Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, started at the great map that showed his domains across the known world. His eyes fixed on his stubbornly independent neighbor to the North, and his teeth ground as the jaws locked together in frustration.
Winds racing out of the Blackwater Bay howled amongst the towers like a great beast, and drove rain though open windows to splatter audibly against stained-glass windows as well as those hidden by tapestries shimmering with gold and silver thread. The map covered one wall of the Great Hall in the Red Keep, built in time of Aegon the Conqueror with a splendor of gray-veined white marble columns with brass inlay.
Then he turned on his heel and walked, almost stomped, to the larger of two thrones sitting atop its raised iron dais with high and narrow steps; his left foot automatically kicking the scabbard of his longsword out of the way as he sat atop a chair as cold as people believed him to be. The chair was massive, constructed by Aegon Targaryen from the swords surrendered by his enemies. Thousands of them cast monsterous spikes and jagged edges of twisted metal. It is an uncomfortable chair, perfect for an uncomfortable man. The second, much smaller throne was his addition, forged from volcanic rock on Dragonstone and inlaid with gold and silver by the best artisans in King's Landing.
The day's gray light was fading into blackness under clouded skies, but the Hall was brilliantly lit by hundreds of oil lanterns and candles, the blazers built around each column, and by several huge chandeliers handing thirty feet above their heads. Their wax-and-lavender scents filled the chamber, hanging over the metal polish and cloth and the sweat of fear from the crowd of well-dress clerics, advisors and officials in attendance. Except for the ocaasional creak of shoe-leather, ripple of lavishly decorated tapestries, or the crackling of wood burning, it was silent. The shifting glitter of flame cast the throne made it seem as if it was afire.
Goldcloaks stood like statues about the walls, their mail and plate armor gleaming like treasure, while warriors of the recently expanded Queen's Guard formed a living wall between the Throne and everyone else; their red and gold mail hauberks burning like fire and the heads of their seven-foot spears gleaming; their massive kite-shaped shields were flat matt black, bearing the same sigil of a black stag dancing in a flaming heart that stood on the great banner hanging from the ceiling to the landing behind him.
After a moment the Red Woman seated in the other throne reached out and gently touched his arm. Stannis nodded and said, "You may rise, Lord Footly."
The knights before Stannis's throne stepped aside in perfect unison as the man and his wife approached, swinging like a door. When they stopped, they-and their weapons-were within a few feet of the man. The Queen's Guard, in reality servants of the Red Woman and R'hllor, remained still like iron sculptures with living, starving eyes.
Lord Armen Footly was a big man, an inch or two over Stannis's six-two, and similarly broad-shouldered, though unlike his King he'd added the beginnings of a paunch, despite being a little younger than his overlords mid-forties. His domain of Tumbleton was traditionally no more important that a sand dune, but with the succession of the North and Riverlands it placed those lands along the border with a potential enemy. Stannis had to fight to remember that. Armen had promptly obeyed the summons to court, though some would have thought about hiding in their castles, but that was for the desperate. The way his wife's eyes occasionally darted to the Red Woman, Melisandre, was probably some political appraisal or search for help. The women had recently become friends, as the whole family forsaked the Faith of Seven in favor of the Lord of Light. Clearly she didn't find the stone-like calm on Melisandre's expression to be very comforting.
How close the guards stood within arm's reach wasn't very reassuring either. Nor was it meant to be.
"I sent you and twelve thousand men to capture Harrenhal. A castle defended by two thousand farmers. Would you care to explain how you could fail me?" Stannis snarled at the kneeling man.
"Your Grace, I had pleaded an audience to explain a few weeks ago-"
"If you had tried to explain what had happened then, I would have had you given to The Fires. I'm not a forgiving man by nature. My Red Lady tells me it's my greatest fault."
A ripple of muffled chuckles ran though the court, except for a few of Red Priests, and Stannis spared a glance towards Melisandre and grinned inwardly behind an impassive mask. He knew it was an open secret in King's Landing that She was his mistress. Some even went so far as to claim she was the true Queen, as his wife kept herself locked away in the Keep's "Queen's Ballroom" with its beaten silver mirrors that makes the fires of R'hllor she and her closest devotees worship at seem brighter. In truth, the Red Woman was his closest companion-maybe even friend-and at the insistence of his wife he had begun sleeping with her. Even now, he could see her belly bulging beneath full breasts and imagined his promised son growing inside her.
"Your Grace," Footly plowed on, fretting as he slogged over a speech obviously memorized in advance and probably written by his spouse. "I believed Harrenhal would fall quickly, and after our scouts confirmed the fortification was lightly garrisoned by peasants I pushed the attack, thinking that our more heavily armed and numerous force would be more than sufficient. I even lead from the front, and my son led a second force around the rear to hit their dock. He was killed in battle even as I and the others rushed though the castle gates and into a mercilous storm of arrows that none have seen or experienced before. It wasn't until we were already falling that the castles commander, Steven Rogers, entered the fray. I personally saw the man, no, the monster throw his shield through three men before it returned to his hand and continue to fight off a dozen others with blinding speed. I admit error, and I beg your mercy for it, but I claim innocence of any malice or disloyalty. I would never have assaulted Harrenhal as I did if I hadn't thought it the safest course of action."
Melisandre spoke, her sonorous voice echoing off the Halls high walls, "But it wasn't safe, Lord Footly, as sieging the castle would have been. A military commander is supposed to be smart, not charge in headfirst like a common bandit and hope for the best."
Silence fell, and Armen opened his mouth to speak but quickly closed it.
That was smart, Stannis thought.
The whole past summer had been a series of disasters following his victory at King's Landing. The Lannister brothers escape, the failure of Footly attempt to capture Harrenhal, the bankruptcy of the realm, the North and its Riverlands leaving the Kingdom to form their own, the Ironborn trying to do the same thing. If it wasn't for the fact that the Islanders were doing the very thing he had been planning to do to the Lannisters he would have considered this whole thing a waste of time. As it was, with news of Winter coming many of the Lords just wanted to return home and manage their own lands and keep discontent to a minimum. He could wait and deal with the North, and Rogers, when the snows melt.
When he spoke next it was to everyone, "I never asked for this crown. As Robert's heir the throne is mine. That is the law. Gold is cold and heavy on the head, but so long as I wear the crown I have a duty to protect this Kingdom. If I must sacrifice one to the flames to save millions more from the dark, I must." He glanced at Footly, watched as his held his breath in waiting for the sentence. "I will pardon Armen Footly for his failure. You are forgiven."
But not forgotten. He quietly thought.
Stannis noted how Armen's wife sought Melisandre's again, and how her face relaxed ever so slightly at his Lady's smile and nod. Armen is a good man with a blade, but it is easy to see who's got the brains in that House. But fail me again and you are going to spend your final minutes aflame.
But he knew the threat didn't need to be said aloud, his stony face was more than enough. Footly and his family bowed and backed six paces away from the Throne, joining a crowd that no longer avoided them like plague victims anymore. With an effort of will Stannis thrust his gnawing fury aside; he couldn't afford distractions. Instead he made a gesture, and his stewards announced it was time for dinner and that any other matters could be discussed tomorrow.
"I suppose we should go eat." He said, Melisandre's fingers came down to rest on his arm, and he nodded as they rose and headed out of the Hall.