The castle was a crypt of stone and shadow, thick with the scent of salt of the sea and fire of the dragons that lived here. Maester Cressen, his knees a protest of aged bone, climbed the last stair with a folded parchment clutched in a spotted hand. Dragonstone had become a part of his life now, though when in Storm's End he became one of the silent witness to storms that snuffed the life of his lord Steffon Baratheon, to sieges and famine of rebellion. He had watched the Baratheon brothers grow, tending their cuts and mending their quarrels, and now, with a quiet, aching sorrow, he was tasked with bearing news that would make his lord grief over the loss of another brother.
The door groaned open, a heavy sigh of old oak. Stannis Baratheon sat within, as rigid and unyielding as the stone of the castle itself. His face was a mask carved from granite, a hard expanse of brow and a thin, tight line of a mouth.
"A raven has come, my lord," Cressen said, bowing as low as his bones would allow. "From the capital." He held out the parchment. Stannis took it, his fingers steady, and broke the seal. The low light of the lamp traced the shadows of his face as his eyes moved across the lines of script. When he was done, he laid the parchment flat on the table, his hand resting on it as if on a captured weapon.
Cressen knew this silence. He had seen it on Stannis's face when Robert was cheered and crowned, while Stannis, a boy then, held a starving Storm's End. He had seen it when Lord Arryn had taken Robert to the Vale, leaving Stannis behind. The world had always looked past him, and this silence was the consequence.
"My brother," Stannis said at last, his voice as flat and keen as a whetstone's edge. "Renly now dungeoned and named a traitor and usurper." His lips pressed into a thinner line. "So it ends. Renly thought to be king because men loved him. Because the Tyrells filled his cups and praised his smile. Did he forget who starved us at Storm's End? Who raised banners against us when Robert bled for his crown? And now those Lions and Rose give me warning, a hostage with them, to kneel and swear fealty to a Lannister bastard of all things?"
Cressen lowered his head. "My lord..."
Stannis's jaw flexed. His eyes were flint, but within their hard gaze, Cressen thought he saw a flicker of grief. For all the pride and folly that lay between them, Renly was still his brother.
Davos Seaworth, seated near the hearth, shifted in the lamplight. The rough edges of his missing fingers were stark against the light. His voice was steady. "Maester. Any word from the North? From Lord Stark's bannermen? We heard Lord Stark was also named a traitor and is in dungeons too."
Cressen shook his head, a slow, weary motion. "No, ser. No raven has flown from Winterfell, nor from Riverrun. Only silence."
The silence stretched, heavy as a shroud. Stannis's hand tightened on the parchment until his knuckles were white as bone.
"The throne is mine," he said, his voice raw but controlled. "Robert is dead. Cersei's get are bastards, born of her brother's seed. By law they are nothing. Renly was no king. By rights, by law, by blood, the crown is mine. And I will not bend the knee to Cersei's whelp."
Cressen bowed his head, offering no more words. There was no comfort left to give.
Far in the land of Trident, Aemon Targaryen—Jon Snow no longer—urged his horse through the misty green of the forest. The air was thick with the stink of decay and the ghosts of raiders. Ghost, a silent shadow of white against the dark trees, glided at his side. He'd left Beric and Thoros and their men behind, his plan spoken with a calm voice even as his heart hammered in his chest. He would ride ahead, find the path, and act before the game swallowed the whole realm. They had agreed, though reluctantly.
Now he rode with only the forest for company, Dark Sister strapped to his back. His thoughts spunning with Ned's imprisonment and Robb's calling of bannermen.
Then the shadow fell.
The shadow swept the treetops, vast wings blotting out the sun. The horse whinnied, stamping in a sudden panic. Ghost's hackles rose, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest. Aemon looked up.
The shape wheeled once, vast wings cutting the clouds, before it descended. Branches snapped like candle beneath its weight, as it landed in the clearing before him.
A dragon.
Its scales were crimson in color with streaks of silver across the body, eyes molten gold. Leathery wings folded with a loud snap, and the ground trembled beneath its bulk. Smoke curled from its nostrils as it lowered its head, its gaze, older and intelligent than any thing living this side of the wall, fixed upon him.
Aemon sat frozen in the saddle, his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering. He had dreamed of it, when he travelling from the Castle Black to the the south. But this was no dream, it had found him.