Storm's End, perched upon Cape Wrath, resembled a massive pale fist, intimidating the storms of Shipbreaker Bay and guarding the lands at its feet.
More than a decade ago, this "fist" had pinned the Redwyne fleet and Highgarden's tens of thousands of soldiers here.
It had prevented the southern "royalists" from joining Rhaegar, giving Robert's allied forces ample time to destroy the Targaryens' fresh troops.
Now, a nobleman in his prime stood gazing up at the castle where he had grown up, his deep, sea-blue eyes carrying a trace of cold hardness.
His thin lips were pressed tightly together, as if he wanted to grind them into blades for storming the castle.
This tall nobleman was the late king's younger brother—Stannis Baratheon.
Stannis gritted his back teeth and stared fixedly at the castle before him. More than a decade ago, he had gnawed on leather straps and eaten dead rats here to hold back the royalists' main force, allowing his brother Robert to defeat Rhaegar.
Yet Robert had turned a blind eye to his accomplishments.
Later, when putting down the Iron Islands rebellion, Robert had always complained that his advance was too slow. Instead, he had favored that Stark, as though Stark were his true brother.
Why?
Stannis had wanted to ask Robert more than once.
Why?
Stark did not even have ships!
Now Robert was dead, and all three of his legitimate sons had been born of the queen's adultery.
He should have been the Iron Throne's rightful heir, yet his brother Renly had emerged to compete with him.
Damn it, damn it, damn it!
That usurper!
What had he been doing while Stannis was fighting wars?
He had merely run around the Vale dressed in silk, yet he had been granted the title of Lord of Storm's End.