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King’s Landing stank.
It smelled of the filth of horses, of rotting food and unwashed bodies, of poverty and fear and mud and blood.
The Red Keep stank as well. No matter the amount of incense that the Queen has the servants burn, it still smells of the city down below.
Stannis never got used to the smell. His rooms were high above the streets, tucked away in one of the tallest towers. Robert surely felt it was a slight, putting him up there. It was not a slight. It reminded him of Storm’s End, of the library in the tower and the wind rattling the tiles.
He stood now, looking down at the sprawl of the city. The capital of Westeros. The seat of the king. It was disgusting. This was not the prize Robert had sought but it was the prize he had won. The rest of Westeros was ruled by the wardens, run by the lords. This and this alone was Robert’s victory. This was what his heir would inherit, and his heir after him.
Stannis had never been sentimental but King’s Landing was enough to make him wish for home, for that rotten pile of stones Robert had bestowed on him. He had been thinking of Dragonstone often, of late. He had been thinking of his last visit. He had been thinking of Shireen.
His daughter, now eight name days old, was growing faster every time he saw her. Selyse had commented, as she always did, that the girl looked like her father. With her black hair and dark blue eyes, with her cheekbones and jaw that even he could recognise as his own, he had to admit that Selyse was right.
And in admitting that, admitting it to himself finally, he knew that was when the first seed had been planted.
Shireen did look like him, finally, now that she was older. Shireen looked like a Baratheon. He had heard his father joke once that Baratheon looks were irrepressible, that even the Targaryan blood would never be able to dilute that which the gods themselves had clearly deemed to be perfect. Mother had swatted his arm playfully as Father and Robert laughed, told him that the Baratheon attitude never seemed to change much either. Stannis remembered because he had thought, secretly, that the gods should have favoured Mother more. She truly had been perfect.
As he thought about Shireen, that first night he had been home, he thought about Renly and Robert’s bastard, Edric. The last time he had seen the boy, he had looked so like Renly at that age, he had almost done a double take. The boy could be Renly’s, just as easily as he was Robert’s.
He would look the same if he was mine, he had thought, If he was one of my sons he would look just the same.
And that was when the second seed had taken root.
When he returned to King’s Landing, just three days before, he had sat at the dinner table watching his nephews and niece; Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen. He had watched them grow from the moment of their births. He knew their faces better than he knew his own daughter’s but now, they were strangers to him. They did not look like Baratheons. Stannis did not know how he had ever missed it before.
“You’re even more dour than usual, brother,” Robert had said, “Surely visiting your wife is not so bad an ordeal.”
Renly laughed and so did Joffrey. They looked nothing alike when they did it.
Robert’s heir had turned thirteen recently, growing taller every day. He trained in the yard with his uncle and Barristan Selmy, swung a sword convincingly well. He wasn’t getting bigger though, he wasn’t broadening around the shoulders like his father had at that age. He was lithe and quick where Robert had relied on brute strength and wit.
Then there was Myrcella, the little princess. She was as similar to her mother as it was possible to be. She looked so like her that it did not seem for a moment that any father had been involved. There was her smile though, her pretty smile. Sometimes, at a certain angle, it was not her mother’s smile. At those moments, she would look like her uncle, Jaime.
And then there was Tommen, who was nothing like his father in looks or attitude. His attitude was unlike his mother’s too and although he had Cersei’s eyes, the soft roundness of his face and his easy smile reminded one of Tyrion Lannister.
Stannis pulled himself away from the window and went to his chair by the fire. The small table was stacked with papers and he picked one up, trying to read it. He couldn’t concentrate though. The thought he had been nursing since Dragonstone was small but it was persistent. It was also disgusting, a disgusting thing to contemplate. They had removed the Targaryans for their foulness, for the madness that their choice of couplings had allowed to breed and now -
Stannis had another memory, one that was so faint, he was once sure he must have dreamed it. He had fallen asleep against his mother’s side, book cradled in his hands, and he had half awoke to soft voices. Mother and Father were talking.
“It is only a rumour,” Mother said, “Just a rumour.”
“But the idea of it,” Father replied, “Do you think Tywin knows?”
“He knows everything, does he not? Joanna will have tried to keep it from him though.”
“Of course. The idea that she would need to separate her children because – because she would find them doing that-”
“Hush now, love,” Mother had said, threading her fingers through Stannis’ hair, “A nasty rumour, that’s all. Would you carry him to bed? I don’t want to wake him.”
The memory ended there and only now did it make sense. Cersei and Jaime Lannister really were as inseparable as it seemed. It was the only explanation.
He had only shared this suspicion with one person, with Davos. His knight’s eyes had widened and he had flushed a dull red when the true implication worked its way to the surface.
“What will you do?”
“I cannot go to Robert. He won’t believe me, you know that. He’ll call me a fool.”
Davos looked down at his hands and bit his lip. There was silence, the only sound the noise of the breeze.
“How about Lord Arryn?” Davos said eventually, “The king would believe him, my lord. Take your suspicions to him.”
It was a solid idea. It was an idea he was yet to act upon. To go to Jon Arryn would be to admit…to admit what? That his brother had been a fool? That the heir to the throne was a bastard and not even the king’s bastard at that? That the Lannisters were…could be planning something?
That the king’s own brother knew he would more likely be executed for treason than believed?
A knock at the door brought him out of his revelry and Jon Arryn entered. He was alone. With no preamble, he took the spare chair.
“Lord Stannis. What did you wish to discuss that is so urgent?”
It was no time to tread lightly.
“I do not believe,” Stannis said slowly, “That my brother is the father of his children.”
Of all the reactions he was expecting, the one he got was the very last one on his list.
“Ah,” Lord Arryn leaned forwards, his fingers templed in front of him, “So you have noticed that as well.”