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Chapter 13 (Different Stannis)
🕑 Added 2025-06-04 20:18:33 +0000 UTCThird pov
In a sunlit chamber of Maegor’s Holdfast, the Lannister family gathered for breakfast, the table laden with bread, bacon, fruits, and other foods. Gathered around it were the proud Lannisters of Casterly Rock, breaking their fast in quiet elegance. At the head of the table sat Lord Tywin Lannister, head of House Lannister. Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West.
To his right sat his golden-haired son, the youngest knight in Westeros's history, Ser Jaime Lannister. Next to Jaime, swinging his feet barely above the floor, was Tyrion, eleven years old, with stubby fingers, a jutting forehead, and two different colours, one green and the other black. Next to Tyrion sat Ser Kevan Lannister. Tywin’s loyal brother, who was eating quietly, with his wife Jeyne Marbrand seated by his side.
To Tywin’s left sat Cersei, ten and seven namedays old and strikingly beautiful. Her skin was pale and flawless, her figure slender and poised with the effortless grace of highborn blood. Golden curls cascaded over her shoulders, catching the morning sun like threads of molten light. Her emerald eyes sparkled with ambition, and her sharp yet breathtaking features held the kind of beauty that could break many hearts.
Beside her was Genna Lannister, Tywin’s sarcastic, loving, and intelligent sister. Next to Genna sat Gerion, Tywin’s youngest and most reckless brother, who loves laughing and making others laugh. Tygett, Tywin’s other brother, was absent, left to govern Casterly Rock while Tywin was not there.
The room murmured with the soft clinks of forks and knives until Kevan cleared his throat.
“Have you heard the news?” he asked, and all heads turned toward him. He leaned in slightly, his voice low but clear. “Ned Stark has returned to King’s Landing... with his sister’s remains. And her child.”
Jaime blinked, lifting his gaze. “Child?”
Kevan nodded. “Aye. Lyanna Stark died giving birth, from what I’ve heard.”
Kevan’s wife murmured, “Poor girl.”
Genna arched a brow and said with dry amusement, “So Rhaegar and Robert killed each other, and now the girl they fought over is dead as well. A tragic little tale, isn’t it?”
Across the table, Cersei’s hand tightened around her fork as she stabbed into her soft-boiled egg with more force than necessary.
“Fools,” she muttered bitterly. “All that war over that plain-faced savage girl.”
Since childhood, Cersei had dreamed of marrying Rhaegar and becoming queen. But Rhaegar had wed Elia Martell, then ran off with Lyanna Stark.
“Foolish Rhaegar,” she thought, jealousy burning in her chest. “If only he had chosen me instead of that sickly Dornish wretch, his bones wouldn’t be rotting now, at the bottom of the Trident .”
Tywin caught sight of the anger on Cersei’s face, understanding its reason. When she was six, he’d promised her Rhaegar’s hand, a path to queenship. Aerys had refused, choosing Elia for her Valyrian blood.
“I may not have fulfilled that promise to marry her to Rhaegar,” Tywin thought, “but Cersei will be a queen nonetheless.”
Jaime leaned forward, his voice tense. “Lyanna was with the Kingsguards. What happened to them?” His thoughts were on Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, his idol, the man who’d knighted him.
Kevan replied, “Hightower and Whent are dead. Dayne... he was taken prisoner. He's in the Red Keep's dungeons now.”
Jaime’s eyes widened. “Prisoner? Arthur Dayne? How did Northerners defeat him?”
“They stuck him with arrows,” Kevan answered. “That’s what I heard. He was wounded in several places.”
Before Jaime could speak again, Tywin cut in, his voice crisp. “I spoke to our new king recently. I offered him Cersei’s hand.”
The room fell still. Everyone looked at him.
Cersei, who had been absentmindedly prodding her food and lost in thought,
Cersei, who had been lost in thought and poking her food, quickly looked up, her fork frozen mid-air.
“What did he say?” she demanded, her voice loud, cutting Tywin off. Queenship was her dream, her destiny.
Genna chuckled, amused. “Calm down, my dear. I’m sure he agreed. There’s no woman in Westeros more fit to be queen than you.” She looked to Tywin, expecting confirmation.
Tywin’s expression remained calm and unreadable. “He said he wishes to speak with Cersei first. Before he decides.”
“Speak with me?” Cersei repeated, puzzled. In Westeros, women were often traded like cattle. No one ever asked for their opinion.
“He wants to hear your opinions,” Tywin said, “and to judge if you’re fit to be his queen.”
Cersei blinked, stunned. My opinions? She had learned from childhood that if you don’t have a cock, nobody cared about your opinions and your only role was to spread your legs and bear heirs, like a prized mare. Why does he want to know my opinions? She wondered, intrigued.
Genna snorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I wish someone had asked my opinion before wedding me to that inept Frey.” She’d been seven when her father, the Laughing Lion, betrothed her to a boy twice her age.
Cersei, brought back to herself, straightened and asked her father, “When will I meet him? I need time to prepare.” A smile slowly curled her lips. The ambitious part of her was awake again.
“When he sees me,” she said, haughty and confident, “I’m certain he’ll fall to his knees and beg me to marry him.
Looking at her, Genna laughed, Gerion chuckled, and small smiles were drawn from others. Only Tywin and Jaime weren't amused. Tywin remained stone-faced; he never loved laughing, and after his wife's death, he hardly ever smiled. Jaime stayed silent, his face darkening. He hated the thought of Cersei, the sister he loved, charming another man.
Tywin fixed Cersei with a cold stare. “Stannis is a clever man. He knows you’re the ideal match to strengthen his reign. So spare us these foolish outbursts and act like a true lady. Do that, and your dream of queenship will come true.”
Cersei’s smile vanished under her father’s icy tone.
“I’m sorry, Father,” she said quickly. “I swear, I’ll meet the king and ensure he agrees to the betrothal.”
“Good,” Tywin said. “Eat, then prepare. You’ll meet him this evening.”
Cersei’s eyes gleamed with determination and anticipation, already imagining how her beauty would sway Stannis.
“I’ve eaten enough,” she said, rising without waiting for Tywin’s reply. “I’ll go prepare.” She swept toward her chambers, her steps quick and purposeful.
Genna watched her go, smiling. “Ah, I want to be young again.”
Jaime’s expression grew darker. Gerion, mistaking his nephew’s mood, grinned. “What’s with the long face, Jaime? Mourning your dismissal from the Kingsguard?”
Tywin glanced at Jaime, noting his son’s gloom, but he misread its cause.
“His place was never there,” he said sharply. “Jaime, you’re my heir, the future Lord of Casterly Rock. It’s time you thought beyond swinging a sword.”
Tyrion, sitting beside Jaime, piped up with boyish earnestness, hoping to cheer his favorite sibling. “Don’t worry, Jaime! The servants say the king’s holding a tourney after his coronation to choose a new Kingsguard. You can try your luck again!”
Genna and Tygett burst into laughter. Even Kevan and his wife layghed.
But Tywin... Tywin fixed his youngest son with a hard glare.
Looking at his father's cold stare, Tyrion’s smile froze. He lowered his head and muttered, “Sorry, Father.”
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The late afternoon sun cast soft golden rays through the narrow windows of Stannis Baratheon’s study in the Red Keep. Stannis sat in the chair and was planning a siege of Dragonstone. In front of him on A heavy oak desk were drawings of Dragonstone and books about that castle.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Enter,” he called, his voice steady.
The door opened, revealing Lady Olenna Tyrell, a slight woman in her mid-fifties. Her silver-white hair was swept into a tight bun, accentuating her sharp features, and her emerald gown, embroidered with golden roses, shimmered faintly, a testament to Tyrell's wealth. Her hazel eyes gleamed with a cunning intelligence, cutting through the room like a blade. Stannis rose swiftly, crossing the room to greet her. He took her hand gently, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with a rare show of gallantry.
“Lady Olenna,” he said, his tone warmer than usual, “I’ve been expecting you. It’s a great honor to meet the famed Queen of Thorns in person. I must say, the elegance of Highgarden’s roses is well reflected in you, your presence brightens this dreary keep.”
Olenna arched a brow, her lips curling into a sarcastic smile as she withdrew her hand.
“Flattery, Your Grace? My blooming days are long past, though I’ll not deny I was a fair rose once. You’re kinder than I expected, but I’ll not be swayed by sweet words.” She tilted her head, her gaze appraising him. “You’re not quite what I heard, either. The Reachmen must have exaggerated your appearance to excuse their Shameful defeat.”
Stannis’s brow furrowed with interest as he gestured to the chair across his desk. “And how did they describe me, beg to tell?”
Olenna eased into the seat with the grace of a woman who had long commanded rooms filled with men who overestimated themselves. A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “Oh, as a giant who commands water and lightning, a man whose sheer might crushed half their army single-handedly. Quite the legend they’ve spun.”
“Giant me?" Stannis let out a dry chuckle, the sound almost foreign in the austere room. "I am 6'4, which was a very tall height in my previous world, but here in Westeros, where people like Mountain, Robert, or Greatjon umber exist, I can't be called giant"
He moved to a side table, retrieving a flagon of Arbor red and two goblets, pouring the wine with deliberate care. “A drink, Lady Olenna? I find such stories better heard with a cup in hand.”
She accepted the goblet with a nod, her eyes glinting with amusement. “A wise choice of wine, Your Grace. Though I’ll warn you, my thorns sharpen with wine.”
Stannis returned to his seat, his expression sobering as he set his goblet down. “Let us turn to business, then. I sent Raven to Highgarden with the letter, requesting the Hightower and Redwyne fleets for Dragonstone’s siege. And you haven't replied.”
Olenna sipped her wine, her gaze steady over the rim. “I held my tongue for good reason. The Ironborn struck the Reach after they heard about Rhaegar's death, raided our coasts, and seized a few ships, the grasping squids. I’d not make false promises about fleets I couldn’t spare. But we’ve driven them off now, and the Hightowers and Redwynes are free. They’ll reach King’s Landing in a fortnight, ready to help you to capture Dragonstone.”
Stannis nodded, a flicker of relief in his eyes. “That’s good to hear.”
Olenna set her goblet down, her tone shifting to a pointed edge. “As for the second part of your offer, a princess for my grandson is the charming suggestion, but you are not wed, nor betrothed, Your Grace. And I can't betroth my grandson to none living princess.”
“I’m working on that matter, I assure you," he said dryly. Then, in a voice edged with rare mischief, he added, “Unless you are interested in the title of queen.”
Olenna laughed, a sharp, rasping sound that filled the room. “Oh, if I were a few decades younger, I’d have slipped into your chambers by now. But I’m an old thorn now, my days of queenship are best left to dreams.”
Stannis raised a brow but said nothing. He merely drank his wine.
Olenna continued, “I heard Queen Cersei is still here in the city and is the main candidate for queenship.”
Stannis nodded. “Lord Tywin made his play. Cersei is politically advantageous. The Lannisters are wealthy, and their forces are strong.”
“I’ve heard of her beauty,” Olenna mused. “If she’s half as fair and clever as her mother Joanna was, she’ll make a fine queen.” She sighed a trace of regret in her voice. “A pity both my daughters are wed. My youngest, Janna, married a mere knight, and my fool son Mace allowed it, despite my objections. I’d have preferred a greater match for her.”
Her thoughts turned to her son, her tone softening slightly. “Speaking of my oaf son, I visited him earlier. Captivity seems to have done him some good, he’s not as plump as he was before the war. I would leave him in captivity for a little while longer so he can learn his lesson, but his wife misses him so much. When will he be freed?”
Stannis’s gaze hardened, though his voice remained even. “Lord Mace may move freely within the King's Landing, under my guards. But he’ll not leave the city until Dragonstone is taken. I’ll not risk the Reach rising against me.”
Olenna’s eyes narrowed, but she gave a curt nod. “A cautious move. You’re a smart man, Stannis, much like your father, Steffon.”
Stannis blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “You knew my father?”
“Oh, yes,” Olenna said, her smirk softening with memory. “Steffon and I have met at many feasts and tourneys. I knew your grandfather, Ormund Baratheon, as well. A stern man, but honorable, with a quiet dignity that made him a good hand of the king. You’ve their looks too, the same dark hair, some blue eyes, and the same set of jaw.” She paused, her gaze appraising. “They would’ve been proud of your victory over reachmen.”
Stannis blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “I was unaware you were so familiar with my family.”
Olenna’s smirk returned, tinged with nostalgia." My husband loved feasts and tourneys, and as his wife, I accompanied him everywhere." She rose, smoothing her gown with a sigh. “I’d best take my leave, Your Grace. I have an ache in my bones from the journey, and I’m not as young as I once was.”
Stannis stood as well, his tone brisk but respectful. “Have a good rest, my lady. We’ll speak again later when your fleet arrives.”
Olenna gave a slight nod and left Stannis's study.
