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"Renly made his own Royal Guard," the smuggler once said, "but these seven did not wear white. Each has its own color. Loras Tyrell their Commander Lord." It was just the sort of notion that would appeal to Renly Baratheon, a splendid new order of chivalry, with a beautiful new dress for advertising. Even as a child, Renly had loved bright colors and fabrics, and he loved the games too. "Look at me!" He yelled as he ran laughing through the halls of the end of the storm. "Look, I am a dragon" or "Look, I'm a magician" or "Look, look, I am the god of rain." The bold little boy black hair and eyes wild laughter was a grown man now, a year and twenty, and still played their games. Look, I am a king, Cress thought sadly. Oh, Renly, Renly, dear sweet girl, you know what you're doing? And do you care if you did? Does anyone care about him, but me? "What reasons are the lords of his refusal," Being asked Davos. "Well, in that some words gave me some gentle and strong, some excuse, some promises, some just lied." He shrugged. "In the end, words are just wind." "You could bring no hope?" "Only the false class, and I would not do that," he said in Davos. "He had the truth from me." Master Davos Cresser recalled day was knighted after the end site of the storm. Lord Stannis and a small garrison had held the castle for almost a year, compared with the large crowd of Lords and Redwyne Tyrell. Even the sea was closed against them, watched day and night flying flags Redwyne galleys burgundy Glorieta. At the end of the storm, the horses had long since been eaten, dogs and cats were gone, and the garrison was down to the roots and rats. Then came an evening of new moon and black clouds hid the stars. Shrouded in darkness, the smuggler Davos dared cord and rocks Redwyne Bay Scrap alike. Your small ship had a black hull, black candles, black paddles, and a warehouse full of onions and salted fish. Very little, however, kept the garrison alive long enough to reach Stark Eddard end of the storm and break the siege. Lord Stannis was rewarded with lands in Cape Wrath election Davos, maintaining a small and honor of a gentleman ... But there was also decreed that losing one joint of each finger of his left hand to pay for all his years of smuggling. Davos had been submitted, provided they carry the same knife Stannis would not accept the punishment of other hands. The Lord had used a butcher knife, the best cut clean and true. Then Davos had chosen the name for your new facts Seaworth home, and he took his black flag of a ship in a field of pale gray with an onion in your sails. The smuggler once liked to say that Lord Stannis had done a favor, giving him less than four nails short and clean. No, Cress thought, a man like that do not give false hopes, or soften a hard truth. "Being Davos, the truth can be a bitter pill, even for a man like Lord Stannis. He thinks only of returning to King's Landing at the height of its power to overthrow their enemies and claim what is theirs. No But now ... " "If he takes this lean machine of King's Landing, will be only to die. It has the numbers. I told him as much, but you know his pride." Davos raised his gloved hand. "My fingers grow back before the man bends to the senses." The old man sighed. "You've done everything I could. Now I have to add my voice to theirs." Wearily, he returned to his promotion. Lord Stannis Baratheon Refuge was a large circular room with bare stone walls of black and four tall, narrow windows that faced the four cardinal points. In the center of the camera was the large table which took its name, a huge block of wood carved fashion symbol of Aegon Targaryen in the days before the conquest. The table was painted more than fifty feet long, maybe half wide at its widest point, but less than four feet in diameter at its narrowest. Carpenters Aegon was no way on earth after the Poniente, sawing of each bay and the peninsula to the table all ran straight. On its surface, obscured by 300 years of varnish, painted the Seven Kingdoms, as it was at the time of Aegon, rivers and mountains, castles and towns, lakes and forests. There was a single chair in the room, carefully positioned in the right place to Dragonstone held off the coast of the west, and rose to give a good view of the table. Sitting in the chair was a man in a leather jacket and tight-laced roughspun brown wool pants. When Master Cresser came in, looked up. "I knew you'd be old if I called you or not." There was no hint of warmth in his voice, it rarely was. Stannis Baratheon, Lord of the DragonStone and by the grace of the gods, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, was broad-shouldered and sinewy of limb, with a tension on his face and meat spoke leather tanning in the sun until it was as hard as steel. Difficult was that men used word when talking about Stannis, and it was tough. Although it was not yet five and a half, only a narrow strip of black hair on the head remained, circling behind the ears as the shadow of a crown. His brother, the late Robert King, had grown a beard in his later years. Cresser Master had never seen, but they said it was a wild creature, thick and strong. In response, kept his beard trimmed Stannis own tight and short. They lay like a blue-black shadow over his square jaw and cheeks hollow bone. His eyes were open wounds beneath his bushy eyebrows, a blue so dark as the sea at night. His mouth have drollest even to despair of fools, but that was a mouth made for scowls and frowns and strongly worded command, all pale and thin lips tight muscles, a mouth that had forgotten how I had never known to smile and laugh. Sometimes, when the world became very still and quiet of a night, Master Cresser imagined he could hear the teeth gnashing Stannis Lord through the castle away.
