The wind howled around Dragonstone, rattling the shutters of Stannis Baratheon's solar, a bleak sound that seemed to echo his mood. He sat alone at the long, heavy table, the remnants of a meager meal—boiled fish and stale bread—untouched before him. A crumpled parchment lay clutched in Stannis's hand, the ink smeared where his grip had tightened. The news from the Stormlands had arrived hours ago, yet the sting remained fresh. Storm's End, ancestral seat of House Baratheon, had declared for Renly. The lords of the Marches, the knights of the coast, the very men who should have flocked to his banner, had chosen to follow his younger brother's perfumed path. Stannis ground his teeth, the sound barely audible above the wind. He tossed the parchment onto the table, where it landed amongst the crumbs.

"Renly," he muttered, the name laced with disdain. "King by acclamation. King of summer. King of fools."

"They see him," Stannis continued, his voice rising slightly. "They see the charm, the feasts, the easy laughter. They don't see the law. They don't see the right. They only see what they want to see."

He stood abruptly, pushing the chair back with a scrape. He paced the length of the room, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The dim light of the oil lamps cast long, distorted shadows on the stone walls.

"Robert always had that—a gift for winning hearts. And Renly…Renly learned it from him. But Robert was a warrior first, a king second. Renly is neither. He is a boy playing at war, surrounded by flatterers and fools."

He stopped pacing and turned to face the empty room, his expression a mask of grim determination.

"They will learn," he said, his voice now hard. "They will learn that the law is unyielding, that duty is paramount, that Stannis Baratheon will not be denied what is rightfully his."

He paused, his gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the stone walls. "They will learn," he repeated, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. "They will all learn."