Game of Thrones White Wolf

Chapter 215 217: Blood of the Old Dragon

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CaveLeather

Clang—clang—clang—

The ring of steel swords crashing together echoed across the training yard inside the Red Keep. Stannis was going two-on-one, sparring hard against two of his own guards.

One was Ser Alexander Emmons. The other was Ser Gyles Fossoway. Both men were built like oxen and knew their way around a blade.

They kept their guards tight and stayed on the defensive while Stannis pressed them with raw fury. Anyone watching could tell the king was in a black mood.

It wasn't hard to guess why. A short while ago Varys had brought him the latest bad news: the last Targaryen, Daenerys, had crowned herself queen out in Slaver's Bay. She commanded a battle-hardened army and had three young dragons growing fast.

The girl was still half a world away, but the news was already making some people back home start thinking twice.

And that was what really gnawed at Stannis. Jaime might wear the "Kingslayer" label, but it didn't change the plain fact that the Baratheons had taken the Iron Throne by force. The thought made Stannis resent his late brother Robert even more. The man had squandered more than ten years of the longest summer Westeros had ever seen, chasing wine, women, and tourneys while the realm rotted. Now Stannis was stuck trying to hold the whole damn thing together.

He still remembered the look on Oberyn Martell's face when Varys announced Daenerys's claim during the small council meeting. The Red Viper's eyes had lit up with pure excitement before he quickly smoothed it away. But Stannis wasn't fooled. Dorne had refused to kneel to the Targaryens even when they had dragons a hundred years ago. Why would they kneel to him now?

The sparring went on until Stannis finally felt his arms growing heavy. He stepped back, breathing hard, and lowered his blade. Emmons and Fossoway let out visible sighs of relief.

"Your Grace fights like a lion," Ser Alexander said, laying on the flattery thick. "Next time maybe we bring in a third man so you can really test yourself."

Stannis snorted. "Even the Sword of the Morning fell to Ned Stark and half a dozen others. You think I could take three fully armored knights at once?"

A gray-eyed face flashed in his mind—Jon Snow, the bastard who could swing Robert's warhammer like it was made of straw. According to Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle, the boy handled the thing with ease.

Strategy, swordplay, sorcery… Stannis didn't understand why the gods had decided to favor one man so completely.

Just then a junior maester hurried into the yard with fresh news from the Westerlands.

Jon had crushed the Ironborn fleet at some nameless bay. Not only had he wiped out more than eight thousand reavers, he'd captured a sizable chunk of their ships as well. The place already had a new name: Beheading Bay. And Jon had hauled every last head back to Lannisport and stacked them in a pyramid for the whole world to see.

Even Stannis felt a sting of jealousy.

"This Jon… when did he get so ruthless?" Stannis muttered after reading the report twice.

Eight thousand men. Not one prisoner taken. Every single one executed. The heads now on display in Lannisport. It was brutal even by Westerosi standards.

Ser Alexander and Ser Gyles stood nearby, listening, and both men felt a chill crawl up their spines. Eight thousand dead on a battlefield was one thing. But rounding them all up and cutting their heads off? That was something else. They suddenly felt a lot more respect—and a touch of fear—for the young Duke of Casterly Rock.

At least he's on our side, they both thought. Thank the gods we don't have to face him.

The raven from Casterly Rock carried more than just battle news. Jon also wrote about Euron Greyjoy's sorcery. He warned that the Crow's Eye could use blood magic to summon storms powerful enough to wreck an entire fleet. Jon asked if Melisandre could be sent to help counter it.

Most men might scoff at talk of magic, but Stannis had seen it work with his own eyes. He immediately sent for the red priestess.

Melisandre was still at the Great Sept of Baelor. Thanks to Stannis's deliberate push, the building had become a strange hybrid—half sept for the Seven, half temple for the Lord of Light. The red faith was finally taking root in King's Landing.

She arrived quickly, accompanied by Queen Selyse. Melisandre confirmed every word Jon had written.

"Your Grace," she said, "if we are to counter Euron's magic, I will need king's blood."

Stannis had already cleared the yard of everyone else. He didn't want too many ears hearing about sorcery.

"King's blood?" Selyse blurted. "You can't mean—"

"Silence, woman," Stannis snapped. Selyse shut her mouth and looked at the ground.

Melisandre continued calmly. She didn't need Stannis's own blood. Any of Robert's bloodline would do.

"Even bastards?" Stannis asked.

Melisandre nodded.

Back when they'd lost the Blackwater, she had already suggested sacrificing one of Robert's bastards to wake the stone dragons. Jon's sudden victory at King's Landing had put the plan on hold. Now it was back on the table.

But Stannis was no longer the desperate man he'd been right after that defeat. The realm was messy, sure, but nothing threatened his throne immediately. He wasn't eager to start burning family.

Sometimes he still woke at night, drenched in sweat, dreaming of Renly and Robert standing over his bed—one asking why he'd killed him, the other asking why he'd stolen his son's crown.

"Let's hold off for now," Stannis said. "Let Jon and the Hand work it out between them. No need to rush the invasion of the Iron Islands." He turned and left without another word.

But the idea had already taken root in Selyse's mind.

Stannis had said "let Jon and the Hand work it out." That was just another way of chipping away at House Florent's power. She decided she had to do something.

The problem was, Selyse was good at pleasing her husband but terrible at actual scheming.

Then, later that same day, Varys came to her.

"Your Grace," the eunuch said softly, "there is actually another person who carries king's blood—besides the Baratheon line. He is a Targaryen."

"Daenerys?" Selyse asked. "But she's halfway across the world in Slaver's Bay."

"No, Your Grace. The man I speak of is at the Wall. Maester Aemon. Aemon Targaryen—brother to Aegon the Fifth."

"He's still alive?!" Selyse's eyes widened. To her the Targaryens felt like relics from another age, something that should have turned to ash along with the dragons.

"Yes. He has served as a maester at the Wall for nearly fifty years. He will not live much longer."

A light went on behind Selyse's eyes. A Targaryen! Handing a true dragon's blood to Melisandre would create far stronger magic than any Baratheon bastard ever could.

She sought out the red priestess again in private. Once Melisandre confirmed that Maester Aemon would be an ideal sacrifice, Selyse could no longer sit still.

But who could she trust to carry this out?

The Citadel claimed absolute neutrality, but sacrificing a respected old maester who had served honorably for half a century? If the Citadel ever learned the Crown was behind it, the outcry would be enormous. Stannis's rule could be damaged beyond repair.

She needed someone clever, discreet, and utterly reliable.

Her own Florent kin were all busy preparing for the Iron Islands campaign. She had no one close at hand.

After thinking long and hard, Selyse settled on one name: the former Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish.

He was the one who had convinced the Vale lords to swear to Stannis. He had also redesigned Cersei's wheelhouse exactly as Selyse wanted. She liked the man. He sent her thoughtful little gifts now and then, which had warmed her to him even more. Privately she had even told him she thought Stannis's punishment of him had been too harsh.

She summoned Littlefinger at once.

When Petyr heard what she wanted, he understood immediately what a golden opportunity this was. If he pulled it off cleanly, he would rise even higher in the queen's favor—and he would hold a secret that could one day threaten the entire royal family.

No longer would he be the powerless Littlefinger. Through Selyse he could climb back to real power.

"Your Grace may rest easy," he said, voice smooth as silk. "I will handle this matter perfectly."

"Good," Selyse replied, chin high, a thin smile on her lips. "Do it well and I will speak to the king about restoring your office."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Petyr bowed low. "From this day forward, you are the only one I serve."

He decided to go one step further. In his mind loyalty was never a duty—only a bargaining chip to be cashed in when the time was right.

The words "serve only you" made Selyse flush with pleasure. She tried to keep her voice steady. "Very well. I accept your service."

But the moment Petyr turned to leave, she called him back in a nervous whisper. "Remember—one thing above all. No one must ever know this order came from the Crown!"

Petyr met her eyes with solemn sincerity. "If the matter is ever exposed, I will take every scrap of blame upon myself. Your Grace will remain untouched."

Only then did Selyse breathe easier. Still, her heart was hammering like a war drum.

She had just crossed a line she could never uncross.