing showed itself, and we came through the trees intact. After less than a week of easy riding, I spotted King's Landing for only the second time in my life.
The city sprawled beyond the glinting Blackwater, the rooftops spreading out in all directions from the three hills, the Great Sept's dome and crystal towers pale against the sky, and above it all the Red Keep on Aegon's High Hill, its red stone catching the morning light. From a distance it could look almost beautiful.
Yet even from a distance, I could see the haze of smoke hanging above the city, and smell the stink of it on the wind, pungent enough it made me want to cover my nose.
And below it all, the warrens. The maze of streets and alleys where half a million people pressed together in squalor. Somewhere in those rat-infested depths, my men would be at work already. Only Jace and a handful of others, hand-picked by him and operating under assumed names.
I had given them more than one mission, and if all went right, we wouldn't need to meet until we were all back in Tarth. Jace knew to only use my name if the circumstances absolutely demanded it.
We crossed the Blackwater on barges further upriver, avoiding the Mud Gate and its chaos. The crossing took the better part of an hour, horses nervous on the swaying platforms, knights watching the water like it might rise up and swallow us.
Then we were through the King's Gate and riding across the length of the River Row, past inns and fishmonger stalls where the day's catch lay gutted and glistening. Past crowded smallfolk tenements that leaned against each other like drunks, threatening to collapse at any moment.
The streets stank. Piss and shit and rotting fish and the general reek of too many people living too close together. I'd thought Oldtown was too crowded when I stopped there, but King's Landing made it seem like a perfumed garden.
At the end of River Row, the ground began to rise. Aegon's High Hill loomed above us, and perched on its summit, the Red Keep.
It was massive up close. Vast in a way that made Evenfall Hall look like a quaint cottage in the woods. Networks of curtain walls and drum towers rose in pale red stone, seeming like claws sinking into the hillside. Battlements bristled with scorpions and catapults. Hundreds of arrow slits stared down like dead eyes.
With the crowned stag banner flying among our numbers, the gold cloaks at the castle gates did not overly bother us beyond what was expected. Lord Baratheon's identity was confirmed by some veteran Targaryen knights that had fought with him in the Stepstones, and we were waved through into the outer ward quickly enough.
Not one to stand on ceremony, Lord Steffon had not sent anyone ahead to announce our imminent arrival, so there was no great personage waiting for us in the courtyard when we rode in. Just the usual chaos of a castle at work, grooms leading horses, servants hurrying about their tasks, guards changing shift.
We quickly handed off our mounts while harried stewards ran to notify the necessary authorities. Others rushed toward us, bowing and offering apologies for the lack of preparation, presenting plates of bread and salt with shaking hands.
King Aerys, it seemed, was also not one for ceremony. There was no time to freshen up from the road. No chance to have a proper meal or change into clean clothes.
Within minutes, a knight wearing Targaryen livery appeared from within, the black and red three-headed dragon emblazoned on his chest. He escorted Lord Steffon and me to Maegor's Holdfast at once, leaving the rest of our party to be shown to their quarters.
The Holdfast was a castle within a castle, connected to the main keep by a drawbridge that spanned a dry moat filled with iron spikes. Every entrance was guarded by men in Targaryen colors, their expressions blank and professional.
Inside, I was directed to a gaudy waiting room while Lord Steffon was taken to the king's solar to reconnect with his old friend.
I sat there for over an hour, but considering a servant brought me a genuine royal spread, with cheeses that probably cost more than most smallfolk earned in a year, pastries dusted with sugar, and fresh fruits from the Reach and Dorne, I could not complain.
The room itself was ridiculous. Gold leaf on the ceiling. Furniture that looked more decorative than functional. Tapestries showing Targaryen conquests covered every wall. Aegon burning Harrenhal. Visenya landing at the Vale. Rhaenys accepting the submission of Dorne when it had never actually happened.
Entertaining, if nothing else. I ate a pastry filled with some kind of cream and tried not to think about what was coming.
I'd expected to have to wait days to meet the king, if I ever did. Aerys Targaryen was known to be flighty, mercurial, prone to forgetting about people he'd summoned.
Instead, less than two hours after arriving in the capital, Steffon Baratheon walked out of the solar. He looked relaxed, almost amused, which was reassuring.
"Good luck, lad," he said, giving me a pat on the back and a wink. Then he left me to my fate.
Outside the king's solar, old Ser Harlan Grandison and Ser Jonothor Darry were quick to see me parted with my sword and dagger. Their hands were thorough. They checked my belt, my boots, even ran fingers along the seams of my doublet looking for hidden blades. It seemed like King Aerys was no longer leaving things to chance, at least for a one on one meeting.
As they worked, my eyes scanned the duo in front of me. They did not seem particularly impressive at first glance. Ser Harlan was aging, his trimmed beard gone completely white now. Ser Jonothor was handsome enough, but unremarkable, his face pleasant and forgettable.
Yet I knew better than to assume weakness. The one Kingsguard I'd faced before in a spar, Ser Gwayne Gaunt, had died during the Defiance. Having not expected him to be as good as he was when we'd crossed blades at Lannisport, I had barely managed to hold my own.
Still, that seemed like a lifetime ago. The tourney at Lannisport had been one of the first times I'd left Tarth. Surely the first time I'd faced anyone anywhere close to my level, in both jousting and in the yard.
But that was a different time. A different me.
Fighting for your life taught you more in a few minutes of blood and guts than a year's worth of yard practice. And I was dying to get the measure of these legendary fighters one more time. I'd have to convince some of the Kingsguard to meet me at the practice yard during my stay. Test myself against the best.
When the white cloaks were satisfied I wasn't hiding a longsword in some creative orifice, they stood aside and let me into the solar.
The heat hit me first. The room was stifling, dim with the shutters drawn tight over the windows despite the late morning sun outside. The only light came from the crackling hearth, flames dancing high, filling the space with orange glow and oppressive warmth.
King Aerys Targaryen lounged in a comfortable-looking armchair by the fire, the light illuminating one side of his face and leaving the other in shadow. He did not look like what I pictured the Mad King to become. Not yet.
His hair was longer than the last time I'd seen him at Lannisport, yes, falling past his shoulders in silver waves. But it looked clean, well-kept. His nails didn't curve out of his fingers like talons, trimmed and normal instead. And the gauntness that a couple months of captivity had brought to his face only served to emphasize the line of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones. He was handsome still, in the elfish way Targaryens tended to be.
But there was something in his eyes. A brightness that didn't quite match the firelight. An intensity that made my skin prickle.
To one side, Ser Barristan Selmy stood like a statue carved from white marble. Silent and solemn in his vigil. His eyes moved toward me the way you'd imagine a stone gargoyle might track movement, inevitable, implacable, somehow both present and distant. Not a one on one meeting despite the thorough patting outside after all.
I walked forward until I judged it prudent. Close enough to speak without shouting, but not so close that the white-cloaked gargoyle would think I was threatening his charge.
Then I went down on one knee, head bowed.
"Your Grace, you have summoned me, and so I have come."
The king said nothing. The silence stretched. I could hear the fire crackling, my own breathing, the faint creak of Ser Barristan's armor as he shifted weight.
I decided to turn the flattery dial up a bit. "Though I only wish I could have come sooner, my liege. To face the traitors who tried to besmirch Your Grace as I did to the ones who took my mother."
Finally, Aerys let out a breathy cackle. The sound was jarring in the quiet room, too high, too delighted.
I looked up.
The king had a wide smile on his face, showing teeth. "See, Barristan? Now that's a proper knight of the Seven Kingdoms right there. That's devotion to his king, don't you think?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said. His voice was neutral, giving nothing away.
Aerys turned to me, the firelight dancing across his features. "Do you know why I called on you, Ser Galladon?"
"No, Your Grace."
He pointed between the Kingsguard and myself, the gesture almost playful. "Tell him what you told me, Ser Barristan."
The knight shifted for the first time since I'd entered, turning to face me fully. "As I told the king, Ser Galladon, it was getting word of your daring rescue of Lady Addison Tarth that spurred me to action. We had settled for a siege outside Duskendale, but I knew I could no longer sit idly knowing it could be done."
"Despite Tywin's objections," Aerys spat. The sudden venom in his voice made me flinch internally. "He counseled patience. He always counsels patience. I'd still be rotting in that damned castle if he had his wish."
"The Lord Hand's concerns were not unfounded," Ser Barristan said carefully.
Aerys snorted. An ugly, dismissive sound. "Oh, spare me. Say what you will about Tywin. He's a smart man. Too smart." His fingers drummed against the armrest, a rapid staccato. "He must have known what that Darklyn bastard and his whore were doing to me inside. It is to his shame that he did not storm the town at once."
"They would have killed you, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said.
"Oh, Darklyn wanted to. Oh yes." Aerys leaned forward, eyes bright and feverish. "But his whore wouldn't let him. She told me as much, you know. Whispered it while I was chained in that cell. 'Not your time yet,' she said." His voice took on a mocking lilt. "What has my Master of Whisperers said of it? Has the witch been found?"
Ser Barristan shook his head slowly. "No word of Lady Serala yet, my king."
I could see Aerys' jaw lock tight, teeth grinding visibly inside his mouth. The muscles in his neck stood out like cords. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the anger seemed to drain away.
"Gyles Rosby is truly a wretched fool," Aerys said with a sigh. Almost conversational now. "I should have never graced him with the office. Fools and lickspittles and circling lions, that's what my court is today." He turned to look at me, and I felt the weight of that purple gaze. "I should surround myself with men like you instead, Ser Galladon. Young and spirited and loyal."
I didn't even blink. "I am yours to command, Your Grace."
Aerys nodded, satisfied. "Tell me of the rescue, then." He waved his hand airily, the anger of moments ago completely gone. "The whole of it. Ser Barristan, I suspect, will be glad to hear it as well."
To the side, Ser Barristan Selmy gave me a small nod.
So I gave them an abridged retelling of events in the Weeping Town. One that involved considerably more strength of arms and clever tricks, and significantly less magic, glass candles, and twelve-year-old sisters with prophetic visions.
I left out my Companions as well, attributing their intelligence-gathering to overheard conversations from fleeing merchants, and the old drainage tunnel part was skipped entirely. Better to leave somethings out entirely than try to explain away details that might not hold up under scrutiny.
The focus was mostly on the quarry ambush outside the town, which I expanded on in great detail, followed by the prisoner ruse we'd used to get inside the castle walls.
Then came the final confrontation with Lord Elmar Whitehead in the halls of his tower. From what my mother told me, I now knew that the man had not been the mastermind behind her kidnapping. That had been his wife, Lenora. But she was dead, killed by my mother's own hands in that locked room, and Elmar was the one who'd lived. The lord of his house besides.
So the fault would lie with him in the histories. In the songs, if any songs got written about this mess.
"Fascinating, Ser Galladon. Truly fascinating." Aerys leaned even further forward in his chair, almost to the edge of falling out of it. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated. "But tell me… tell me of the fire, then."
His voice had gone soft, almost reverent. The firelight reflected in his purple eyes, orange flames dancing.
"Tell me everything about it. Tell me what it looked like when the whole town went up. Tell me what it smelled like…" He licked his lips. "Tell me how it felt when you set the traitors alight."
My mouth went suddenly dry. I swallowed what felt like dust on my tongue. Or ashes.
This was one of the only things we'd discussed together as a family after returning to Tarth. Mother, Father, Arianne, Alysanne, and me, sitting in Father's solar with the door barred and guards posted outside.
It did not serve House Tarth to look like fools. To have the realm know that one of my men had accidentally set a signal fire that spiraled out of control and burned down half a town. That the destruction had been unintentional, born of mishap rather than calculated vengeance.
So we'd let the rest of Westeros make up their own minds about what truly happened. And the story they settled on, the one that spread through taverns and keeps, carried by merchants and minstrels and ravens, was one where young Ser Galladon Tarth had rescued his mother using only his wits and his sword arm. And then, in his righteous rage at his mother's kidnappers, had put the Weeping Town to the torch before sailing away into the night.
A tale of filial devotion turned to vengeance. Of a son's fury made manifest in flame.
In this case, a reputation for ruthlessness in the face of treachery and dishonor served House Tarth quite well. Better to be feared than pitied. Better to be seen as dangerous than incompetent.
And so the lie had stuck.
Still, I had my pride. I knew what Aerys wanted to hear. Could see it in the way he leaned forward, in the brightness of his eyes, in the slight part of his lips. He wanted the story told like an erotic tale, full of burning homes and screaming people and the smell of roasting flesh.
I would not play into the king's sickness. Would not feed his obsession. There were things I would not do even in a king's solar with a kingsguard in the corner.
"There is not much to say, Your Grace," I told him with a sigh. Kept my voice flat, matter-of-fact. "The smallfolk there were more afraid of their lords than they were of us. It was not their lives I sought to take. Most fled out into the countryside before we put the town to the torch. The houses caught quickly after that." I paused. "Even hours after sailing away, we could see the flames reflected up onto the sky. Like dawn had come twice in one day."
Aerys, who had been leaning so far forward he looked ready to topple out of his chair, blinked. Once. Twice. As if coming out of a trance.
"Yes, I see," he said. Cleared his throat. Sat back. "Quite the story, Ser Galladon. Quite the story." He glanced at Ser Barristan. "Isn't it, Ser Barristan?"
"Quite the story, Your Grace," the knight agreed.
"Indeed." Aerys stood then, movements fluid despite the earlier intensity. He walked up until he towered above me as I knelt on the floor. He was taller than I'd reckoned, and the fire threw his shadow long across the floor behind me. "Inspiring enough that Ser Barristan here felt moved to act, and inspiring enough that I feel moved as well." He paused. "I offer you a boon, Ser Galladon. Speak your wish, and if it is within my power, I shall grant it."
I looked up at him, eyes wide. Caught myself. Bowed my head back down.
A boon. From the king. That could be anything. Land. Title. Gold. An advantageous marriage. Access to the court.
Or it could be a trap. A test. Aerys was unstable, growing more so. Asking for too much might offend him. Asking for too little might seem like an insult.
"Your Grace," I said carefully, "I am honored, though I know myself to be unworthy of such a gift."
"Yet I command it still," Aerys said. His tone brooked no argument.
I wet my lips, thinking fast. "I… I confess I do not know what to ask, sire. Might I have time to consider? To ensure I ask for something worthy of Your Grace's generosity?"
The king hummed, considering. "Makes no matter." He turned back around and walked closer to the hearth, drawn to the flames like a moth. "You must stay in the capital a while longer still. You shall have fine rooms in the Red Keep, ser. And I have a surprise for you a few days hence."
His eyes were fixed on the crackling fire as he spoke, transfixed by the dancing orange light.
"I have a few guests, you see. Recent arrivals in my city who have given me some… inspiring ideas." A smile played at his lips, visible in profile. "I am certain you will enjoy the surprise as much as I."
I tried to make sense of what he meant. Guests? Who? And what kind of surprise would a king arrange that involved a newly arrived visitor and a young knight from a minor house?
Boons and surprises and mysterious guests. I did not know what to make of any of it. I was still kneeling there, mind churning through possibilities, when the king spoke again.
"You may go, Ser Galladon," Aerys Targaryen said. Then he turned and gave me a smile that was all teeth, bright and yellow in the firelight. "Think on your wish for now. I await your answer quite eagerly."
xxx
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