I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 68: Chains
Stannis Baratheon awoke to the cold bite of steel against his throat. His mind, sharp even in the grogginess of interrupted sleep, registered the sensation before his eyes even fully opened. He did not move, did not flinch, merely adjusted his breathing, controlling the surge of anger welling inside him. He recognized the armor and sigils of the men standing over him—Velaryon men, sworn to him as Lord of Dragonstone. Or so he had thought.
"Up," one of them commanded, pressing the blade just slightly harder against his throat.
Stannis did not dignify the betrayal with a response. Instead, he rose slowly as they pulled him to his feet and bound his hands in thick iron manacles. He tested them, finding them unyielding. His jaw tightened. These men had been his vassals, his subjects. Now, they were nothing more than turncoats.
As they marched him through the halls, Stannis took in his surroundings. The Baratheon banners that once adorned the walls were gone, replaced by the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The golden stags and black colors of his house had been stripped away, as if they had never belonged here at all. But more than the banners, it was the men he saw standing guard that solidified the gravity of his situation. The castle was filled with Velaryon retainers, their silver hair and proud bearing unmistakable. Yet, the common folk—those who had long lived and served on Dragonstone—remained. Only his Baratheon men and his wife's Florent retainers were missing. Stannis clenched his teeth. The betrayal was absolute.
By the time he was pushed through the heavy doors of the solar, Stannis had already guessed who had orchestrated this coup. And when he saw Monford Velaryon seated comfortably in his chair, his suspicions were confirmed.
Monford did not rise as Stannis entered. The man's silver hair glowed in the dim candlelight, his Valyrian heritage on full display. Stannis was shoved into a chair across from him, but even bound, he held himself with the stiff dignity that had defined his life.
Monford smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "Lord Stannis," he greeted, voice smooth. "I trust you have not been mistreated?"
Stannis did not answer immediately, instead letting his gaze bore into the traitor. A sharp, derisive chuckle escaped Stannis's lips. He met Monford's gaze and, in a dry, cutting tone, spoke part of the words of House Velaryon: "The True, the Brave."
Stannis continues."You call yourself true, Velaryon?" he said at last, his voice dry and laced with contempt. "You betray your liege lord in the dead of night and yet you dare speak of trust?"
Monford did not flinch. "We are true, my lord. True to House Targaryen. Dragonstone belongs to the dragons, and you, Stannis Baratheon, are no dragon."
Stannis clenched his jaw. "And so you slither like snakes in the dark to take what you lack the spine to fight for openly. A fine legacy for your house."
Monford chuckled. "I have no need for your approval, only your understanding. Your wife and daughter are unharmed, as are your men—those who did not resist, at least. This could have gone far worse for you."
Stannis ignored the veiled threat. He did not ask after Selyse or Shireen; he could do nothing for them now. Instead, he studied Monford's smug expression and then turned his gaze to the guards around him.
"My men," Stannis said. "Florent men, Baratheon men—they are all gone."
"Gone yes, but dead? No," Monford admitted. "Detained, for now. They will not be harmed unless they make trouble."
Monford's expression remained amused. He leaned back in his chair "There is more news you should hear. The red woman is dead."
For the first time, something flickered across Stannis's expression. Not grief, nor anger, but something like understanding. A confirmation of what he had long feared but never spoken aloud.
"She did not die easily," Monford continued, eyes narrowing as he watched for Stannis's reaction. "One of my men burned when she called upon her cursed magic, but in the end, steel triumphed. And when she died, her body shriveled and rotted away like a corpse long dead. That was your red woman, Stannis. A creature of shadow and deceit."
Stannis remained silent, processing this information. He had believed in Melisandre's power—had seen it work. But had he ever truly trusted her? He could not say. And yet, she had been part of his cause, part of his war. Her death was another failure added to the long list that haunted him.
Monford leaned forward. "You gambled everything on fire and shadow, and now look where you sit—bound in chains, stripped of your seat, your banners burned. Your cause is dead."
Stannis met his gaze. "You are a traitor," he said simply. "A usurper in all but name."
Monford merely smirked. "Call me what you will, but I serve the true king. King Daeron."
Stannis said nothing, but inside, his mind was racing. Daeron Targaryen. The supposed son of Rhaegar. The dragon reborn, if the tales were to be believed. And now, it seemed, he had come to claim more than just the North and the Riverlands—he had taken Stannis's seat out from under him with hardly a battle fought.
Monford raised his goblet, filled with dark red wine. "To King Daeron," he toasted. "May his reign be long and glorious."
Stannis did not speak. He did not move. He only watched as Monford drank, and as the guards moved to escort him back to his chambers—now his prison.
As they shoved him inside and barred the heavy wooden door, Stannis sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the dark stone walls. Dragonstone was lost. His banners torn down, his men captured or killed. Melisandre was dead. His wife and daughter prisoners.
All his life, Stannis had clawed for what he was owed. The Stormlands, given to Renly. The crown, stolen by Joffrey, and now Daeron. And now, even the castle that had been his for years had been taken from him in a single night.
His hands clenched into fists against his thighs. He would not die in chains. He would not let this be his end. Somewhere, somehow, there was still a path forward.
Because Stannis Baratheon did not yield.