281 AC

"The view is beautiful from up here," Rhaegar said, as he and Stannis stood at the parapet, looking out to Shipbreaker Bay.

The view was certainly not beautiful the day Windproud sank, the day Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana returned from their ill-fated mission to find a bride for Prince Rhaegar in Volantis. A bride with the blood of Old Valyria, because no other bride was good enough for his heir, King Aerys insisted. And yet, barely a year after the death of Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana, the king arranged for his son's betrothal to Princess Elia of Dorne, a woman from Westeros, not Volantis. A woman with some Targaryen blood in her lineage, inherited from Princess Daenerys Targaryen, who married Prince Maron Martell a few generations ago.

There she is, a woman with the blood of Old Valyria, right here in Westeros. My mother and father need not have died at all, if your father had betrothed you to Elia of Dorne from the start.

Only the solemn reminder from Maester Cressen that he must be a gracious host managed to stay Stannis' tongue from voicing this thought out loud to Rhaegar.

"The last time I visited Storm's End, it was for a tourney," Rhaegar continued.

"I remember. You unhorsed my father in the joust."

Rhaegar smiled. "Ahhh … it was no great achievement of mine, truly. Cousin Steffon was gracious enough to allow me –"

Stannis frowned. "My father did not allow you to defeat him on purpose, to curry favor with you, or with the king. Your victory was your own. You defeated him fairly, not because he was deliberatelytrying to lose."

Rhaegar was taken aback. "I did not mean to imply that Cousin Steffon was trying to curry favor with anyone, only that he was gracious enough to allow me to shine."

You must be a gracious host, Stannis, like your lord father always was, Maester Cressen had said.

Robert would have known how to be a gracious host. Or perhaps not. Robert would be more charming than gracious. He would try to charm the guest with endless talk about himself and his own prowess, which, strangely enough, seemed to be a successful approach with many guests. This had never ceased to astound Stannis. How could extreme self-regard be seen as charming rather than boorish? But perhaps, he thought, cynically, everything a man said and did would be considered charming if he was handsome enough, and held a powerful enough position in life.

Lord Steffon's notion of being a gracious host was chiefly about endeavoring to draw the guest out, to encourage the guest to talk about himself. In that same spirit, Stannis asked (though not sounding as naturally and smoothly as his father would have sounded), "The tourney at Harrenhal … will you be entering the lists, Prince Rhaegar?"

Rhaegar smiled again, but his smile was a rueful one, this time. "Alas, I must. For my sins."

For his sins? What sins did he mean, exactly? wondered Stannis.

Seven hells, Stannis! Don't be so bloody literal all the time, Robert would have carped.

"You must, you said. Why?" Stannis asked, bluntly.

Rhaegar laughed, as if to hide his discomfort. "It is … well, it is merely a figure of speech, saying that I must. I am expected to, I should say. What about you, Cousin Stannis? Will you be entering the lists at Harrenhal?"

"No, I will not be in the lists. I will not be attending the tourney at all," replied Stannis.

Rhaegar waited for more explanation. Stannis thought he had fully answered Rhaegar's question. The awkward silence, as each of them expected the other to speak, went on for quite a while. Finally, Rhaegar cleared his throat and said, "Well ... we will miss seeing your prowess at Harrenhal, I'm sure."

"I have no particular prowess in jousting, unlike my brother."

"And will we be seeing Cousin Robert at Harrenhal?"

Stannis nodded.

"Good. That is good," Rhaegar said. "I look forward to seeing him there." After a pause, he added, "I had hoped to find Cousin Robert at Storm's End before the tourney. Will he be away for long?"

"He has gone to visit Lord Arryn, his foster father. We had a raven the day before yesterday, informing us of his safe arrival at the Eyrie. He plans to stay for three weeks, at the least. If you had written to let us know that you were coming, perhaps –"

"I had not planned to visit Storm's End. We were on our way back to Dragonstone from the ruins of Summerhall, when the thought struck me that I had not visited my cousins of Baratheon for quite some time."

The other part of the "we" was Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, currently standing some paces behind Stannis and Rhaegar, at a distance far enough that he could not be accused of eavesdropping, but still close enough to come to Rhaegar's rescue, in the event –

What is it that they fear I might do? Throw the Prince of Dragonstone over the parapet? Strangle him with his long, streaming hair?

With his father's face and Maester Cressen's reminder looming large in his mind, Stannis forced himself to say, "Storm's End is honored by your visit, Prince Rhaegar," as graciously as he could manage, which was probably not very gracious at all.

Where were you, or your father, when my father and mother were buried? It did not occur to you to visit Storm's End back then. It did not occur to you to wonder how your cousins of Baratheon were faring back then. Your father cared more about blaming Tywin Lannister for the shipwreck, using my father and mother as mere pawns in his struggles against Lord Tywin. And you, where were you, Prince Rhaegar, three years ago? Why this sudden concern for the fate of your cousins of Baratheon, three years too late? What do you want from us? What do you want from Robert, from the Lord of Storm's End?

He must warn Robert to be cautious and wary of the Prince of Dragonstone, Stannis decided.

"I should have visited Storm's End more often, when Cousin Steffon was still alive," Rhaegar said, with a faraway look in his eyes. "There are many questions about the tragedy at Summerhall I could have asked him. My own father and mother never spoke of the fire. Cousin Steffon –"

"My father never spoke of the fire either," Stannis said, curtly.

I promised. I promised my mother that we would never speak of it, Steffon Baratheon had said, on the rare occasions he had been asked about Summerhall. He had never broken that promise, as far as Stannis knew.

"I was born on the day of the great tragedy. Did you know that?" asked Rhaegar.

Stannis nodded. How could he not know? The melancholy prince, born in grief, born amidst the tears and sorrows of Summerhall. Singers and storytellers delighted in telling that tale, each adding their own twists and embellishments, because even a real tragedy was apparently not tragic enough for the spinners of songs and stories. Vultures, thought Stannis. They were all vultures, feasting on the grief of others.

"I have written a song," said Rhaegar, as they were going down the stairs, "that I hope to present during the feast tonight, to show my appreciation for the warm welcome I have received in Storm's End."

"A song?"

"A song honoring the great love between Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana. Even death could not tear them asunder, that is the title of the song."

Stannis was appalled.

You can sing of Summerhall to your heart's content; that is your tragedy, your own story. But not my father and mother. Not them! You have no right, no right at all to make use of their love, life and demise to serve your own purpose.