Konoe Bowie hurried to explain, "Ser, we were alone just now when we noticed him hiding, avoiding the gathering in the square. We went to question him, but he ran as soon as he saw us."
"Is that so?" Cole muttered, realizing he may have misjudged.
The man in question stood before him—unshaven, with matted hair, tattered clothes, and a rag tied around his injured leg. He walked with a limp, a boy trailing behind him.
There was no sept or septon in this village, but there was a respected elder, a man who had studied at the Citadel and could read and write. He had never earned a maester's chain, though.
In the Citadel, maesters were ranked by their links, and to serve as a noble's maester, one had to be of sufficient standing. Apprentice, acolyte, full maester—those were the ranks.
"Is this man a farmer from your village?" Cole asked the village elder.
The elder was frail with age, his voice trembling, his breath uneven. But he was trying his best. "Perhaps I am too old, but I do not recall ever seeing this man before."
Cole had only asked to follow procedure. His men had arrested the stranger, after all.
"Let him go. Seems like a misunderstanding."
The man let out a quiet breath of relief, something Cole did not miss. He studied him closely, and the longer he looked, the more familiar the man seemed. Where had he seen him before?
"There are plenty of bandits and outlaws roaming these lands," he said casually. "His Grace, King Stannis, has more pressing matters to deal with. Best not to wander off on your own."
He turned to the village elder. "If you still intend to send grain, do not travel alone. This time, the grain collection is not without reward. We promise double in return, and you'll get every last copper owed to you."
This was the third time food had been collected from the villages under Storm's End. The first was when the Stormlands had rallied behind Renly. The second had been after Stannis reclaimed Storm's End—but it had done little good. Most of the grain had already been gathered under Ser Cortnay Penrose, the acting castellan, only for him to burn it rather than let it fall into enemy hands.
If this third collection was to be of any real use, force might be necessary. If it were Tywin Lannister, he wouldn't even need to say it aloud—it would simply be done. It was efficient, after all.
But if the farmers were willing to hand over their grain in Stannis's name, it spoke to the weight of a noble's word. These were men who valued honor above all else. And Stannis Baratheon did not break his word.
"Ser, may I ask... are you with Stannis?" The limping man, who had kept his head down until now, suddenly spoke.
"I am Cole Julius, sworn to His Grace, King Stannis Baratheon." Cole's tone sharpened. "And it is not proper to refer to His Grace so casually. Mind your tongue."
The man lifted his head. "I must speak with the King." He hesitated, then added, "I am Eddard Stark of Winterfell."
Cole froze at the name.
Eddard Stark? He ran the timeline through his head. By now, Eddard Stark should have been executed by King Joffrey. So how in the Seven Hells was he here, in the Stormlands?
Cole wasn't a spymaster. He knew little of what was happening in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. He had no idea how the war in the North was progressing. His knowledge came only from what was yet to unfold. Like Storm's End—he knew that in the end, only Ser Cortnay Penrose would stand against surrender.
And once Cortnay Penrose was gone, the castle would fall.
"Eddard Stark? The Warden of the North? The Hand of the King?" Cole asked, disbelief thick in his voice.
Eddard Stark nodded, assuming the young knight recognized him. But Stark had no idea who Cole was. He prided himself on knowing most of the noble houses of Westeros, yet he had only ever seen the sigil of the fire-breathing white bird once before. It reminded him of the sky-blue falcon of House Arryn or the silver eagle of House Mallister.
Cole's expression darkened.
He had his doubts, but in the end, he provided Eddard Stark and his daughter with horses. Yes, daughter—Cole only realized the girl's presence after the fact. He might have been blind, but given how filthy she looked, anyone would have mistaken her for a stablehand.
Had Eddard not called her name, Cole wouldn't have spared the girl a second glance.
Arya.
At first glance, she looked like any other scrawny boy. But when he looked closer, her features weren't bad. She wasn't ugly—just unkempt.
She noticed his frequent glances and glared at him.
Cole smirked. Just curiosity, nothing more. If this really was Arya Stark, then how did she end up training with the Faceless Men later? If she and her father were here in the Stormlands, was this some unknown part of history?
By the time they arrived back at the castle, night had already fallen. The gates stood open, carts of grain still rolling through.
The guards at the gate spotted Cole's fire-breathing white bird banner and shouted for the men to clear a path. This was their commander.
Cole led Eddard Stark through the city and toward the keep.
As expected, the study was still lit. He knocked, and a moment later, the door opened. Davos Seaworth stood there.
"Ser Julius." Davos greeted him with a nod.
"Davos, I need to see His Grace."
Stannis's voice came from within. "Come in. I am still awake."
Cole stepped inside. Stannis stood by the window, his back to them. Without turning, he spoke.
"The scouts report that Renly has led his army into the King's Wood."
"His army was originally stationed at Bitter bridge, not far from here. Did the scouts see how many men he has?" Cole asked as he stepped inside, Eddard Stark following behind.
"About twenty thousand," Stannis replied. "He also sent a letter inviting me to meet him at Bronze gate. Ralph Buckler is with Renly now—that's his land."
Ralph Buckler, the Lord of Bronze gate, ruled over a strategic fortress built along the Wend water, on the outskirts of the King's Wood. It controlled the path linking Storm's End to the Roseroad, making it a critical defensive point.
Unless Renly attempted a daring approach through the mountains of Summerhall, he would have to lead his forces through Bronzegate.
Given enough time, Cole would have advised Stannis to seize the castle.
Stannis glanced at the unfamiliar man standing behind Cole. "Is this your new squire? If you're short on men, I can ask Duram Bar Emmon to assist you."
Cole nearly laughed at the thought of the plump young lord of Sharp Point. He had spoken with Duram several times over supper, but he was hardly a warrior.
"This is Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Your Majesty," Cole explained, exasperated that Stannis had mistaken the Duke of the North for a mere squire. Though, to be fair, Cole himself had not recognized him at first either.
Stannis studied the man carefully under the candlelight. "Eddard Stark? I heard you were dead."
Only then did Stannis truly take in the sight before him. It had been ten years since they last stood together in battle, both fighting for Robert.
"It is good news to see you alive," Stannis admitted. "But what in the seven hells happened to you?"
Stannis took his seat at the table, while Cole fetched a chair for Eddard.
Eddard sighed. "It's a long story."
Davos poured them each a cup of wine—Storm's End still had a decent supply.
Eddard nodded in thanks. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had a drink—perhaps when Varys had brought him wine in the dungeons of King's Landing. "I sent you a letter, urging you to claim the throne, but Cersei never allowed it to leave the city.
"While I was there, I investigated Jon Arryn's death."
"What did you discover?" Stannis asked.
"Joffrey is not Robert's son," Eddard declared. "I will not stand by while an incest-born bastard sits on the Iron Throne. You are Robert's rightful heir, Your Majesty."
"I know," Stannis said bluntly. "I knew even before you arrived in King's Landing. I had the maesters send ravens to the lords of the realm, telling them the truth of Joffrey's parentage, but few responded.
"I even dispatched my most trusted men to plead my case, yet no army has come. They would rather rally behind Renly."
Eddard was taken aback. He recalled what Renly had said to him in King's Landing. Though Renly had not openly declared his ambition for the Iron Throne at the time, he had spoken of gathering a hundred swords to remove Joffrey from Cersei's grasp.
It seemed he had far greater ambitions.
"Renly's claim comes after yours," Eddard said firmly.
"The lords of the south do not see it that way," Stannis said, his voice laced with frustration. "Do you know how I took Storm's End?
"I lost a thousand men. Ten knights died in the siege. And now Renly marches his army into the King's Wood."
"The North will stand with you, Your Majesty," Eddard vowed. "If you send me to White Harbor, I will gather our forces and march south."
Cole, listening from the side, couldn't help but rub his chin.
"Your son already leads an army," Stannis informed him. "Tywin Lannister is trapped in the Riverlands, unable to break free."
Eddard stiffened, absorbing the news. Robb—his boy, only fifteen—was leading the North's army into battle. How had he managed to command the loyalty of his bannermen? He needed to return home, to take charge himself.
"He has done well," Stannis admitted. "Tywin has suffered at his hands."
Stannis Baratheon was not a man given to flattery, so his words carried weight.
Hearing praise for his son brought Eddard some relief. But deep down, he knew Robb was still young, still untested. There was so much he needed to teach him.
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