The Throne’s Last Flame-Chapter 212 — Baratheon
Daenerys Targaryen was decisive by nature. That very night she let it be known that she would be leaving the city-state—on the “pretext” of continuing to seek the gods’ guidance.
By the next day, Gawen saw with his own eyes what a true heroine’s script looked like.
At the Governor’s Residence, the city’s wealthy merchants first offered the customary pleas for their Governor Daenerys to stay. Then, praising her deeds as they went, they hauled in chest after chest of jewels.
Gawen sat quietly in a corner and counted: one chest, two, three…
When he reached twelve, yet another magnate flicked his fat hand and more servants trooped in with more chests.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…
Daenerys kept a calm face before such enthusiasm, though Gawen could tell even she was surprised.
He thought of the earth-shaking tumult when her three true dragons were born. Had fear of the unknown turned into generosity?
When they heard she meant to leave by sea, a shipping lord didn’t even let her finish—he simply
gifted her a ship
.
Gawen tipped his head back toward the ceiling and remembered the lean years sweating for coin in the Red Keep.
Then his eyes sharpened.
Dragons… and eight thousand Unsullied…
Tempting. But he let the thought go—he couldn’t afford it.
For now, everything would be held in trust.
Besides handmaids, servants, and the Crab Claw guards, some fifty-odd soldiers volunteered to follow Daenerys—most of them slaves she had freed from the slavers’ galleys (Ch. 123).
On the third day, in return for the merchants’ lavish send-off, Daenerys formally transferred those who wished to remain in the city to the new governor the merchants had selected—everyone pleased, all sides content.
That night, in the terrace garden of the Residence—
Gawen Crabb stepped to the slight figure at the rail and stood beside Daenerys, looking out with her.
“Dany,” he asked, “do you like this city?”
She shook her head a little. “Viserys dragged me from place to place since I was small…”
After a pause: “I taught myself not to like
any
place. My brother would never let me stay long.”
They were quiet a time. Then Gawen said, “Dany, do you want to know the real reason you and Viserys wandered? Perhaps… ‘secret’ is the better word.”
Daenerys turned, puzzled. “Wasn’t it to flee the usurpers’ hunters?”
“That was the surface of it,” Gawen said softly. “You remember Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos?”
She nodded. Of course. The sly man who dared to puppet true dragons.
“You told me the man who gave you the eggs called himself a true-dragon loyalist hidden among the usurpers—Varys, the Master of Whisperers at the Red Keep. He and Illyrio were boon companions… and partners in a certain plot.”
“A plot?” Her violet eyes trembled.
He nodded, face grave. “The first step of that plot was… to shape Viserys into a second Mad King.”
She flinched. “How?”
“Many said Viserys already had the Mad King’s shadow in the Red Keep,” Gawen said. “But I think—then—it was more a child’s imitation, a game born of worship for his father. Perhaps
that
gave the pair their idea… to make Viserys truly mad.
“They watched you both. Every time Viserys dared exhale, their hired knives appeared—forcing him on, again and again, year after year. Live long enough in a ring of fear, and who could stay whole? Least of all a boy raised in it.”
Daenerys gripped the balustrade. “My brother… they
took
my brother from me…”
So the “hunts” had been staged from the start? She had once doubted whether the assassins Viserys raved of were his own fancies—never seeing one herself. Now she had her answer. It had been a
constructed filth
aimed at her and her brother.
They all deserve to die.
Her jaw set. Her fists knotted. Her breath came short—like a mountain ready to break.
Gawen’s arms wrapped her from behind; warmth closed round her. She breathed again.
“You have already judged Illyrio,” he murmured. “Leave the other to me. Let me help you take your vengeance.”
Across the Narrow Sea, a hundred and more warships surged on in ordered ranks—an armada marching upon the waves.
Aboard the Fury, the banner of the burning heart streamed while white spray burst along the hull.
“Ahead to port—nine ships together!” the signalman cried. “Their flag shows a marsh marigold!”
Crowned in red-gold flames, Stannis peered that way, eyes narrowed against the sun.
Beside him, Melisandre said, “Perhaps the Lord of Light has sent them to you, Your Grace. You are the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms, and crowned. Command them to join your glorious fleet.”
“My lady,” Stannis said coldly, “I have recognized the Crab Claw’s neutrality. A true king does not break his word.”
Davos Seaworth and the others pressed hands to hearts. “It is our honor to serve, Your Grace.”
Stannis snorted. He had only done what was required. Praise was nothing to him.
Davos merely shrugged. They were used to His Grace’s iron ways.
“We make the Shipbreaker Bay soon,” Stannis said. “Do not let waves or rocks unship our plans.”
“My two sons are ahead sounding the way,” Davos answered, bowing. “I promise a safe landing along the shores of Storm’s End.”
Stannis considered. “Night is the best cloak. I shall teach Renly that war is no mummer’s show.”
Before Davos could answer, Melisandre breathed, “The king is born of fire. R’hllor will grant him victory.”
Davos’s brow creased. Victory came of men and their courage, not holy talk. He kept his tone smooth. “Aye—each sailor will sprout an owl’s eyes to spy the killing reefs in black water.”
Melisandre’s smile warmed. Her red eyes traveled up and down the Onion Knight. “You have yet to taste the Lord’s greatness. R’hllor is all-powerful.”
She drifted close, fingers trailing across his breast. “The night is dark and full of terrors. Your chance will come.”
Davos did not move, face a mask—yet when those fingers neared, his blood seemed to drain from him, chill sweat prickling his back.
He “politely” stepped away and bent the knee to Stannis. “I serve only the great King Stannis.”
A small curl of Melisandre’s lip—and she returned to the king’s side.
Stannis lifted a hand: rise.
“I must break Renly soon…” His jaw worked. “Doran Martell strengthens the Prince’s Pass in the Red Mountains of Dorne, and his levies stand ready.”
Davos weighed it. “I think the Dornish will wait to see you and Renly spend your strength, then choose.”
“Let him dream of power and glory,” Stannis said. “I will not forget his course.”
Bitterbridge, in the Reach.
Upon a tower, Renly Baratheon stood hands clasped behind him. To his right, a square-jawed knight with a stiff gray beard—Randyll Tarly; to his left, his queen, Margaery Tyrell, in her coronet.
A round moon hung above. Campfires spangled the open plain like fallen stars, a sea of light to every horizon.
“The Dornish have at least fifty thousand,” Renly mused, “and yet Lord Mace brings only ten to hold Highgarden. It unsettles me.”
Randyll held his tongue. Margaery’s brown eyes flickered. “Your Grace, my father thanks you for your care. He bids you march north at ease; he will keep your rear safe.”
Renly flashed her a grin. “If I see your smile each day, my queen, I shall have courage to spare.”
“If my smile lightens your heart,” she said shyly, “it is my honor.”
“Alas, I know little of war,” she added. “But gods be good, you have many bold and loyal knights who will win you glory sung through the Seven Kingdoms.”
Renly laughed, pleased. “I am more confident already, my queen.”
He turned to the Lord of Horn Hill. “Earl Tarly—how think you Prince Doran will move? Where does Dorne march?”
“If I commanded them,” Randyll said, “with Lord Tywin at Harrenhal and his heir before Riverrun, the West stands bare. I would march at once on Casterly Rock.”
Renly smiled. “A pity Dorne has no Randyll.”
He rubbed his chin. “Robb Stark calls himself king. My brother now calls himself king… Chaos indeed.”
“Our host will make them lay down those crowns,” Randyll said. “They will kneel to you.”
“Kneel. I like that counsel.”
Renly clapped the knight’s iron arm. “If they kneel, they’ll find me generous—lands, styles, honors… I might even let them keep the
title
of king.”
He held up a finger. “On one condition: they must bend the knee and own me their lord. A king’s name is wind; obedience, fealty, service—
that
is why I took the field.”
He sighed. “I fear only my brother. Stubborn as stone—he may not see my meaning.”
Margaery’s smile stayed sweet and adoring; in her eyes there was only her gallant husband.
“If we march on Harrenhal,” Randyll said, “the Starks will gladly submit to you.”
Renly nodded. “The Lannisters are our common—”
He broke off, peering down the tower. A rider in a winged helm spurred a lathered horse, shouting, “Your Grace! Urgent news!”
“I am here, ser,” Renly called from the crenel.
“Your Grace!” The knight reined in, breathless. “I rode hard from Storm’s End. We were surprised—Ser Cortnay Penrose holds them, but—”
“That’s impossible,” Renly snapped. “If the Lannisters left Harrenhal, I would know!”
“Not Lannisters, Your Grace—Stannis is at the gates!”
Renly’s eyes flew wide. “Stannis?! My brother Stannis Baratheon?”
“Yes, Your Grace. His host has ringed Storm’s End.”
Disbelief warred with the facts—but at last he swallowed it.
Why attack my Storm’s End? Has he gone mad?
Or joined with Lannister?
Could that be?.
.
.
.
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Chapter 212 — Baratheon
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