Chapter Text
Chapter XXIII
THE SEA GOD'S WRATH
Renly's hand was cold.
Still, Jocelyn held onto to it like a lifeline. As though if she clutched it tightly enough, he would be brought back. Wake up and crack the foulest joke, eyes crinkling as they did whenever his face broke into a grin. But it never happened.
She didn't know how much time had passed. Since Loras and Ser Colen placed him on the table, still and white as early winter snow, his throat slit open. Since his face was cupped in her hands as she cried and begged him to return, and cursed herself for all she had said. Since she spent hours wiping the blood away, soiled cloth after soiled cloth, her own hands crusted with crimson. People had come and gone from the pavilion, Kingsguard with no king to protect hovering over his body as they thought about their own fate now that Renly's been cut short. Jocelyn couldn't bear to think about the future that didn't have him in it. And so she stayed rooted in the present, forever lost to the memories of the past. Only Loras remained. For the first time, Jocelyn was glad for his company.
With the first rays of the sun came the grave realisation that none of it had been a dream. And as the word spread, so did Renly's loyal bannermen. The man they were to meet in battle at dawn became their new master. Jocelyn could almost laugh at the sickening irony. Ser Colen had urged them to leave many a time — Stannis's army would soon be upon them, but neither dared move.
Then came the young queen. Margaery had ridden all night, she said, as soon as she got word of her husband's death. Jocelyn didn't know if there was love in the girl's heart for the man she had married, but when Margaery's eyes fell upon Renly's body, she cried. For his future, for her future, and for the future they might've built together.
"He would have made a fine king," she said to the hollow crown resting upon his chest. The words were met with silence, "I fear what might become of us, now he is gone. We really should return home, Loras. And Jocelyn —" Margaery paused when she looked at the princess. Her red-rimmed eyes were perfectly blank, "You should come with us. As Willas's betrothed, you would be well taken care of..."
The ruckus of the camp entered the secluded pavilion as the flap was lifted, letting inside an intruder, "My lord, my lady. Your Grace," Petyr Baelish bowed to the grieving princess, though she took no notice of the courtesy. His gaze lingered, "You must leave. Stannis will be here soon. When he arrives, all Renly's bannermen will flock to him. Your former companions will fight for the privilege of selling you to their new king — " his warning was interrupted by Loras's blade pointed at his face.
"And you want that privilege for yourself?" He hissed, face contorted with fury.
Lord Baelish remained unperturbed, "You will note that I am here talking to you. Not Stannis."
"Yes," Jocelyn's gravely voice cut in. She rose from her place by Renly's side, blue skirts soaked with dried blood, "And what a great coincidence that is, Lord Baelish," she said as she crept closer to the man, a restless wraith. He appeared enraptured by the sight, "That you should wonder into my uncle's camp and he should die the very next day."
"Jocelyn, Brienne of Tarth murdered Renly," Margaery's tone was hesitant, "She was caught with the bloodied sword — "
"I refuse to believe that risible tale."
"As do I," echoed Loras, "Who gained the most from our king's death?"
"Stannis."
Jocelyn's first impulse was to oppose whatever fable came from Petyr Baelish's mouth. This time, however, she found herself in reluctant agreement. The night is dark and full of terrors. She remembered the glimmer of the witch's eyes, the warning... The promise of retribution had felt anything but empty, laden with malice and assured intent.
Margaery's brows twitched together into a delicate frown, "Could they have sent someone to the camp? An assassin?"
"Ser Robar heard talk of sorcery. Some dark magic," Loras stressed, sheathing his sword back into the scabbard, "Catelyn Stark swore she had seen a shadow with a sword." Look to your own sins, Lord Renly.
Jocelyn found herself back by Renly's side, gazing down at his peaceful face. She reached out a hand and fixed the hair that always got in his eyes — he hated that. "We bury him" she said, "And then we leave."
"Your Grace — "
Her eyes flashed to the man like a bolt of lightening, "You are free to go, Lord Baelish. Welcome to, in fact." She spared a glance at Loras before leaving.
The outside world remained the same but felt entirely different. Smaller, duller. Something vital was woefully lacking, a delicate lustre of hope. Her old life was lost to her completely. But there was something else she found as she walked outside. There were men, foot soldiers and knights alike, nightingales and quills, and sea turtles, all gathered before the pavilion. All looking at her.
Ser Robar emerged from the motley crowd and went to his knee, "Your Grace." Sers Colen and Cuy followed suit, the valiant rainbow knights of her uncle's. At an utter loss for words, Jocelyn looked at the other soldiers and saw each dropping onto one knee, heads bowed in reverence.
Lord Bryce Caron made his way to her, the orange cloak of the rainbow guard handing from his broad shoulders, "They refused to leave," he informed her, "As Renly's heir, their allegiance is yours, princess."
Ser Loras and Lord Baelish emerged from the pavilion just in time to witness the scene. The knight was mystified by the sight of dozens of Renly's soldiers kneeling before her. Petyr Baelish, however, was smiling.
"Killed? By whom?"
Tyrion knew better than to be beguiled by his sister's feigned indifference. Considering she drank so much to master that particular art, "Accounts differ," he ventured further into his sister's chambers to find her on the summer terrace, with a goblet in hand and a distant look in her eyes as she gazed over the city, "Most seem to implicate Catelyn Stark in some way."
"Really?" she wondered drolly, "Who would've thought."
"Some say it was one of his own Kingsguard. While still others say it was Stannis himself who did it, after negotiations went sour," Tyrion went to pour himself a goblet of wine.
Cersei turned around, the billowy sleeves of her crimson dress swaying as she did so, "To whomever did it I say — well done," she raised a celebratory glass.
"It's not what Varys says," Tyrion's voice grew more somber, "He says Renly's army is flocking to support Stannis. Which would give Stannis superiority over us on both land and sea."
He watched Cersei refill her goblet with ample vigour, "Littlefinger says we can outspend him three to one," it was a perfectly smug assertion.
"And I say father raised you to have too much respect for money." Cersei lowered herself on the cushioned ottoman, impervious, "Stannis Baratheon is coming for us sooner rather than later."
"Aren't there other things you should be doing? Like sealing my daughter in a crate so you can ship her away?" There it is, thought Tyrion. Not so indifferent after all.
"She'll be safer in Dorne."
"The way Jocelyn was safer with Renly?" Cersei snapped back, "Gods know what might become of her now."
Tyrion lowered his eyes to study the burgundy liquid in the cup, "I shall write to father, have him send more men to search for her."
"Yes, I know how concerned you are for her safety," Cersei hissed with much venom.
"Yes, it so happens that I am. And considering the circ*mstances we find ourselves in thanks to Stannis's enlightening letter to every lordling of this realm, so should you."
Her green eyes flashed with a dangerous warning, "So clever," she scoffed and stood up in a whirlwind of contempt, "aren't you always so clever with your schemes and your plots."
"Schemes and plots are the same thing," quipped Tyrion. He left his goblet on the table and followed Cersei back into the chambers as she no doubt sought to free herself of his pestering presence. Well, no such luck, "They are going to attack us. We need to be ready."
"No need to concern yourself over it," Cersei's voice was deceitfully calm. Almost patronising, "The king is taking personal charge of siege preparations."
Isn't that just splendid? Tyrion felt safer already, "May I ask specifically what the king has in mind?"
"You may specifically or you may ask vaguely but the answer would be the same."
Despite the urge to use more colourful language, Tyrion retained perfect composure, enunciating every word as if addressing a mentally impaired babe, "It's important that we talk about this." He truly should have known better.
"It's the king's royal prerogative to withhold sensitive information from his councillors," Cersei took sick joy in seeing his patience so mercilessly tried. And Tyrion wasn't inclined to afford his sister further pleasure.
He imaged her twisted smirk as he stomped away. And shut the door on his way out.
As a firstborn daughter of a newly-minted king, Jocelyn was used to inspiring disappointment. Even though all had rejoiced at the birth of a golden princess, she wasn't the heir they wanted — someone to consolidate House Baratheon as the royal dynasty. She had spent her entire childhood as an afterthought, a prelude to a greatness that was never hers to claim. Her youth was spent reconciling with the preordained future. And just when her heart had resigned itself to the assured fate, the Gods had decided to play a trick instead.
The most eminent stormlords were gathered in the pavilion, from Estermont to Connington, all awaiting her word. Jocelyn had never before commanded such attention — at a feast, perhaps, with suitors lined up to claim the next dance or with the ladies of the court. She felt entirely ill-equipped. Ser Loras was watching her from the corner, his own face unreadable.
"Your Grace...we understand you are grieving, but the matter at hand is too urgent to ignore," said Ser Eldon Estermont. He was a man at the dusk of his life, yet with a vigour that would put many a young knight to shame. There was a vitality to him, a strength which was impervious to the signs of the times, "You are Renly's rightful heir, he made that clear before. Many of those still loyal to him will support your claim."
"Many have already fled to join Stannis," Ser Ronnet's voice was deep and husky, "But House Connington of Griffin's Roost stands with you, Your Grace, as King Renly's only heir."
"As does House Caron," spoke one of the rainbow guard, Ser Bryce the Orage.
Jocelyn had to fight the urge to bolt from the pavilion and run until her feet bled and gave out completely. This was wrong. So, so wrong...She should've been feasting next to Renly in celebration of their victory, his laughter ringing through the hall as the bards played lewd songs, and all...and all was well. Instead, she was standing before his bannermen in a blood-soaked dress and no clue what to do next.
"My lords...I have no ambition for the crown," Jocelyn had expected disappointment, but the lords seemed thoughtful at her declaration, "Peace is all I wish for."
"There shall be no peace until Stannis answers for his crimes," Loras ground out. Jocelyn held his glower with a placid look of her own. He averted his eyes.
"We have received word from Ser Courtnay Penrose," said Ser Eldon, "He asks for help in breaking Stannis's siege. Storm's End will not hold for much longer, the situation is perilously grave."
Jocelyn remembered the man well. Many a time had he chastised herself and Renly for uncouth behaviour, the valiant castellan of the storm fortress. He was a somber man with kind eyes, whose smiles were as rare as they were well-deserved.
"How many men do we have?"
"Nigh on three hundred, Your Grace," supplied Ser Ronnet, "And more likely awaiting at Bitterbridge."
She thought of Argella Durrandon, valiantly standing in defence of her home against foreign invaders. Her father dead, abandoned by her men, she showed no fear in the face of death, for there was something to protect. A legacy, a home. Storm's End was the last place where her and Renly were truly happy. She couldn't, in all conscience, let it fall prey to Stannis and his crimson sorceress.
"If Ser Courtnay is in need of help, he shall have it," Jocelyn pulled her shoulders back, standing taller as she regarded the bannermen.
Ser Loras stepped forward, "We are to fight Stannis?"
"Not unless it cannot be helped," The knight's face hardened. The other lords appeared curious, "I am to ride to my uncle's camp and propose a treaty. No blood will be spilled today."
"Blood has already been spilled," Loras said darkly.
He was restless. Angry. Desperate. A concoction of wildfire with a fuse too short to see reason. Jocelyn had barely restrained him from slaying Sers Robar and Cuy that fateful night. The two Kingsguard were unlucky enough to keep watch over the king's pavilion and let Lady Catelyn and Lady Brienne escape, something which had driven Loras half mad. But all of them knew who had been the true culprit, even if none could explain how.
"My lords, would you please leave us?" The assertiveness in Jocelyn's voice hardly matched her frantic heartbeat. The stormlords rose from the sturdy wooden table, once headed by her uncle, and left with a courteous nod to the princess. It wasn't long before her and Loras were alone again, with no ghost to keep them company.
He was fast upon her, "You would treat with that monster? After what he did to Renly?"
"You propose we do battle with him?"
"Yes!"
"And then what?" Jocelyn fought hard to keep her composure, "Say, we do win. You kill Stannis —what then, Loras?" His chest was rising and falling, nostrils flared like a beast's before it pounced, "I will not send these men to death for mine own vengeance."
"So you will bend the knee to him? He who killed Renly?" His voice broke, "Betray his trust so readily?"
Something dark cast itself over Jocelyn's eyes, "I will never bend the knee to Stannis," she stated sombrely, "But nor do I mean to antagonise him, not when his forces are so great. We need to be smart about this, Loras. There is still time — " He recoiled from her outstretched hand as if scorched.
"Maybe Renly was right and you were doing Stannis's bidding all along," he seethed, "His blood may very well be on your hands — " His words were cut off by a firm slap. The sound of it rang through the ensuing silence. Yet Loras's glare was a minuscule thing compared to Jocelyn's simmering fury. He looked a slighted babe, too overcome with grief and petulance to see logic.
"Do not consider yourself bound by any vows, Loras. You owe me nothing, nor I to you. If you choose to remain and fight for what is right, we will be glad to have you. But if you wish to leave, I shall not hold you." She tried to find a single rift in the knight's steel-clad resolve, but it was a futile endeavour. His mind had been made up. There was no chance of swaying it, not when it was ruled by anger and pain rather than logic.
Neither of them spoke for some time, a stretch of peaceful quiet before something inevitable. Jocelyn sighed. Truly sighed for the first time in hours, "I know that you loved him. I was always jealous of that love, as if it was a thing to be owned or stolen. A lonely, spiteful little girl," she breathed a self-depreciating, broken half-laugh, "But you made him happy, Loras, so happy. And for that, I shall be forever grateful."
"I was jealous, too." At Jocelyn's incredulous look, Loras continued, "There were things he only shared with you. I wanted to have all of him, but he refused to confide in me. It used to drive me mad."
The somber confession took Jocelyn by surprise. She had been a jealous, restless child who coveted all she deemed hers. Her affections were a mark of ownership. She desired to be singular, to be cherished and adored, and welcome, never an afterthought. Her and Renly were the same in that regard — him the youngest brother, her the eldest daughter. She had never had to share him with anyone until Loras. Loras, whom he had adored. Loras, who had chosen to love him in spite of it all.
"I hope there can one day be peace between us," Jocelyn told him, finding that she meant every word, "For Renly."
Tears pooled in the knight's vibrant blue eyes, glowing like rippling water beneath the sun. Loras offered her a taut nod, a stoic and proud warrior, "I should be going now." Jocelyn stepped aside to letting him pass. He stopped right before the exit, "You will give him a proper burial?"
"As befits a king."
With Loras left all the might of Highgarden.
Without the support of the the vast Tyrell army, Jocelyn and her meagre council had but a handful of soldiers. It was hardly enough for an intimidating display of force, not to mention an actual battle — though she didn't consider herself a seasoned warlord, that much was blatantly obvious. Both Lord Estermont and Lord Ronnet seemed to be of the same opinion. The news of Loras's departure had troubled them greatly and for good reason. But Jocelyn knew that any alliance with Highgarden would depend entirely on her claim to the throne. And if the role of a wife was something she could learn to bear, she would never wish to be queen.
"Many are still at Bitterbridge. My son and grandson amongst them," said Ser Estermont , "If we send word right now, they will be here come evenfall."
"Many more still joined Stannis. And I can hardly fault them for it," Jocelyn stopped pacing around and took a seat at the table, however wrong and foreign it felt, "How many men could we expect to rally?"
"A few thousand at most, Your Grace," the older man replied. Though his tone suggested that might be an optimistic assumption.
"Ser Ronnet, how fast could you make it to the encampment?
"Before sundown, Your Grace."
Even if they had managed to garner more support, Stannis would be upon them before Ser Ronnet even reached the Mander. In which case...well, it was a gamble they would just have to take if there was to be any chance of breaking the siege.
"Then that's what we do," the princess declared, "While Ser Ronnet rallies for more support at Bitterbridge, I will parley with Lord Stannis. At the very least, it will buy us some much needed time..."
Jocelyn noticed both Ser Eldon and Ronnet's eyes shift to something behind her back. Frowning, she turned around to see what had attracted their attention and grew as still as a fawn. There, by the pavilion's entrance, stood the haggard yet tall figure of none but Ser Garmon Hightower, "Your Grace," he breathed with a wane smile, "I do not come alone."
Jocelyn could've burst into tears, but while her chest tightened with their onslaught, not a single drop was spilled. It seemed she had wept them all over Renly's body, eyes now achingly dry and rimmed with red. But she hoped the look in them held the immense gratitude and a sense of relief she felt at seeing the knight come to her rescue once again. A small thread connecting Jocelyn to the life she had once known to be her own.
True to his word, Ser Garmon had arrived accompanied by some six thousand soldiers. Those were minor stormlords, hedge knights, and footmen from the Bitterbridge encampment, who had chosen to keep their oath to the late king. But not without some encouragement from Ser Garmon, if Ser Alyn Estermont's account was to be believed. The knight relayed to the princess in every detail the chaos which had erupted in the wake of Renly's death, the infighting and desertion. How Ser Garmon had all but rallied Renly's loyal bannermen to the support of House Baratheon's one and true heir.
It was a strange feeling, to inspire loyalty. Admiration, deference — those Jocelyn was accustomed to, born into. But loyalty... She felt like an impostor, an intruder, a thief. What had she done to account for it? Would all those men still stand with her had they known Renly thought her a traitor? War tends to show people's true colours. Perhaps, yours are crimson, after all.
I don't want it, she wanted to scream, I don't want it, I don't want it — But Renly was gone. Cold and lifeless, alone in the tent where he used to drink wine and lie with Loras, and be alive. He would've loathed the quiet and the solitude more than death itself. He needed to be in the company of storm kings, lulled to eternal sleep by the sea god raging against the jagged rocks of Durran's Point. He needed to be home.
Stannis had acquiesced to another parley. Jocelyn knew he would, if only out of sheer curiosity. She could work with curiosity — it had felled many a cat. Theirs was a meagre retinue, consisting of only herself, Sers Ronnet and Robar, and Ser Garmon, even though it was perfectly clear he was in no state. His wounds had healed nicely, albeit not without a trace. The deep gash on his stomach allowed for very limited movement, something the knight preferred to overlook. He bore the pain stoically, never once wincing or showing a single sign of pain. Although Jocelyn had caught a small grunt escaping him when he climbed onto his steed. Ser Garmon ignored her loaded look and pulled at the reigns to escape the scrutiny.
"Why meet with him there, Your Grace?" Asked Ser Robar, riding alongside her. Himself and Ser Eldon had much reservations about the parley. After all, what stopped Stannis from simply imprisoning the princess? But Jocelyn had assured them that it was an unlikely event. She knew her uncle and she knew his like. Every man was a piece on a board. Once you figured out which one, their moves were plain to foresee.
"A parley on neutral ground suggests I see myself as his equal," Jocelyn reasoned, "If we want to succeed in breaking the siege, Stannis needs to feel as though he has the upper hand."
"I reckon he needs no reminding, Your Grace," Ser Garmon observed once the encampment below the mighty walls of Storm's End began to take shape. Something which had once belonged to Renly now laid at the kinslayer's feet.
"No number of soldiers will cure my uncle of constant doubt. That's why he needs a foreign God to make all the decisions for him," Jocelyn trotted up to the knight to have the full view, "Stannis will need all the assurance he can get."
They raised no banners as they neared the camp, nor did they have to. The coloured cloaks behind Ser Robar and Ser Ronnet's shoulders left little room for confusion. Swann, Wylde, Errol — Jocelyn recognised all their sigils littering the enemy ground, so quick to shift their allegiance. It was no wonder most kept their gazes low, as though ashamed to have been found so lacking in principle. But Jocelyn would have been a hypocrite to blame them.
They were greeted by a man who called himself Ser Davos Seaworth. He was rather short, with a balding head of silver hair and a face which had seen many a day in the open sea. There was a sort of diffidence to his bearing, as though he hadn't quite settled into his title. Jocelyn wouldn't have assumed he bore one, dressed as the man was in plain blue tunic and a mantle, without a sigil to speak of his house.
They traveled through the camp in silence, though Jocelyn could feel him sneaking an occasional look to gauge her reaction at their surroundings. She offered none. The same, however, could hardly be said about Ser Garmon, whose expression concealed nothing.
"Have you served my uncle long?"
"Been with him ever since the Rebellion, Your Grace."
Jocelyn glanced at the man, "You were there during the siege."
"Aye. Near the end," he sounded hesitant, "'Twas not long before the North came to our aid."
Renly had rarely spoken about those times. Jocelyn often wondered if he had locked the grim memories in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind, never to be revisited again. Perhaps, that was why he had lived so garishly. To outrun the horrors that haunted him ever since he was a small child.
"How does it feel?"
Ser Davos furrowed a brow, "Your Grace?"
They stopped by a large pavilion at the centre of the swarming encampment. The flaming heart burning upon the raised banner left little doubt as to its occupant. "To be on the other side?" Jocelyn faced the knight. He looked almost contrite, "I suppose my uncle will provide a better answer."
Ser Davos cast a wary look at her imposing entourage, "You lads will have to stay outside." It appeared as though Ser Garmon would argue, but Jocelyn's levelled glance did well to curb any such aspirations.
"Her Grace, the Princess Jocelyn of House Baratheon," Ser Davos announced when she walked inside. It was nothing auspicious, the royal pavilion. As austere as the self-proclaimed king and just as desolate. There were maps, and there were letters, and some stale bread with cheese. And there was a bed, notably unmade, with sheets artfully tussled. It was a small wonder why her uncle looked so sickly.
His harsh gaze found hers in an instant. Jocelyn wondered how long he had been expecting her arrival, sat imposingly behind his regal table. Ideal for a royal audience.
"Jocelyn," he said curtly.
"Uncle."
Stannis clenched his jaw. Clearly, the lack of proper titles rattled him, "Thank you, Ser Davos. You may leave us." Giving the scene a last befuddled look, the knight made himself scarce, "I was sorry to hear of Renly's death. I do grieve him. The boy he used to be." Jocelyn chose to stay silent lest she say something unwise. Stannis watched her closely, "Have you come to bend the knee?"
"No." He scoffed, in disbelief of the impudence, "But I shall not stand in your way. All I ask is that you break this siege and let me lay Renly to rest. With our ancestors. With my father."
For a moment, it seemed as though Stannis' stale expression mellowed. But it passed only too quickly, "He betrayed me. He took that which belonged to me by right and made a spectacle of it," he hissed, "Traitors are entitled to no honours."
Jocelyn's face was hard, "Then I am a traitor too."
"You are a child," Stannis snapped back, "As was Renly. Everything was a game to him. War was a game to him. Until he lost. Now, all his bannermen have come to my side — "
"Not all of them." He stilled, "There are six thousand men awaiting my command. Men still loyal to your brother."
"Do you dare threaten me?"
"Your army is five times the size. I would hardly consider it a threat," said Jocelyn, "It is simply a piece of information."
Stannis narrowed his eyes. So like Renly's, yet so very cold, "What is it you want?"
"For you to leave Storm's End. To lay your brother to rest. Nothing more."
"Nothing more —" he chocked on his rage, "you deny my rightful claim, you threaten me, and now you expect a courtesy? You do have your father's gall, girl, I'll tell you that. Very well, I will break the siege," Stannis allowed almost flippantly, "But only if you publicly denounce Renly as a traitor and swear fealty to me as your liege lord."
Jocelyn's impervious demeanour cracked with a single flinch, "I cannot do that."
"Then you leave me with no other choice."
She stared him down as though expecting the Gods to bestow upon them a small mercy; a miracle. But none interfered. "If we do battle now, you will win. But you will also lose men. Men you need to march on King's Landing," Jocelyn told him, her tone no longer diplomatic, "This siege has cost you too much already."
"We have more. Men, provision —"
"But not much time," she countered, "Every day you delay your attack is an opportunity for my brother to gather more allies. Is that truly something you can afford?"
Everything about Stannis was taut with apprehension. Jaw locked, muscles flexing beneath his hollow cheeks, long and spindly fingers drumming on the wooden table. A tempest left to howl and rage inside a cracked vessel, "I must think about it," he declared at last, "You shall have your answer by sundown."
