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Chapter 219
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 22:55:22 +0000 UTC“Whether this Aegon Targaryen is real or a fraud, the moment he chose Storm’s End as the starting point for his rebellion against the Iron Throne, he stepped into a death trap,” Stannis said, his tone icy as his eyes scanned the map before him. A sneer twisted his lips. “They’ve likely only heard that Storm’s End is the strongest castle in the world but forgot—no one knows better than I how to bring it to its knees.”
“No one questions that, Your Grace,” Robb Stark replied, standing across from him at the war table. “But intelligence reports indicate that the Reach forces have regrouped at Bitterbridge and are marching eastward. Their vanguard has already reached the vicinity of Grassy Vale. We must act swiftly to prevent being caught off guard.”
“Of course,” Stannis said, his voice dripping with disdain. “If I were them, I’d do the same. If not for this so-called Young Aegon stirring up chaos in the Stormlands, we’d already be marching to deal with Highgarden. The Tyrells don’t want me stabilizing the Stormlands too quickly and then turning my attention to them. Naturally, they’d intervene in this conflict. How many men have they gathered?”
“Approximately thirty thousand,” Robb answered.
A sharp laugh erupted from the room. “Hah! Clearly, their numbers have dwindled. They’re no fools—after losing battle after battle, the Reach lords must have lost the enthusiasm they had when rallying behind Renly.”
Davos shook his head gravely. “Their numbers may have decreased, but that doesn’t mean their fighting strength has. The last time Highgarden deployed such large forces, it was to bolster Renly’s bid for the throne, a show of pomp and power. This time, they’re fighting to stave off a potential crisis of extinction. Their best will be leading the charge. And with Randyll Tarly commanding their forces…” He paused and turned to Stannis. “Your Grace, if you had followed my advice and immediately pardoned House Tyrell after taking King’s Landing—swallowing your pride just this once—the Seven Kingdoms would already be united under your rule.”
“Pardon House Tyrell?” Karstark, ever blunt and fiery, scoffed loudly. “They supported Renly in his treason and plotted to poison Lord Eddard Stark. Even if His Grace agreed to pardon them, we Northerners wouldn’t!”
Stannis’s disdain for Karstark’s boorishness was well-known, but in this instance, they shared the same sentiment. “The law is the law. Treason must have consequences. If I were to pardon the Tyrells because of their strength, it would only embolden others to challenge the throne in the future, thinking they might escape justice. The law must be ironclad. At most, I might allow the principal conspirators to take the black and join the Night’s Watch—but only if they come to me, kneeling, to beg for mercy. There will be no blanket pardons.”
“Your Grace,” Greatjon Umber boomed, stepping forward, “allow us to deal with Randyll Tarly. The North has bested him twice before, and a third victory will be no different!”
“Robb,” Stannis said, his gaze shifting to the Young Wolf, “you will lead the army against Tarly again. But remember—do not underestimate him because of your prior victories. Randyll Tarly’s reputation as a commander wasn’t earned through mere bluster.” He turned back to the map. “As for me, I will take Storm’s End personally. Give me one month, and the Iron Throne will do what it always has—drive this so-called Golden Company back into the sea.”
“As you command, Your Grace,” Robb replied solemnly.
Stannis’s tone softened, almost imperceptibly. “And your father… how fares Lord Eddard Stark?”
Robb’s expression darkened. “The maesters believe he was poisoned—likely with more than one type of toxin. The doses were small but complex, making treatment difficult. For now, his life clings by a thread, sustained only by medicine and hope. If we could find Margaery Tyrell, we might learn which poisons were used and create an antidote.”
“That venomous woman!” a Northman spat. “Last time we saw her in the Vale, she looked as sweet and harmless as a summer maiden. Who would have thought her heart was so wicked?”
Voices of agreement rippled through the northern lords, painting Margaery Tyrell as a scheming viper and a harbinger of treachery.
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Amidst the uproar, Davos remained silent, his mind turning over the facts. Was it truly Margaery who ordered Eddard Stark poisoned? What would she gain from it? Killing the Hand of the King would only provoke endless enmity between House Stark and House Tyrell. Without the poisoning, the northern armies might have returned home after securing King’s Landing. Without the North backing him, Stannis would never have been able to act so boldly against the Reach.
Davos’s instincts whispered of a conspiracy, though he couldn’t yet see the full picture. Yet with Stannis intent on using the North to pacify the Stormlands and crush the rebellion in the Reach, embracing the narrative of Tyrell culpability was politically expedient.
“The Dornish have also taken up arms,” Davos interjected. “Their forces are advancing north along the Boneway and currently surround the Eyrie. If this Aegon Targaryen is real, he would be Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn’s nephew. Dorne’s sudden eagerness to aid Your Grace in quelling rebellion is highly suspicious and must be watched carefully.”
Stannis’s lips curled in disdain. “I’ve already ordered the Dornish forces to sweep through the smaller castles captured by the Golden Company around Cape Wrath. They will not join me at Storm’s End. If they advance without my consent, we will treat them as enemies. Scouts are already in place to ensure no one can attack us from the rear while I deal with Storm’s End.”
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Since reclaiming King’s Landing, Stannis had ruled with an iron fist, purging traitors who had sided with Renly and securing the loyalty of Stormlands and Crownlands troops. With over fifty thousand men, a combined force from the Stormlands, Crownlands, and the North, Stannis now marched southward, the largest and most disciplined army in Westeros at his back. Lords along the route submitted without resistance, offering supplies and soldiers to the king’s cause.
Victory felt closer than ever.
As his commanders finalized plans for the siege of Storm’s End, the tent flap rustled, and a red-robed woman entered unannounced.
The tent fell silent. All eyes turned to Melisandre, her presence casting an uneasy shadow over the gathered lords.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice calm but charged, “the Night’s Watch has sent you several desperate pleas for aid. Why have you hidden this from everyone?”
The lords exchanged glances, their eyes shifting toward Stannis, whose face darkened like a storm cloud. It was no small thing for a king to be confronted so openly—especially by a foreign priestess.
“Hid it? Hid it from whom?” Stannis’s voice was cold, his gaze fixed on Melisandre. “Every man here knows the wildlings are attacking the Wall. I’ve already promised the Northmen that once this campaign is concluded, they’ll return home to deal with the crisis. Plans to assist the Night’s Watch have already been discussed. Does that sound like hiding anything?”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” Melisandre replied, her sharp eyes narrowing. “You have not concealed the wildling threat. But you did conceal the most recent letter from the Wall, which you buried beneath a pile of correspondence on the maester’s desk. The defenses of the Wall are crumbling, and yet you’ve brought the kingdom’s finest forces south to fight a rebellion that could have waited. Why have you abandoned the true battlefield to play at politics?”
“Play at politics?” Karstark rose from his seat, bristling with anger. “Is that how you describe a campaign to crush the remnants of House Targaryen? And since when does a woman have the right to lecture a king on matters of war?”
Melisandre turned to face him, her gaze cutting like a blade. “The cold winds are rising, Northman. Ancient and terrible forces are gathering their strength in the Lands of Always Winter. If men of courage do not rise to confront them, the Long Night will soon descend, and your lands and people will be the first to perish.”
Though her words were chilling, no one dared openly refute her. The men in the tent had all heard of the horrors beyond the Wall—some had even seen them firsthand. Yet to be chastised by a foreign priestess in the presence of their king was a humiliation they could scarcely tolerate.
All eyes turned back to Stannis, waiting to see how he would respond to the priestess’s bold challenge.
