The Old Maester
Maester Cressen prepared himself. He was old, yes, but he must not show it. He would need to be strong in the days to come. Strong for his last charge, for poor Renly who was now alone in the world. If only for his sake, the Maester told himself, he would stay firm. Maester Cressen entered the crowded hall.
Bronzegate was the only castle with a great hall large enough to accommodate the crowd who had come to see the trial, he had been told. The safety of the castle, far from the ocean and the grasping reach of the Greyjoys, remained unspoken. Whatever the reason, it was certainly true that the size of the hall was important. It seemed to the Maester as if every lord, lady, and knight in the realm was packed into this room, and he knew well that even more had been denied entry for refusing to surrender their weapons or for being un-trusted strangers. Trust was not a virtue much held by the Storm lords at the moment.
Maester Cressen cleared his throat and spoke up as loudly as he could. "Noble men and women of the Stormlands, I bid you rise for Lord Renly of the House Baratheon, rightful lord of the Stormlands and other territories and for his assembled Storm lords." It had been a compromise, a poorly received one at that. To crown Renly would be to commit suicide. But to abandon his claim? After Robert's brief, glorious campaign and Stannis's poor, deluded heroism, after the death of thousands of men and dozens of Baratheon bannermen? To abandon the claim would be another kind of suicide, one that no one was ready to try.
The Storm lords filed in, taking up positions on the hastily extended dais, with Estermont and Renly dressed as gaudily as a seven year old could be, adorned with gold and onyx. Anything, it seemed, to remind those present that Renly was of the same house as Robert and of the centuries-old rulers of the Stormlands. Estermont, almost almost forgettable beside his dazzling nephew, was conspicuous only in the Goldencup fastened to his lapel. All the Stormlords were displaying the flower somewhere. It had been one of Estermont's "little symbols" which he had been so obsessed with since assuming the Regency. The prominent empty chair on the dais bearing the symbol of House Selmy was another. As was the ridiculous "Declaration of the Storm Lords" where in all had promised to pledge their lives to defend Renly and the Stormlands and the parades marching young Renly through every town and city safe enough to have them. The Maester assumed that he himself was yet another symbol, another connection to better days gone past. That was the only reason Estermont had secured his release. That connection wasn't helping him now. He couldn't help but notice the angry glares coming from certain lords. They knew what he had promised.
Estermont's symbols weren't enough. The Storm lords were
angry. Angry at the Targaryens, angry at the Rebels, angry at the
Seven. Angry that within weeks they had changed from victorious leaders of a great cause to an abandoned and isolated remnant, unable to even protect their own lands, let alone fight in others. Conspiracies and rumors were spreading like wildfire. Lord Errol was telling any who would listen that Hoster Tully had been plotting to betray them since the day the Trident had ended. Lord Dondarrion speculated the Starks and Targaryns had pre-planned the whole war. Even worse, Lord Trant's young nephew Ser Meryn was swearing that he had seen the Valemen withdraw and let Robert be killed. Cressen had done all he could to stop the rumors from spreading, but at times it felt like only blood would stop the paranoia. Soon, that might be the case. Estermont had brought them their prey. The young "king" had escaped, but few seemed to care. Stark had answers. Stark was theirs.
Under heavy guard, the young Warden of the North was brought before the dais under heavy guard, resplendent in armor and furs. That, too, was one of Estermont's touches, one Cressen himself had suggested. The Storm Lords wanted respect; maybe a Great Lord in his prime, bowing before them would be enough to satiate them. Estermont spoke: "Lord Eddard of House Stark, you stand accused of betraying Robert Baratheon, whom you swore to serve as your king. You also stand accused of betraying Stannis Baratheon, whose claim is established through Robert. Further charges of plotting and coordinating an assault on the army of the Stormlands following the death of King Robert have also been raised. The only appropriate punishment for Treason is death. Should you plea not guilty, Maester Cressen has agreed to act on your behalf. How do you plead?" The hall was silent. Every ear strained, waiting for Lord Stark to speak. Lord Stark was spoke, defiant. "I have done nothing wrong. Have your trial."
Maester Cressen squeezed his chain and stepped forward. He would be strong, for Renly. He would free Lord Stark from the Stormlords.
