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Chapter 3 (Different Stannis)
🕑 Added 2025-06-04 20:03:41 +0000 UTCThird pov
Midnight had fallen over the camp near Felwood, the seat of House Fell, where Stannis Baratheon's banners with a yellow stag on a black background fluttered in the cold breeze. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and many different drinks: wine, ale, vodka, and whiskey.
There was a faint smell of blood, too, that was still attached to the men who had fought that day.
Bonfires cast light across the muddy ground, illuminating groups of soldiers gathered around fires, their laughter and cheers echoing through the night as they celebrated their victory over the Reachmen.
Songs of the Stormlands rose in rough voices, and men boasted of their kills, their faces flushed with alcohol and joy of victory. Yet, near the edge of the camp, a quieter scene unfolded, a row of tents where the wounded lay, men gravely injured, groaning under the careful watch of healers.
In the middle of the camp, a large tent glowed with the warm light of torches, its flaps tied back to let in the cool air. Inside, Stannis Baratheon sat at the head of a long wooden table, his armor replaced with a simple black tunic. Around him sat his trusted people:
Rolland Storm, the bastard son of the late Bryen Caron, Lord of Nightsong, has dark hair streaked with grey despite his youth. He is the captain of 500 horsemen.
Young Bryce Caron, Rolland's half-brother and second son of Lord Caron, was barely twenty, his face still boyish but hardened by battle. Captain of 500 horsemen.
Bonifer Hasty, a landed knight from House Hasty in his late thirties, his beard neatly trimmed, his eyes sharp. Captain of 500 infantry soldiers.
Lyonel Selmy, third son of Lord Selmy and great-nephew of the famous Barristan Selmy, his features proud, a scar running across his cheek. Captain of 500 horsemen.
Balon Storm, blonde bastard son of lord Dondarion. Captain of 500 archers.
And Davos, head of Stannis's trade fleet, once a smuggler, now a loyal friend of Stannis, his hands wrapped around a cup.
The table was filled with food, meat of roast boar, pig, bread, cheese and other different foods. Alongside pitchers of ale and wine, the men were eating happily as they celebrated their victory.
Stannis, however, was focused, his jaw set as he listened to the reports from his captains.
Rolland Storm spoke first, his voice steady. "We lost 54 men in the battle, my lord. Another 143 are gravely wounded; they are under the healers' care now. We've taken 23 of their lords and heirs as captives." He paused, glancing at the others. "The most notable among them are Mace Tyrell himself, Alester Florent, Lord of Brightwater Keep, Baelor Hightower, heir of Lord Leyton Hightower, and Lord Titus Peake, lord of Starpike."
Stannis nodded, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed the numbers.
"Good. They will be useful." He took a sip of wine.
The tent flap rustled, and Lomas Estermont, Stannis's cousin and another captain of 500 horsemen, stepped inside. His face showed exhaustion, but his eyes were sharp, carrying news. Stannis gestured to the table.
"Join us, Lomas."
Lomas sat, accepting a cup of wine from Davos.
"I have news from scouts", he said, drawing attention from others "The Reachmen have retreated to the border. They've set up camp there, their morale is broken. Some of their lords have abandoned the cause, returning to their keeps. They've less than ten thousand men left now, they are commanded by Lord Leyton Hightower, lord of Oldtown. He was on the far bank, unable to cross the bridge before it fell."
A faint smile formed on Stannis's lips.
"It is good that Leyton is leading them now. We hold his son, Baelor. I hope lord hightower loves his son, in that way, Negotiations will be much easier." He turned to his captains, his tone firm. "Continue the feast. I'll return shortly."
Stannis rose from the table and crossed the tent to a small wooden desk, messy with maps and parchment. He took a fresh paper, dipped a quill in ink, and began writing, the scratch of the quill the only sound in that corner of the tent. Within a few minutes, he finished, sealing the letter with the Baratheon sigil. He then retrieved another letter, one he had written earlier, its parchment slightly wrinkled, and tucked both under his arm. Returning to the table, he sat, his captains looking to him, waiting for what their lord was gonna say.
"Here's what we do next," Stannis began, his voice cutting through the murmur of the feast. He looked at Lyonel Selmy, holding up the freshly written letter.
"Lyonel, at first light tomorrow, you'll take ten riders and go to the Reachmen's camp at the border. Deliver this to Leyton Hightower." He tapped the letter. "It says that he and his army are to remain where they are. If he dares to set foot in the Stormlands again, or marches north to fight my brother, I'll send him his son and his goodsons, piece by piece."
The captains burst into grim laughter, Bryce Caron nearly choking on his ale, while Rolland Storm grinned darkly. Stannis held up the second letter, his expression determined.
"After Leyton, you'll ride to Highgarden and deliver this to Mace Tyrell's mother, "Queen of Thorns", demands are the same; the reach must remain neutral until the war's end. After the war, we'll discuss the release of her son and the other lords ."
Stannis turned to Lomas, his cousin, his tone steady.
"Lomas, tomorrow you'll take a hundred soldiers and escort captives to Storm's End. guard them."
Lomas nodded, his face set with determination.
Next, Stannis's gaze fell on Rolland Storm.
"Rolland, in five days, after the soldiers rest. You and your five hundred riders will march north with me. We'll join my brother's army."
He shifted his attention to the other captains.
"The rest of you will stay here. Fortify our side of the river. If the Reachmen refuse our terms and try to cross the river again, you'll hold them back. If you saw that they are overwhelming you, withdraw to Storm's End. Bonifer, you'll be in charge. If they march to riverlends, raid full reach"
The captains nodded in agreement, their loyalty to Stannis unwavering. Lyonel Selmy took the two letters from Stannis, tucking them carefully into his cloak. Stannis took his cup, his jaw set, and turned toward the tent's entrance.
"Come," he said to his captains, his voice low but firm. "I want to speak to the men."
He pushed through the tent flaps, stepping out into the chilly midnight air of the camp. Stannis climbed onto a wooden box near the centre of the camp. His captains gathered around him, standing tall, their presence a silent show of unity. The camp fell quiet, hundreds of eyes fixed on their lord, the air thick with tension. Stannis raised his cup high, his piercing gaze sweeping over the sea of warriors, from the veterans to the young recruits, all waiting for his words.
"Men of the Stormlands!" Stannis's voice boomed across the camp, carrying a rare warmth that cut through the night, a fire in his tone that matched the torches around him.
"To our fallen brothers who gave their lives for this victory! Their blood has soaked the land of Stormlands, a sacred mark of their sacrifice. Their names will never be forgotten !"
The soldiers roared, their voices raw with pride and grief, cups and fists raised high as they honoured their fallen comrades. Stannis's expression hardened, his voice growing sharper.
"And to the victory we've won today! Let the Stormlands remember! Let the realm remember! Let the reachmen tremble as they recall what happens when they dare set foot in our lands! We are the Stormlanders, unyielding, unbreakable, a storm no army can resist! Let them come again, and they'll pay a heavier price in blood than they can bear! So drink, my brothers! Drink to the fallen! Drink to the living! Drink to the storm that will crush any who dare threaten our homeland!"
The camp erupted, a thunderous wave of cheers and shouts shaking the night. Men stomped their feet, their voices rising in a wild chant, "Stormlord! Stormlord!" the sound echoing off the nearby mountains.
Time skip - 5 days later
The castle of Felwood lay silent in the dead of night. In the main chamber, a grand bed stood in the centre, its thick curtains drawn back to reveal Stannis Baratheon asleep beneath a woollen blanket. His chest rose and fell as he breathed.
Curled atop him lay Lady Argella Fell, née Errol, her auburn hair spilling across his broad chest, her bare breasts pressed against his skin. She was in her late thirties, a beautiful woman with auburn hair and green eyes. Her face was peaceful in sleep. Her husband, the late Lord Fell, had been slain by Robert Baratheon himself at the Battle of Summerhall, and her young son now marched with Robert on his campaign. Her marriage was a cold, hollow thing, something Stannis found no cause to mourn. He decided to take it upon himself to comfort this lovely widow.
The silence was broken with a sharp knock at the door. Argella woke, her brow creasing with annoyance as she lifted her head, her green eyes blinking against the faint glow of candles.
"Who is it?" she called.
From beyond the door came a raspy reply,
"Maester Hunnar, my lady. A raven has come from Highgarden with a letter from Lady Olenna Tyrell."
Stannis's eyes snapped open at the mention of the name, his mind shifting instantly from the haze of sleep to clarity. He slid out from under Argella, the blanket slipping away, leaving him bare as he rose with purpose. He strode toward the door, bare as in the day that he was born, yanked it open, snatched the letter from the maester's old hands, and shut it again with a firm thud, offering no word or glance to the startled old man.
Standing in the candlelight, Stannis broke the seal and unfolded the letter, his eyes tracing the elegant script.
Argella sat up in bed, the blanket falling to her waist, her breasts bared as she leaned forward, curiosity sparking in her gaze.
"What does Lady Olenna write?" she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and remaining sleepiness.
Stannis looked up, a smile breaking across his stern face.
"She's agreed to my terms. The Tyrells will remain neutral until the war's end."
Argella's face brightened with a smile of her own, relief washing over her. "Good," she said softly, then glanced toward the narrow window, where the first faint grey of dawn crept into the sky.
"It's still early before you march. Surely you won't deny a lonely widow one final moment of comfort?" Her voice turned playful, almost daring, as she ran her hands slowly over her breasts, her eyes locking with his in a teasing challenge.
Stannis let out a low, rough chuckle, his smile widening as he stepped toward her.
"Of course not, how can I say no to a beautiful widow." He climbed back onto the bed, and Argella giggled, pulling him down with a hungry kiss, the letter forgotten on the cold stone floor as the room filled with the heat of their shared desire.
