The doors swung open with a groan of heavy hinges, revealing a hall that felt less like a throne room and more like a war room. The firelight from massive hearths cast dancing shadows across the walls, and at the far end, seated at a long table cluttered with maps and wax seals rather than on a raised dais, was a man who looked as though he had been carved from the very cliffside we had just climbed.
Stannis was a large man—tall, broad-shouldered, and sinewy; his head has only a fringe of black hair and his black beard was cropped closely on his square jaw. He looked as stern as his reputation suggested, his jaw permanently clenched and his eyes analytic and cold.
Stannis Baratheon didn't stand. He simply watched us approach, his jaw set in that famous, unrelenting line, his pale eyes assessing me with the cold scrutiny of a man who had no patience for pretension.
He sat behind a table piled high with parchments and iron instruments, the firelight catching the hard planes of his face. There was no courtly welcome, no herald announcing my arrival, not even the courtesy of a feast laid out to soften the blow of my intrusion. There was only the crackle of the hearth and the distant, rhythmic crash of the sea against the walls.
The emptiness of the hall was deliberate. It was a statement: this was not a place for pleasantries, and I was not a guest to be entertained.
"Hey there," I said, breaking the oppressive silence. I offered a casual wave, my tone light, almost flippant. I knew how it must look a nine year old boy in dusty grey clothes sauntering into one of the most formidable fortresses in the Seven Kingdoms as if he were walking into a tavern in the Green Hills.
Stannis's pale eyes locked onto mine. He didn't smile. He didn't scowl. He simply stared with the flat, unblinking intensity of a man who saw through every lie and every performance.
"Prince Vaegon," he said. His voice was like grinding stones dry, harsh, and utterly devoid of inflection. "You have traveled a long way to speak of grain and coin. I trust your intentions are as straightforward as your manner."
He didn't rise to greet me. He didn't offer a seat. He simply gested to the empty chair across from him, a silent command to begin.
"I have no interest in wasting time with courtly niceties, Lord Stannis," I said, pulling the chair out and sitting down without waiting for permission. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, matching his bluntness with my own. "I came because the Green Hills have more food than we can eat, and the Stormlands seem to have more hunger than they can feed. I think there's a business arrangement here that would benefit us both."
I watched him closely. Behind that stern exterior was a man who valued duty above all else. If I could frame this as a matter of practical necessity of feeding his people and strengthening his position I might actually get through to him.
"My people want to trade," I continued, keeping my voice steady. "And I think you might want to buy."
I tilted my head, studying the way Stannis didn't even blink. His face was like a mask of granite, utterly unmoved by my casualness. The silence stretched between us, filled only by the pop of a log in the fireplace.
"Actually," I said, my tone turning genuinely curious, "be honest with me. Have you even heard about the Green Hills? Or are you even aware I'm alive?" I gave a small shrug, leaning further into his personal space. "Most of the Kingdom is confused about me. Some think I'm a ghost, some think I'm a mistake, and others probably forget I exist the moment they stop looking at me."
It was a gamble. Most people would have been offended by such a lack of decorum from a prince, but Stannis Baratheon wasn't most people. He despised the courtly games of the Red Keep almost as much as I did. He hated flattery and he had no patience for the kind of diplomatic dancing that usually preceded a royal request.
Stannis's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping in his cheek. "I am aware you exist, Prince Vaegon. And I am aware that you have transformed a wasteland into a granary while your father was busy reading scrolls about dragons."
There it was. The first crack. The slight edge in his voice told me everything I needed to know. Stannis didn't just know about me; he respected the fact that I had actually done something tangible while the King had remained lost in his prophecies. He valued results over bloodlines, and the Green Hills were a result he couldn't ignore.
"I also know," Stannis continued, his voice dropping an octave, "that you have five thousand soldiers and enough wheat to feed half the Stormlands if you chose to. The question is not whether I am aware of you. The question is why a nine year old with an army and a harvest is standing in my hall instead of hiding behind his walls." Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
"Hmm." I tilted my head, giving him a look of feigned innocence. "I only have two thousand soldiers with me, Lord Stannis. The rest are still in the Green Hills guarding the silos."
I wanted him to know I had an army, but I didn't want him to think I was here to invade. The difference between five thousand and two thousand was the difference between a threat and a business trip.
"And why am I here?" I asked, stretching my arms out on the table. "I mean, I want money. Keeping all that food on my volcano isn't exactly the best way to get richer, you see. Grain rots if you keep too much of it, and gold... well, gold doesn't rot."
I watched his face closely. Stannis's eyes narrowed. He probably expected me to talk about family, about the injustice of my upbringing, or about the 'greater good' of the realm. Instead, I had given him the most honest answer possible: I was greedy.
For the first time since I'd entered the room, Stannis's expression shifted. He didn't smile I doubted he knew how but something in his gaze changed. He recognized the motive. Greed was simple. Greed was predictable. Greed could be negotiated with.
"You're remarkably candid, Prince," Stannis said, his voice still carrying that grinding quality. "Most Targaryens speak in riddles about destiny and blood. You speak in coin and bushels."
"I find that people who talk about destiny usually end up starving or dead," I replied with a shrug. "But people who talk about coin usually get what they want."
Stannis leaned forward, his elbows hitting the table with a thud. "The Stormlands are starving. Connington treats this land like a temporary posting while he waits for Rhaegar's next command. My people are eating boiled leather and prayer. If you can provide grain without demanding my loyalty or my sword in exchange for some political game, then we have something to discuss."
I scoffed, waving my hand as if dismissing the entire weight of history. "Look, Stannis. Can I call you Stannis? Or is that too informal for the Lord of Storm's End?" I didn't wait for an answer before continuing, my voice matter of fact. "Anyway, I don't care about the throne, or the Targaryens, or the capital. To me, they're just far away problems. I don't even consider them family members."
I could see the muscles in his jaw working. He was a man built on duty, on family, on the sacred bonds of blood and fealty. To hear a prince a Targaryen, no less speak of his own blood as nothing more than distant noise must have been like hearing blasphemy. But beneath the shock, there was something else: recognition. He hated the court as much as I did.
"I'm not here to play at politics or offer you protection in exchange for your allegiance," I said, leaning forward until I was nearly nose to nose with him across the table. "I'm here because I want to know whether you have enough money to pay me. I'm offering to sell my grain at ten percent higher than the Summer prices. No strings, no oaths, no promises to fight your battles. Just food for gold."
I watched him closely. "Ten percent premium for guaranteed delivery, straight from my own granaries. That's my offer."
The silence that followed was different this time. It wasn't the silence of tension; it was the silence of a man doing mathematics in his head. Stannis's eyes moved to the maps on his table, then back to me. His face remained a mask of stone, but the fury in his eyes had cooled into something sharper calculation.
"Ten percent above Summer prices," he repeated, his voice flat. "That is a steep price for a man whose coffers are already strained by the cost of maintaining this garrison."
"But it's cheaper than starving, isn't it?" I countered with a shrug. "And unlike the Crown, I won't send you a bill for 'prophecy expenses' next month."
A muscle jumped in his jaw. For a split second, I thought he might actually scowl, but then he simply exhaled a long, weary breath. "You are either the most honest child in the Seven Kingdoms, Prince Vaegon, or the most dangerous."
Stannis stared at me, his pale eyes locked onto mine. "Sell to me at the summer prices," he said, his voice like a judge delivering a verdict. "No premiums. No extra coin for the privilege of feeding people who have nothing."
I didn't even hesitate. I knew Stannis's pride he wouldn't be bullied into a corner, but he also wouldn't let a deal slip through his fingers if it meant his people would eat. The ten percent had been a opening gambit, a way to test how far he'd bend. Read this novel at novelping(.)com for the best experience.
"5%," I replied, my voice casual as if we were haggling over a fish at the docks.
Stannis's jaw tightened. The silence of the hall returned, heavy and expectant. He wasn't going to argue further; he knew the market, and he knew that five percent was a pittance compared to the cost of a famine. More importantly, he recognized the compromise it was a way for both of us to walk away without losing face.
"Done," he said flatly.
The deal was struck. No contracts were signed with flourish, no wine was poured. Just two people who despised the games of the court agreeing on the value of grain.
"Gareth," I said, glancing over at my Master of Coin. "Make a note of it. Five percent above summer prices, delivered in installments."
Gareth scribbled furiously on his parchment, a smile of triumph on his face. He didn't care about the five percent he'd lost in the negotiation; he cared that we now had a direct financial pipeline into the heart of the Stormlands.
Stannis stood up slowly, his armor creaking. "I will have my steward prepare the first payment. I expect the first shipment to arrive within the fortnight. If a single sack is found to be moldy or short, Prince Vaegon, I will consider it a breach of contract."
"I'd expect nothing less from you, Stannis," I said, rising from my chair and offering a small, knowing smirk.
I watched him for a moment, the iron willed lord who had just agreed to a contract with a nine year old. The transactional part of my brain was already calculating the logistics, but a more human part of me the part that still remembered the cold stone floors of the Red Keep's servant quarters felt a genuine pang of curiosity.
"Can I visit Storm's End?" I asked, tilting my head. I wasn't asking as a prince requesting an audience, but as a boy asking to see something impressive. "I mean, genuinely. I'm afraid I've never actually visited a proper castle besides Dragonstone. In the capital, I only ever saw the Red Keep through the servants' passages and the back stairwell."
I looked up at the vaulted ceiling, imagining the scale of what I had missed. "I know the shape of walls and the smell of dungeons, but I've never seen a hall built for someone who actually wanted to be seen."
Stannis's expression didn't soften I doubted that was biologically possible for him but the harshness in his eyes dulled. There was a flicker of something almost like grim understanding. He was a man who lived in a fortress, but he understood the difference between a prison and a home.
"This is not a tour for children, Prince Vaegon," Stannis said, though the threat lacked its usual bite. "Storm's End is a place of duty and hardship. It is not a place for sightseeing."
"I'm not looking for sightseeing, Lord Stannis," I countered with a shrug. "I'm looking to understand what I'm protecting. If I'm going to trade with you, I should know what kind of place I'm sending my grain to. I want to see the walls that keep the storms out."
Stannis stared at me for a long beat. Then, he gave a single, sharp nod.
"Very well. If you wish to see the reality of the Stormlands, you may stay for three days. You will eat our food, sleep under our roof, and see what it means to hold a position against the sea. But do not expect entertainment. And do not expect me to play the host."
He turned back to his table, the conversation effectively over. "My steward will arrange your quarters. We begin the first shipment in ten days. Dismissed."