Chapter 19 (Different Stannis)

MC’s Pov

The moment of my coronation had finally arrived—a moment I had awaited ever since I found myself reborn as Stannis Baratheon in Westeros. I had once believed this day lay decades in the future, far beyond my reach. But Robert’s sudden death had spared the realm from a War of Five Kings, and now here I stood beneath the vast dome of the Great Sept of Baelor, about to claim the crown that was now mine.

I stood in the heart of the sept, the great ceiling soaring far above. Around me loomed the statues of the Seven: the Mother, the Father, the Warrior, the Smith, the Maiden, the Crone, and the Stranger. I had taken my place between the Father and the Warrior, their cold, stone faces seeming to weigh and measure me in silence.

To my left stood the High Septon, an old man wrapped in heavy white robes. His long white beard hung down to his chest, his face lined and pale. Behind me was Renly, my younger brother, his dark Baratheon hair swept back neatly, his blue eyes dancing with excitement that he made no effort to hide. He wore a fine black doublet edged with gold, the crowned stag of our house stitched proudly across his chest. In his hands rested a velvet pillow, and upon it lay the crown. He had begged to be the one to carry it, and I had seen no harm in letting him have that small honour.

I was dressed as a king should be. Black robes stitched with golden thread fitted close to my frame, and over my shoulders hung a heavy yellow cloak, thick and warm against my back. At my hip hung “Fury”, once the sword called “Heartsbane”, the pride of House Tarly. It was mine now, reforged to fit to House Baratheon, its antler-shaped crossguard dark and gleaming, the black hilt carved with gold. The scabbard was a bold mixture of gold and black, beautiful and severe in its simplicity. I let my hand rest on the hilt and allowed a faint, grim smile to touch my mouth. I looked every inch a king. All that remained was the crown.

My gaze swept across the gathered crowd. There were perhaps three hundred lords and ladies assembled, the most important nobility of Westeros. Beyond the sept’s walls, lesser nobility and the smallfolk waited, eager for the bells to ring out and announce the new king’s coronation.

To my right stood the Tyrells, gleaming in green and gold, their rose sigils clear as spring. Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns herself, met my eyes without flinching. Small and sharp and swathed in emerald silk, she stood like a thorn among flowers. Her grey hair peeked from beneath a fine golden net, and her thin lips curled in a smile that held no warmth. Beside her was Mace Tyrell—broad and florid, his chestnut curls bouncing as he shifted his weight. His face was soft. His wife, Alerie Hightower, stood straight and lovely in a gown of pale green, shimmering with tiny pearls. Her blonde hair rose in elaborate twists above her gentle face.

Next were the Lannisters, resplendent in red and gold. Tywin Lannister stood still and lean, his bald head shining faintly in the light. Golden whiskers lined his jaw, and his pale green eyes held the patience and cold of a hunting cat. His daughter Cersei stood beside him, her beauty impossible to ignore. Golden hair fell loose around her shoulders, framing a face of sharp cheekbones and bright emerald eyes. Her scarlet gown clung to her body, heavy with golden lions embroidered at the breast and sleeves. A necklace of gleaming rubies rested at her throat, catching the light with every breath she took. When she noticed my gaze, her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. Her eyes met mine, bold and unashamed. I forced myself to turn away, unsettled by the heat that lay behind her stare.

Jon Arryn, my Hand, stood nearby, calm and steady as ever. His face was deeply lined, but his pale blue eyes remained sharp and full of quiet strength. His thin blond hair was streaked with grey. Beside him stood his young wife, Lysa Tully. Her red hair framed a lovely face that carried the shadows of sadness. She was prettier than the actress who played her role in the show, though no rival for her sister. Catelyn Stark stood close to her husband, her fair skin glowing in the candlelight. Thick auburn hair was braided carefully over her shoulder, and her deep blue eyes watched with quiet judgment. Ned Stark, grave and solemn as ever, wore dark grey and wolf pelts, his long face stern beneath his dark brown hair.

The Tullys gathered nearby, their blue and red banners bright. Lord Hoster Tully stood broad-shouldered and proud, his face weathered by years but his sharp blue eyes still keen. His son Edmure fidgeted beside him, a boy of ten perhaps, dressed in a fine blue doublet, his auburn hair untidy. Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, stood a little apart from the rest, dressed in darker blue, his scarred face turned watchfully toward me.

The great doors of the sept groaned open. I turned and watched as the Martells swept into the hall in a wave of red and orange. Doran Martell led them, slow but proud, a man in his mid-thirties with olive skin, dark eyes, and a calm face. Clinging to his hand was a small girl, her dark curls bouncing. Her large, dark eyes scanned the sept with curiosity.

‘This must be Arianne, Doran’s heir,’ I noted.

Elia Martell followed close behind, glowing in a gown of bright orange silk. Her dark hair was swept high, pinned with gold. Her delicate face, smooth and sun-kissed, carried a quiet beauty that needed no boast. Beside her walked young Rhaenys, dressed in black and red to honour her dragon blood. She clutched her mother’s hand tightly, but when she saw me, she smiled and gave a shy wave. I smiled back, warmed by her simple sweetness.

A younger couple came next, bold and careless and laughing softly to each other.

Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, strode like a hunting cat, his dark eyes full of fire. At his side walked Ellaria Sand, her beauty bold, her olive skin aglow, her dark hair tumbling free. Her smile was wicked as ever, and her crimson gown clung to every curve. A golden snake pendant gleamed at her throat.

And then I saw her. The girl who stole my breath.

She wore a deep violet gown that shimmered like twilight. Her skin was pale like milk, untouched by the sun, glowing in the light. Her raven hair flowed in waves, darker than midnight. Her face was almost unreal, a sculptor’s dream, with high cheekbones, a delicate nose, and full lips that curved faintly. But it was her eyes that struck deepest. Haunting violet eyes. Deep as the sea. Eyes that could drown a man.

‘Ashara Dayne,’ I recognised her, my heart stuttering. I remembered her from my previous life. The fandom called her the most beautiful woman in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire, rivalled only by Shiera Seastar.

The Martells found their place, and Ashara took her place beside her brother, Vorian Dayne—the man whose gaze burned with fury as he looked at me, and I knew the reason well enough. He had not forgiven me for keeping Dawn, the sword of his house.

‘He must still be angry because I did not give back Dawn,’ I thought. The thought made me smile. ‘I wonder if he will trade his sword for his sister.’

Ashara lifted her gaze and met mine across the sept. I felt her beauty strike me like steel drawn from the sheath—sudden and sharp. For a moment, I forgot the crowd, forgot the crown waiting beside me. Her eyes caught me and held me fast as a drowning man. When she noticed my staring, her soft lips curled into the faintest smile, and she dipped her head in graceful greeting.

I looked away at once, my face warming with shame, cursing myself for gaping like a green boy.

I turned back to the High Septon.

"I believe it is time to begin," I said softly, my voice steady.

The High Septon gave a nod. "As you wish, Your Grace."

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Cersei’s pov

I stood beneath the soaring dome of the Great Sept of Baelor, surrounded by the lords and ladies of Westeros. Light filtered through the sept's crystal windows, casting rainbows across the marble floor.

Today was Stannis Baratheon's coronation, the moment a man I couldn't quite understand became king.

'New king,' I thought, my lips curving slightly, 'and soon, my husband.'

But Stannis was a puzzle, a mystery of a man who had somehow stepped into the light. I didn’t like puzzles I couldn’t solve.

I had heard the tales. They said Stannis ruled the Stormlands with an iron fist, transforming its ports into bustling trade hubs. He had begun producing drinks that rivalled the Reach's finest wines, flooding taverns from Dorne to the Wall. Initially, I dismissed such stories as mere merchant gossip. But then came the tales of his brilliance on the battlefield.

At the Battle of Felwood, Stannis defeated a Reachman army ten times larger than his own and took the High Lord of the Reach captive. In single combat, he killed Randyll Tarly and claimed the Tarlys' ancestral Valyrian steel sword as his prize. News of his victory raced from Storm’s End across Westeros, even reaching the docks of Lannisport. Where once tavern songs praised only Robert Baratheon—the bold young lord who defied a mad king and a rapist prince for his precious Lyanna—now they sang of his younger brother, the man who guarded his home and defeated the Reachmen who dared to attack his home.

After the battle, Stannis's fame spread like wildfire, and he became the man many girls in Westeros dreamed of. Once, I overheard my serving girls and handmaids gossiping about him, their cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling with silly fantasies. I paid them no mind. My heart had been fixed on Rhaegar Targaryen, the silver-haired prince whose beauty haunted my dreams.

I could have erased the sadness from his face and filled it with joy, but his mad father had married him to that frail Dornish woman, Elia Martell, and Rhaegar had thrown himself into ruin for some northern savage. When I learned that both Rhaegar and Robert had perished, I wept for my prince. He had been perfect—my mirror in beauty—and yet he had wasted it all. Fool that he was, he deserved his fate.

Rhaegar was gone. Yet I would still be queen, as I had always dreamed. When I met Stannis in the godswood, his words shook me to my core. “I know the truth about you and Jaime.” He had uncovered the secrets no man should have known. I stood before him, my heart pounding, my dream of wearing a crown turning to ash before my eyes, fear gripping me.

But to my surprise, he offered me a chance to wear the crown and be his queen in exchange for my loyalty. I could not understand why he had made such a choice. I wanted to believe that my beauty—my golden hair and vivid green eyes—had bewitched him. But deep down, I knew that was not the case. Something else had driven him, some hidden purpose I could not grasp, and that truth gnawed at me. Stannis Baratheon, with his secrets and unexpected mercy, had become a riddle that unsettled me more than any foe.

'What drives you?' I wondered, my gaze narrowing as I thought of him.

As my thoughts turned to him, I glanced in his direction. He was staring at me, his dark blue eyes meeting mine. I flashed a provocative smile—perhaps too bold—letting my charm blaze.

'Look at me,' I thought, 'only at me.'

But Stannis quickly turned away, his jaw tight. In his black doublet and golden cloak, he looked every inch a king, especially compared to Aerys, whose memory still made me shudder—those long nails, that filthy hair.

'Our wedding would be in this sept too,' I thought, between the Mother and the Father, as royal weddings always are. I smiled, picturing myself in a radiant white gown, hundreds of eyes on me—some adoring, others burning with jealousy.

'Soon,' I thought, my heart racing, 'very soon.'

I had not yet given Stannis my answer, but I would tonight, after the coronation. I would bind him to me and secure my place at his side.

Suddenly, the great doors of the sept creaked opene, drawing every eye—including mine.

The Martells entered, and the room fell into silence. First came a man with a little girl at his side. I had never met them, but I recognized them by their sigil.

'This must be the older brother of Elia, the prince of Dorne and his heir,' I presumed.

Behind them walked Elia Martell. Her thin frame was draped in an orange gown. Her dark hair was swept into an elegant updo, and her brown eyes scanned the crowd.

'She looks like a starved peasant,' I thought, fury rising. 'Rhaegar chose her over me. That sickly Dornish whore. I’ll never forgive her for stealing my prince.'

Clinging to Elia’s hand was little Rhaenys Targaryen. She peered around the sept with innocent curiosity, and when she spotted Stannis, she waved eagerly. To my surprise, Stannis’s face softened, and he returned a small smile. I frowned. 'Why does she smile at him, or he at her?

Next came Oberyn Martell. I had met him years ago at Casterly Rock, when he and Elia had visited with their mother, seeking betrothals.

Their mother had dared propose that I wed Oberyn and Jaime marry Elia.

'Me, a second son’s wife?' I scoffed inwardly. 'A second son with no inheritance? Laughable.'

Father had refused, instead offering Elia to Tyrion, our little monster. The Martells had taken it as an insult, but I thought it fitting. Sickly Elia, with her frail health, was better suited to Tyrion than to a prince like Rhaegar.

Behind Oberyn, a girl entered, whom I recognized by her violet eyes.

'Ashara Dayne. The girl whose beauty’s famed across Westeros,' I thought, jealousy twisting in my gut. 'Overrated.'

Maybe she had rare violet eyes, but they weren’t as beautiful as my emerald ones. Her dark hair? Nothing compared to my golden locks, shimmering like a goddess’s. Yet every man in the sept stared at her like they’d never seen a woman before.

'Foolish men,' I muttered under my breath. 'They would gape at a cheap whore the same way.'

Then I glanced at Stannis, and my stomach dropped. He was staring at Ashara too, like some virgin boy seeing a woman for the first time.

'Him too?' I thought, rage flaring like wildfire. 'Those Dornish whores. First, Elia stole Rhaegar, and now Ashara dares to catch Stannis’s eye? No,' I vowed, 'I won’t let it happen.' The queen’s crown was mine, and no one would take it from me again.

I glared at Stannis, willing him to look at me, to see the woman who would be his queen. But his eyes remained on Ashara, and when she turned to meet his gaze, a faint smile curved her lips. Stannis flushed, his composure cracking, and he tore his eyes away, turning to the High Septon beside him. He murmured that they should begin the ceremony. The septon nodded, agreeing softly.

I looked down, staring at the floor, my mind racing. 'What if Stannis reconsidered our marriage? What if he chooses that Dornish harlot instead?' The thought was unbearable. 'No, it would not happen. I would not let it.' If I had to, I would deal with Ashara myself. 'If I must, I’ll rip out her violet eyes myself and see what she charms him with then.'

My thoughts broke at the sudden roar of the crowd.

"Long may he reign," they shouted, their voices echoing off the sept’s walls. Startled, I looked up to see Stannis with the crown upon his head—a heavy circlet of black iron wrought with stag antlers and gold inlays, gleaming in the light. Bells began to toll outside, their deep peals announcing the new king to the city.

A sudden roar pulled me from my thoughts: “Long may he reign!” the crowd shouted. I looked up, startled, and saw Stannis standing, the crown on his head.

'It’s over?' I thought, stunned. My anger had so consumed me that I’d missed the entire coronation.

'No matter,' I told myself, clapping with a forced smile. 'He’s king now, and I’ll be his queen.' But as I watched Stannis, his eyes still flickering toward Ashara, doubt gnawed at me.

'I’ll make him mine,' I swore, 'or I’ll burn them all.'