Just like the great wall against the Others beyond it, the great stone walls of Storm's End loomed against the stormy water of Shipbreaker bay. Banners of a crowned stag enclosed within a red heart surrounded by a blaze of orange fire on a field of sun yellow. For Stannis Baratheon, this fortress was both a legacy and a dream he had thought of carrying forward. Though Robert with his pettiness had thought otherwise.
The colossal gates groaned open, a sound of grinding iron against ancient stone, and Ser Cortnay Penrose emerged, leading a small garrison. He was bald with red, spade-shaped beard and his face weathered with fatigue held no trace of welcome; his eyes hard as stone. He dismounted, bowing with a stiff, formal courtesy that held no warmth.
"Lord Stannis," he said, speaking as if he wished to say otherwise, "Storm's End welcomes you."
Stannis offered the barest of nods. Behind him, his wife, the pale and pious Lady Selyse, and their daughter, Shireen, with half of her left cheek and most of her neck covered in cracked and flaking, grey and black stony skin.. Davos Seaworth, the ever loyal Onion Knight, kept his horse close to his liege's. The men of the Stormlands garrison stood at attention, looking at their new lord with their watchful eyes.
As they passed beneath the big arch of the stoned internal coutyard, Ser Cortnay rode up beside Stannis, his mount's pace perfectly mirroring his lord's. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur meant only for Stannis's ears. "Do you have some plan, my lord, to save His Grace, Renly? Your brother now imprisoned in black cells—"
Stannis's horse came to an abrupt halt. The muscles in his jaw tightened, the grinding of his teeth a small, violent sound in the sudden stillness. Slowly, he turned his head, a cold rage, burning in his eyes.
"I am his grace," he said, each word with delibrate calm and hidden anger. "By blood, by law, by the rights of gods and men. There is no other."
Cortnay met his gaze, holding it for a long, bristling moment. The heavy air between them was thick as he faced the storm that was ever present in Baratheon blood. Then, slowly, the castellan inclined his head in defeat, a measured, almost reluctant gesture.
"As you say, Your Grace."
The words were proper, a tribute to the law, that should be held by castellan towards the lord of the castle but the coolness in them lingered.
Deep beneath the Red Keep, in the suffocating darkness of the Black Cells, the air was a fetid with the mix of damp stone, urine, feces and decay. It was total darkness in there, the only light source being the torch that Oberyn Martell carried as he strode forward. His dark eyes, twin pools filled with venom, glittered in the dim light. His daughters followed in his wake, Nymeria, her face obscured by a veil, gently guiding a robed and gagged girl. Behind her, Obara, her grip white-knuckled, carried a greatsword taller than she was.
"Father…" Nymeria started, her voice low and edged with doubt, cut through the silence. "Is this the right time, to take such a risk?"
Oberyn's lips curved into a smile, though his eyes remained hard as obsidian. "Every time is the right time, my daughter," he said, his voice a silken thread, "if it sets a thorn in Tywin Lannister's flesh." He thought of the grand, sprawling game unfolding across the Seven Kingdoms, of the Lannister lion and the Stark wolf, of the lords rising in rebellion. And of the Vale, a kingdom perched high and aloof, as if the things happening in Seven Kingdoms didn't affect them at all. Robb Stark had failed to bring Vale by his side but a freed quiet wolf, who had fostered under the care of the Lord of the Eyrie, the Defender of the Vale and the Warden of the East, could certainly tilt the whole board.
They stopped at last before a heavy iron door, behind which the Lord of Winterfell lay rotting. Oberyn paused, his head cocked, listening to the faint, labored sound of the man's breath within. From the pocket of his cloak, he drew a key and let it dangle from his fingers.
"It is time," he said simply, and the sound of the lock opening was a low thunder in the silence.
Far out on the Narrow Sea, the fleet of the Narrow Sea lords cut through the waves with a purpose. Their sails, bright with the arms of Velaryon, Celtigar, Sunglass, and Massey, stretched wide across the glittering water. Gulls wheeled and cried above them and the air was filled with the scent of salt.
On the deck of the flagship of the Velaryon's, Aemon Targaryen stood with Ghost at his side, the direwolf's pale fur a brilliant beacon in the sun. Monford Velaryon approached, his face a mask of tautness with nervousness as he offered a Myrish eye wrapped in soft velvet.
"Your Grace," Monford said, his voice hushed, "you should see this."
Aemon took the Myrish tube and lifted it to his eye, turning toward the looming, jagged silhouette of Dragonstone. His breath hitched as the lens brought the fortress into sharp focus. Above the black towers, a banner whipped in the wind, a three-headed red dragon, against the grey sky. Below, at the harbor, ordered ranks of men stood at attention, with their armor glinting like polished mirrors, all standing in disciplined ranks.
He lowered the glass slowly, the sea breeze tugging at his white hair. He turned to Jojen Reed, who stood quietly at the rail. The boy's green eyes met his red, which were calm and certain as always. Jojen gave him a single, firm nod.
The message was clear enough.
Aemon straightened his shoulders, and his voice, steady and sure, carried across the deck. "There is no cause for fear, not here. We will sail forward"
The fleet sailed on, as Dragonstone rose higher and higher against the boundless sky.