"Has he ever been to Storm's End? How dare he speak so brazenly?" Stannis handed the scroll to Melisandre. "I grew up there. Ten years ago, I held it for a full year until Robert's 'brother'—Ned Stark—finally arrived with reinforcements."
The red-robed woman knew well the bitterness Stannis harbored toward his elder brother.
"I forgave him only because he was deceived, believing that Joffrey—the boy who sits on the Iron Throne—was truly king. But this young upstart thinks that one clever victory gives him the right to look down on every castle in Westeros."
Melisandre took the scroll and unfolded it. A second piece of parchment slipped out—a blueprint. She bent down, her copper-fire eyes scanning the intricate design. In her smooth accent, shaped by years beyond the Narrow Sea, she said, "Perhaps you should look at this, Your Grace."
Stannis took the blueprint and fell silent. Those who knew him well would recognize the rare moment of surprise on his face. It was an incredibly detailed map of Storm's End, marking the fortifications and positions of its defenses with astonishing precision.
Even Stannis, who knew the castle better than anyone, would have struggled to draft such a plan himself.
He turned back to the scroll and read its words once more:
Your Majesty Stannis, noble ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,
The following are my strategic recommendations. According to rumors in the camp, you intend to march on Storm's End. I urge you to strike swiftly—seize the castle before Lord Renly's reinforcements arrive.
"His plan is bold," Stannis muttered after reading the letter in full. "If I had enough men, I would never even consider such a reckless suggestion."
"You still have the Lord of Light, Your Grace."
Lady Selyse entered the hall.
"The Lord of Light asks me to entrust my fate to a boy?" A flicker of sorrow crossed his face. Stannis longed to lead his army himself, to reclaim the throne with his own hands. But he had only six thousand men—while Renly had ten times that.
"Davon, summon all the lords and knights. We will hold a war council at noon tomorrow," Stannis commanded.
Outside the door, a young voice responded, "Yes, Your Grace."
The speaker was Davon Seaworth, the eleven-year-old son of Davos, the Onion Knight. He had been taken in as Stannis's page. His footsteps echoed as he hurried off to carry out the order.
In another part of the camp, Cole sat at a wooden table, writing in a ledger. Beside him, Camillo—an illiterate boy—sat idly, watching in boredom.
A soldier suddenly ran toward them in a panic. "Lord Cole! Acting Officer José has been surrounded!"
Camillo sprang to his feet in alarm. Men like him—born into rough circles—placed loyalty above all else. José was from the same village as him, and they had both lived as gamblers and lowly sellswords before joining Stannis's army.
"Calm yourself, Camillo," Cole said, closing his book. He stood and stretched before adding, "Fetch my armor."
Camillo scrambled to gather the chainmail, along with a gray-black cloak adorned with a sigil—a white bird wreathed in flames.
To outsiders, the sigil seemed sycophantic. Everyone in camp knew that King Stannis followed the Lord of Light, and the Lord of Light was the god of flame and shadow.
Fastening two swords to his belt, Cole signaled to the guards and strode toward the mercenary camp.
Stannis had hired many mercenaries from Essos, including several small companies. One such company had trapped José and his men inside their tent, forcing them to their knees. A crowd had gathered to watch.
The guards pushed through, and Cole entered. His face remained hidden in the torchlight, but his voice rang clear.
"José, is your sword meant for kneeling?"
Asser, the leader of the mercenaries, glanced up. His first impression of Cole was that he was young and strikingly handsome, with rare silver hair. That color was uncommon even in Essos—almost unheard of in Westeros.
His eyes flicked to the sigil on Cole's cloak. A white bird. An unfamiliar house. Likely some minor, insignificant family.
"Your men have sticky fingers," Asser said, stroking his beard with disdain. "In the Free Cities, we chop off thieves' hands and feed them to the dogs."
Cole ignored him and turned to José. "Stand up. Tell me what happened."
José wiped blood from his lips as he struggled to his feet. "They lost a bet but refused to pay, then accused us of rigging the dice."
Cole glanced at Asser. "How do you want to resolve this?"
Asser leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands. A naked woman lounged on the bed behind him. "Leave a hand behind, or buy your way out."
Cole drew his sword. "Then let steel decide."
Asser's smirk faltered. Are all Westeros nobles this direct? But then he grinned. "I like your style."
He reached for his sword—but before he could draw, the sound of galloping hooves echoed through the night.
A cavalryman arrived, bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon. "Captain Asser, His Grace commands your presence at the castle tomorrow at noon for a war council."
The rider spotted Cole and saluted. "Ser Cole."
Asser's eyes flicked between Cole and the cavalryman, noting the soldier's deference. Was this silver-haired youth someone important?
The truth was simpler: the cavalryman was a commoner. And in camp, the bards had spun tales of Cole, likening him to Ser Duncan the Tall—a knight who had risen from nothing. Among the rank and file, such stories inspired admiration.
Asser studied Cole once more. Silver hair. Purple eyes. A Valyrian look. He thought back to the recent feast, where he had seen Lord Velaryon seated in a place of honor near Stannis.
Suddenly, he understood.
Cole nodded to the cavalryman, who seemed to have other messages to deliver before riding off toward the other camps.
"May I know the name of this knight?" As Cole turned back, Asser had already put on a friendly smile. His Blood Scorpion Mercenaries were a small company of just two hundred men—nothing compared to the great houses of Westeros.
He had been confident before, dealing with unarmored peasants and minor lords, but Velaryon was a different matter entirely.
"Cole."
Asser frowned, waiting for a last name that never came.
"I don't want to kill anyone," Cole said, his gaze sharp as a blade. "But if you're looking for a fight, I'll oblige you." He knew the limits. This was about establishing authority, standing up for his men, but killing someone in Stannis's camp would be foolish.
Asser chuckled. "Such a bad temper. Let's see if you're this bold on the battlefield."
When Cole returned to camp, José trailed behind him, looking guilty. His voice carried a trace of frustration. "Ser, I didn't expect them to be so unruly."
"Rules are made with fists," Cole replied. "You didn't even draw your sword, and yet you expected reason to win?"
"There were too many of them," José muttered.
"I expected you to stand your ground," Cole said flatly. "Gamblers are supposed to have courage, yet you threw your sword aside. You're no longer acting officer—you'll be transferred to my troops instead."
It was a punishment, but a measured one. Cole had warned him before.
He wouldn't try to change a man like José. A gambler would sooner part with his wife than his dice. And some men would even pawn their wives and daughters for another chance at the table.
José lowered his head, staring at Cole's back. Before today, his respect had come from Cole's status as a knight.
Now, it was different.
A leader who was willing to stand up for his men—wasn't such a man worth following?
Camillo thought so too.
Cole knew that loyalty wasn't given freely. If he showed his men he would fight for them, they might be willing to take a sword for him in battle.
Of course, nothing was certain. War was chaos. And Cole wasn't eager to charge into it without a full set of heavy armor. But armor was expensive, and he had no coin.
Life in the world was unpredictable. His birth meant he had no right to plan his future, only to wield his sword and carve out a path through the crowd.
Who cared? If he lived long enough to earn gold dragons, the world would be his.
Standing up for his men was just another moment in camp life. Fights broke out often—handling them was a test of his judgment.
Luckily, his authority was strong enough. Even a king's words didn't always carry weight, but a sword did.
Cole had learned that in Stannis's camp, nothing solved problems faster than steel.
At noon the next day, the knightly lords and mercenary captains gathered at the castle for a meal with the king.
It was a grim affair. The soldiers tore into hard black bread in silence—there wasn't even wine. No one dared speak.
At the king's right sat a striking woman in red robes. Next to her was a noble lady. To an outsider, one might mistake the red priestess for the queen.
When Cole arrived, a servant guided him to his seat—just below Lord Velaryon. He was placed higher than any man beneath the rank of earl.
Asser, seated further down, let out a quiet breath of relief. It seemed the silver-haired knight wasn't just another sellsword after all.
Good thing he hadn't made an enemy of him.
---------------
Check out advanced chapters on : patreon.com/Veni_V