Prompt for Stannis FicArt Week: The ghosts of Baratheon past visit Stannis on his deathbed

Fear cuts deeper than a sword. He had heard those words often and scoffed at them each time. Fear could not draw blood or tore out a man's inside. A sword could.

A maester's potion would not heal his wound. Stannis had known that from the moment Ramsay Snow's blade struck him. Milk of the poppy could only hope to lessen the pain slightly, but only if he was willing to live out his last days in a hazy cloud of conscious unconsciousness.

No milk of the poppy, Stannis had insisted, over Pylos' objection and desperate pleading. The pain was worse than anything he had ever felt, but he would bear it all for the sake of knowing. For the sake of knowing and seeing to the very last. Not for Stannis the slow march to death, seeing nothing, knowing nothing, fooling himself that he was slipping quietly into blissful sleep.

But if he was lucid and undrugged, why was he seeing Orys Baratheon charging towards him with a sword in his hand? He recognized the man who had founded House Baratheon from the portrait in the Great Hall of Storm's End.

I am hallucinating. He is not here.

He closed his eyes tightly, counted to ten, and opened them again. Orys Baratheon was still there, standing by his bed.

Damn that maester for disobeying my command!

"You have no chance against my battle prowess, Stannis of House Baratheon. How could any descendant of mine be so weak?" Orys said with deep contempt.

"I killed the Bastard of Bolton. We have captured Winterfell. That is not weak," Stannis protested vehemently.

Dead. The bastard was dead, Stannis had seen to it himself. Lightbringer might not be the magic sword the lady Melisandre had promised, but it was sharp enough to cut through Ramsay Snow's neck. They had wounded each other, Stannis and Ramsay, in the confusion of the battle, but Stannis' sword had had the last word.

"Single combat," Orys Baratheon said. "You should have fought him in a single combat, like I did with the last storm king. I defeated Argilac Durrendon handily. It was a great victory."

"My men were victorious too, even if we were outnumbered."

Orys laughed. "You are going to die soon. How is that a victory? Victory is marching proudly on your own two legs to the castle you conquered, carrying the head of your fallen enemy in your hands, like I did. It's not being carried on a stretcher by your men, weak and dying."

"Leave my son alone. He did his best. Stannis has always tried to do his best." His father was crying. Stannis had seen Steffon Baratheon with tears in his eyes only once before, on the day Renly was born. Tears of joy, Steffon Baratheon had said, but Stannis knew it was much more than that. They were tears of relief, too, relief that both Cassana and the baby were fine after two days and two nights of difficult labor. They were tears of pain as well, recalling the pain his wife had gone through to bring another life into this world.

"No more," Stannis had heard Father whispering to Mother. "Three sons are more than enough, my love."

"I did my duty, Father. I have always done my duty, as you taught me," Stannis told his father now.

"Which of your duties?" Steffon was asking through his tears.

"All of them," Stannis insisted. "I did them all, no matter how unpleasant or distasteful I found them to be."

"Even your duty to your wife and your children?"

"Child. We only have the one child. Shireen is my heir. She will sit the Iron Throne. It is hers by right."

"And have you prepared her for that task? Have you loved her?"

"I have protected her. And I have tried to protect her inheritance," Stannis said adamantly. Justin Massey would be back in Westeros with the sellswords from the East soon. "Were I to die, you will avenge my death and put my daughter on the Iron Throne," Stannis had commanded Massey before he left.

"Forgive me, my son," Steffon said, the tears still falling down his cheeks.

"Why are you apologizing, Father?"

"I was negligent in my duty as a father. I never taught my children how to love."

"No! It is not your fault. It is me, it has always been me. Renly knew how to love. He loved himself and he loved being admired most of all, but Renly did love another person in his lifetime. Love, or what he believed was love twisted Robert's character and ruined him, but his love for Ned Stark the brother he chose was real. I am the only one. The only one who never knew how to love, Father."

"You should have loved Cressen at least." It was not his father's voice this time, but Renly's. Renly standing there grinning and eating a peach. He did not offer the fruit to Stannis this time. "Cressen loved you best of all. Loved you more than he loved Robert, and certainly more than he loved me," Renly continued.

"That is not true!"

"Maester Cressen abandoned me, a boy of eight who had never known any father except him, to follow you to Dragonstone. What is that if not proof of his love? He chose you, Stannis."

"It wasn't a choice," Stannis argued.

"Of course it was. A maester is sworn to a castle, not to a lord. Cressen should have stayed at Storm's End when Robert made me its lord. He chose you, and yet you still let him die."

"I didn't let him die. He chose to die!

"Keep telling yourself that, brother," Renly said with a smile, as charming as ever, as if death was merely another game he was playing, just another costume he was putting on for show.

Laughter filled the room. Robert with a wine goblet in his hand, looking at Stannis with a very amused expression on his face.

"What do you find so amusing?"

"You, Stannis. My dear brother who spent half his life cursing everyone for loving others but not him." Robert's voice changed, trying to imitate Stannis. "They have never loved me. When have they ever loved me? They loved my charming young brother as they loved Robert, as they have never loved me." Robert paused, and continued in his own voice. "And how many times did I have to listen to you whine and grumble about Ned? Well, it turns out you did have someone who loved you, loved you most of all among the three sons of Steffon Baratheon entrusted to his care."

"Stop!"

Robert plowed on. "And you let him die. You let that sweet, foolish old man who had never done anyone any harm die. Is it any wonder you will die alone and loveless, Stannis? You have no right to be disappointed."

So Robert did not know him at all. Stannis was not in the least surprised. "Why would I be disappointed? Disappointment requires expectation as a prerequisite. Foolish expectations and silly illusions. I have always known I would die alone and loveless. The world made that clear to me from an early age. I never had any illusion, Robert."

Robert's grin disappeared. "Are you ready to go, then?" He held out his hands to Stannis. "Come, brother. Follow me."

"No!" Stannis protested. "Not yet. My daughter … I must see her first. I must let her know … let her know that she must do her duty. I must let her know that the throne is hers by right. She must fight for it and bring justice to the realm. She is on her way. My daughter is on her way. I must wait for Shireen."

"Father."

Shireen. He breathed a sigh of relief. His daughter was here by his side. He held out his hand to her. She took it without hesitation, not shy or fearful of her father like she usually was.

"I'm here, Father."

"Shireen, listen to me –"

Her feet had made no sound entering the room.

A terrifying thought struck him. The only company he had since Maester Pylos left his sickroom had been the uninvited ghosts from the past. No, it can't be. Shireen was safe at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea with her mother. She had bid him goodbye as he was leaving for Castle Black. "I will pray for your safe return, Father," she had whispered to him, moments before he left.

She is safe. My daughter is safe!

The world was full of people willing to deceive themselves because they feared the truth. He had fallen into that trap himself at times, he who had prided himself on his lack of illusion, on his courage to face the truth no matter the consequences.

No more. Not this time. He would not die deceiving himself, even if the truth would destroy any semblance of hope he had left. He would die facing the truth squarely in the face. The truth that he had failed his daughter, failed the only person he had ever come close to loving. In his own way, even if his ways would seem strange to others.

There were no gods left to curse, none he believed or would ever believe again. He was alone, alone and loveless at the end of all things, as he had always known he would be. "Shireen," he called out to the ghost of his daughter. Her smile was the last thing he saw.