![]() Every time Renly cried, every time he begged for food, Stannis watched his sentries sag a little bit more. The boy was not yet ten, and did not understand. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached and he hated the little boy for crying. He wanted to eat and he wanted to play outside with his pony, and why had his mean brother taken his pony away? He didn’t understand why there was not enough food. Renly didn’t understand why he couldn’t go outside. The little boy’s crying could be heard across the walls of Storm’s End, a piteous, desperate, awful wailing. He was hungry, and he wanted lemon cakes. Stannis Baratheon, the Black Stag, on his victory over the Tyrell host at Storm’s End. What those men did was the greatest act of heroism I have ever seen, and the finest service a bannerman has ever offered his liege lord. My men, not I, deserve the accolades for that bloody victory. What we did at Storm’s End was by all rights a miracle of soldiering. Five thousand starving men had no right to defeat in their totality a host of the size Mace Tyrell brought to the field, no matter how poorly he led it. ![]() In all fairness to the Reacher lords, it must be said that I had not expected to survive the day.
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