The Wizard of Fury Chapter 23

As another band of petitioners came before the throne, Stannis struggled to steel his mind to take in their pleas. A king must never shirk his duties for any reason, even one as silly as troubles within his own mind, but that did not make fulfilling his duty any easier after what he’d just witnessed. Something odd had passed between his son and that Martell woman, something that Stannis struggled to put into words. She’d appeared to be in a trance staring into her son’s eyes, and yet Harry didn’t seem especially perturbed by it. In fact, he only showed compassion for the woman.

That was not like his son at all.

Harry was a kind man, one who found sympathy for the smallfolk and highborn alike. But he was also undeniably curious. Growing up, he always asked peculiar questions that stumped even their own Maester. He showed an intellect beyond his years and a desire to learn, albeit often on his own terms rather than those set by Stannis or Maester Cressen. The fact that he did not react with confusion or curiosity surprised Stannis greatly.

Did he know something that Stannis didn’t? Was he aware of her strange behaviour somehow? The memory of Harry pressing for the purchase of that feather of his, the one object he clung to unlike anything else, came to the fore of Stannis’ thoughts. His son had seen something then, something beyond what Stannis had been able to perceive. He’d been so caught up in the value of that feather that no one else could truly understand. Was this another situation that required his son’s unique insight? Or was this a sign of madness? Something that his son was somehow accustomed to?

Stannis stared into the back of his son’s head. He’d taken up a position next to the table where the members of the small council sat, watching over the proceedings and undoubtedly taking notes in his mind to question Stannis about later. What did he think of Arianne Martell and her behaviour? Did he see something different to Stannis and the others who were in this court?

Cursing quietly to himself, Stannis shifted his focus back onto the petitioners. He shouldn’t be getting caught up with what his son’s thoughts were; his duty was to focus on the here and now.

“These Red Priests commit heresy with every work they speak in our lands,” Septon Raymond—or was it Raynard?—said in a grave tone, the same way one would speak of a massacre of survivors of a battle. He fingered his seven-coloured belt and tightened it, keeping his pristine white robes firmly in place. “The Crown and the Faith have always strived to ensure peace and prosperity throughout Westeros. These followers of the false god R’hllor will see to the destruction of our very way of life.”

No more than the Faith already has, Stannis thought to himself. The folly of those who believed so fervently was that they failed to see the devastation that their own faith, and the loss of it, could cause.

“We have heard tales of these Red Priests,” Baelish spoke from his seat below. “One of them, Thoros of Myr, is a member of this court. I fear that the most he threatens us is to drink dry our stores of wine.”

Laughter went up at that, but not from the Septon. The man fumed and looked backwards for Thoros. The fat man in question was easily distinguishable in the crowd thanks to his red robes. From his flushed cheeks, Stannis assumed that he’d already had quite a bit of wine today. He didn’t seem bothered by the glare the Septon was sending his way. In fact, he seemed more interested in fiddling with something at his hip.

“He is but one man,” the Septon insisted. “Droves will be arriving on our shores in months, if not weeks.”

“Droves you say?” Renly repeated, leaning forward in his seat. “I have heard of one or two making their way to Westeros, yes, but not droves.”

“A single one more is too many.”

Stannis wondered what the Seven would think about this. Frankly, none of the aspects of the new gods seemed to care much about this world or those who lived in it. He chided himself. This was a foolish exercise to waste time playing out. Religious fanatics would always claim to understand their gods’ will, but Stannis knew that the gods, if they even existed, were beyond understanding.

“Enough,” Stannis said firmly. “We have heard your petition and will discuss the matter privately once the King returns. Your demands are too significant for us to make a decision today.”

The Septon put on a fake smile, the sort that came when you did not wish to evoke any further ire despite the seething fury you felt inside yourself. “Thank you, my lord,” he bowed before stepping back into the crowd.

Before Stannis had a chance to call forward the next petitioner, the doors to the Great Hall opened. Varys shuffled forth through the doors, and his return could mean only one thing.

Olenna Tyrell and her family came walking forth slowly, to accommodate their heir to Highgarden’s poor gait. It seemed that the other men were still missing, likely to arrive soon, but they were of a secondary concern to Stannis; none of them came close to matching the sheer cunning of Olenna.

It was often said that the Queen of Thorns was little more than a woman with a clever tongue and a reputation that far outstripped her abilities, but those who said that were fools. They’d forgotten their history and the power that Olenna wielded. While the Tyrells had certainly been timid since the end of Robert’s Rebellion, Stannis had no doubts that they were plotting in the shadows and that Olenna was the one behind most of it.

The old woman honed in her gaze onto Stannis and locked eyes with him. There was something deeply mocking in her smile, something nefarious indeed.

Varys led them all the way up to the front of the hall where Olenna offered a mocking courtesy. Despite her advanced age, her behaviour was like that of a child unknowing of the ways of the realm. Stannis fought back the urge to sneer at her attempt and instead maintained his more dignified position atop the throne.

“The Crown wishes to extend its apologies to you and your family, Lady Tyrell,” Stannis said dryly.

“Those wishes do little for our dead, but we shall accept them regardless,” Olenna replied.

Stannis bristled upon the throne, careful to avoid accidentally cutting himself upon the sharp blades around him. “Your dead will be mourned and attended to by the Silent Sisters. Those villains who attacked you have either been slain at the hands of my son and Ser Barristan Selmy or will be hunted down in accordance with our laws. Rest assured that justice will be done.”

“Such a surprising thing to find in the capital,” Olenna laughed lightly. “Very well. Once your men have dealt with those who would do my house harm, I would see them or their corpses laid before my feet.”

Stannis raised his eyebrows at her. “We will not bring death and decay into the Red Keep.”

“Then leave them in a gutter in Flea Bottom,” Olenna retorted. “What matters is that we see them dead.”

She was trying him, attempting to push to see how much leniency she could gain. Stannis would be well within his rights to reject her request and reprimand her for such a dark suggestion, but his beliefs held him back. If this was her and her family’s form of justice, then so be it.

“They will be punished for their crimes,” Stannis said solemnly. “Those who attacked you will be dealt with swiftly and presented before your knights for examination before they are buried in accordance with the laws of the Seven.”

Removing their enemy’s remains in such a mundane manner was more than Olenna wished, but Stannis cared little for her or her family’s wants. He knew that she had no worthwhile counter she could make to his proclamation. To try to do so would be a rebuke against the Faith of the Seven, something that was beyond any lord or king within Westeros.

Olenna gave a slight nod of her head in agreement even as her grandson, Willas, neared her side in support. He tapped his cane against the floor and leaned to the side towards his grandmother.

“We thank you for your kindness,” Willas said to Stannis sincerely. “Our knights will willingly be of service to the Crown in their efforts to hunt down the perpetrators behind this attack.”

“And we will welcome their aid,” Stannis replied coolly. “But let them rest tonight. On the morrow, they may join the Crown’s forces.”

“Agreed,” Willas nodded.

Stannis stood from the throne and looked down at the small council below. “These processions are at an end for today. The servants need time to prepare for the feast.”

Although it was overly extravagant, the king had insisted upon having the greatest tourney of all time. That included countless feasts before, during, and after the tourney for all those who came to visit the capital for the festivities. As much as Stannis wished to postpone such affairs, it would not look well upon him to go against his brother’s wishes.

So, the Great Hall was emptied of its petitioners. Those highborn lords and ladies who merely came here for a show chose to stay alongside the visiting guests, keen on making new contacts, learning new secrets, or simply gossipping.

Stannis found himself with the other members of the small council briefly after the session’s end, ensuring that any issues that needed to be followed up on would be in a timely manner before the king’s return. But even as he put the majority of his attention onto this matter, he faintly kept an eye on Harry throughout it all. A number of simpering lords and ladies came up to congratulate him on his knighthood, but more surprising was the Tyrell’s closeness to him. Perhaps they felt indebted to him for rescuing them from those brigands. They remained near his side, not always a part of whatever discussions he was having with other lords and ladies, but close enough to overhear surely.

Once all matters were settled, Varys and Littlefinger went on their way. Grand Maester Pycelle left as well, claiming that he required a reprieve in his chambers before supper was set to begin. Renly, of course, took the opportunity to mingle with the various lords and ladies as he did after every session of court.

And so too did Stannis now turn his attention to everyone else in the Great Hall. He strode towards his son, and Harry, as if sensing his approach, cut his conversation with Lord Wyman Manderly short and turned to face him.

Stannis’ arms twitched upwards just a fraction. He wished to embrace his son again, to tell him how proud he was of him, but this was not the time or the place for such a matter.

“You’ve done well today,” Stannis said, aware of how many eyes and ears were upon them. “You must be famished.”

Harry gave an embarrassed smile. “Starved.”

“I’ll have the feast begin a bit early then,” Stannis said before he turned to the Tyrell horde. The rest of their members must have arrived only minutes ago.

Mace Tyrell approached Stannis with open arms and a welcoming smile. “Lord Stannis,” he exclaimed. “You never told us what a great warrior your son had turned into. If only he’d been around back during the rebellion, eh?”

Mace laughed right in Stannis’ face. It was done with no malice in his tone, but the words felt implicitly laced with barbed venom.

“Yes,” Stannis replied dryly. “He would’ve carved through your cake-eating forces with ease. Such a shame that he instead nearly starved to death as you sieged our castle.”

Loras bristled at Stannis’ words, but Willas placed a calming hand on his arm.

“My father misspoke,” Margaery interjected, doing her best to calm the situation. “We are truly grateful for your son’s efforts, and yours as well, Lord Stannis. It was you who sent him out to protect the Crownlands, was it not?”

“It was,” Stannis answered, suspicious of any malevolence hiding behind her good-natured visage.

“Then we have you to thank just as much,” Margaery said, smiling sweetly.

Stannis stared back at her, waiting for her to crack under the weight of his piercing gaze. Maybe she would have had his son not intervened.

“There is no need to thank us,” Harry told her. “The Crown owes you an apology for allowing such an attack to take place at all within its lands. We would invite you to sit with us as guests of honour.”

Stannis turned his sharp look onto his son, who seemed impervious to its power. He glanced back at him, acknowledging the look but offering no apology or change in behaviour.

“That would be most welcome,” Margaery replied.

The long tables and benches were soon brought in, and the servants worked diligently to align them all properly. Stannis had assigned Renly to dictate clear instructions to the servants as to where the visiting guests should sit. Thus formed a carefully-crafted hierarchy of noble houses throughout the realm. Stannis insisted that preferential treatment be given to those most affected by the bandits hounding the roads, even if it meant that more powerful houses found themselves further down the hall.

It was not out of love that Stannis decided to allow the Tyrells to dine at the front of the Great Hall with him and his son; it was done out of repayment for having failed to keep them safe. Harry was right in making this offer to them, but it did little to improve Stannis’ mood as he found his seat. The Martells were up front near the throne as well, as were members of Houses Stokeworth, Massey, Sunglass, Grafton, Manderly, and Hightower. They offered much more welcomed distractions from the anger Stannis still felt towards the Tyrells. He spent his time speaking with each house, but one of them caught his notice more than the rest.

House Grafton was the only house from the Vale of Arryn in attendance, Stannis noted. They were the only ones who’d arrived at King’s Landing thus far, though Lord Gerold Grafton had indicated his doubts that many more would be arriving.

Stannis’ thoughts retreated to the mysterious case of the death of Jon Arryn. Was his widow, Lysa, instructing the rest of the lords of the Vale to remain at home? Or was this merely a coincidence?

No, it couldn’t be a coincidence. Even the smallest house would stake its chances upon gaining fame and glory through their valour within the grandest tourney that the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen.

So, what had Lysa Arryn used to convince the other houses to remain back in the Vale? And what did this have to do with Jon Arryn’s murder?

Questions upon questions. Lies heaped atop deceit and misdirection. Stannis loathed all of it. The attack on his life, the Tyrell’s false politeness to him, the murder that had still yet to be solved, the bandits roaming the countryside.

There was little true justice done here, but Stannis would see to it that his time ruling saw some small shift in the right direction take place. If not for him then for the future. His son’s future.

Ours is the fury. The words of House Baratheon spoke of the coming storm for any who would stand in its way.

It was near time that a storm washed over King’s Landing and purged those who would see House Baratheon crumble.