The light in Lord Stannis Baratheon's solar was thin, the sun hidden in the storm clouds of Shipbreaker Bay. A black rope of smoke filled with soot rising in curls toward the high, grey-stoned beam ceiling of Storms End. The air in the room cold from the stormy winds of Durran's Point, filled with salty smell that shook the narrow windows of Storm's End in rhythm.
Maester Jurne forgets to pauses outside the ironwood doors of the solar, for the terrible urgency seeing the sigil on the parchments in his hands made him forget any manner. He did not knock and rushes inside shoving the door open. It groans on its hinges, at being forced to open at such speed and force.
Few present in the chamber turn their heads him at his rushed entry. Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, Hand of King Stannis, stands from his chair at once by the desk at his reckless entry. His brow lifting in surprise seeing him. While the newest guest to Storms End, Lady Melisandre of Asshai did not stir from her place near the flames, only her crimson eyes looking like pools of blood, flicker towards him. A faint and almost unsettling ghost of a knowing smile touching her lips, as if she had been waiting for him to arrive here at this moment.
Stannis sat at his chair looking at him, his back straight and touching the backrest, and hands folded before him. The moment stretched with silence and Jurne swallows deep. "Pardon my mistake, Your Grace," he stammers, lowering his head. "But a raven has arrived, from King's Landing… and from Dragonstone as well."
The parchment in his hand felt like death trap as he laid it upon Stannis's table, feeling astonished eyes of both men upon him only Lady Melisandre appeared unmoved, her gaze gleaming in satisfaction as if proven right of something.
"You may leave now, Maester," Stannis said at last, his voice commanding. The maester bows his head stiffly, glad for the reprieve, and closes the door with a soft sound when leaving. For a long only silence reigns in the solar of Storms End when finally after long moment Stannis gets up from his leather chair and walks to the window. The faint reflection of himself meets him in the glass, looking far older than he actually seem to be.
"So it's as you said then," he said, his tone carrying a weight of harsh revelation. "Ned Stark, the man of honor, fooled all of Westeros… to save his nephew, all the while hiding a threat to the crown."
A soft derisive laugh filled with utter amusement echoes in the room, and Melisandre's soft voice questions the words of Stannis, which looked inherently wrong to her. "The Iron Throne was his in the first place, my lord," she corrects. "A Targaryen forged it with fire of his Dragon and blood of enemies. It is only meant for a Targaryen to sit upon."
Stannis turns sharply at such words, his jaw tight and eyes hard. "You don't consider me a king either, do you?"
Her expression softens at that, the mocking smile from earlier turning surprisingly tender. "You could have been a great king, my lord, had the prince not lived. But R'hllor showed me his importance, to Westeros, to the dawn yet to come and my god has never lied to me."
She gets up from seat and moves closer to the burning hearth, the ruby at her throat pulsing faintly, capturing the light and heat from the fire. "He brought me here to Storm's End, to you, because it was necessary that you join the true king in his conquest and rule."
Davos, silent until now, shifts his weight uneasily, his gaze fixed on the woman's unsettling demeanour. The fires speak to her, he thinks grimly, is it witchcraft from her side, or some form of ploy of forcing their bloody ambitions in name of R'hllor in Westeros?
"And this prince," he starts, his voice rough, "you think he's worthy of the throne, my lady? Not just another boy playing at crowns like Robb Stark or that kid Joffrey?"
Melisandre turns her head to him and a sultry smile blooms upon her lips. There were many things he saw hidden in them, danger, devotion and a hint of madness. "You'll see his importance when you see the threat at first glance, Lord Davos," she answers softly.
Stannis's eyes did not leave her face all the while during her talk to Davos, searching for some kind of lie he hoped to be present there. "And you cannot kill him? With all that magic you've shown us?"
Her smile finally falters at that. The red woman's pouty lips parted just slightly, the sigh draining from them. "I tried," she whispers, her voice so low that the crackling of the hearth nearly swallowed it. "Once, I tried to test the will of the King R'hllor had showed me I am to serve. The lash I received for it still burns in my bones and blood, my lord."
Her fingers traces the skin on her forearm, where faint pale scars shimmered beneath her blood-red clothing. Stannis's expression hardens at that, having seen the strength in her magic. His knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of his chair, the wood groaning beneath. Then, slowly, he releases his hold and falls back into his chair. To serve, he thinks remembering the last time he served his own brother, he was made a joke in the small council.
"I will not kneel to him," he said at last, the words falling like a decree over the present. "Not before I meet the boy myself."
Davos frowns, sensing unspoken words in them. "And then?"
"Then," Stannis said, his eyes narrowing towards the woman in Red clothing who has made clear of his importance by the King's side, "I shall see what he really has to offer to the realm."
Melisandre smiles at that, the fire's reflection dancing in her crimson eyes.
Far away, in the cold, grey and mountain valleys of the Vale, the clang of steel and the ground-shaking sound of boots filled the mountain passes. Thousands of men marched, banners of the red-dragon, of the Narrow Sea, and few Vale House rippled together beneath the clear sky.
Ser Barristan Selmy rode beside Lord Celtigar and Lord Grafton, his white cloak stained faintly by mountain dust. The march seemed to go long before them, and at the front of the line, marched with the polished bronze, men of House Royce. Their lord riding on tall warhorse, in a bronze armour engraved with the ancient, indecipherable runes of the First Men.
Lord Beric Dondarrion riding behind the Lord Grafton and others, squints his eyes to the front and speaks in surprise. "I never thought Lord Royce would join this march," he mutters. "Not with thousands of his own men. He's known to be stubborn as a mountain goat."
From the front, Lord Grafton answers in a calm voice. "Its's as I said earlier, Lord Beric. Tensions are running deep amongst lords here. Petyr Baelish's scheming is a poison in the Vale, and Lord Royce believes dealing with that snake is more urgent than any dragon."
Lord Symond Templeton, newly joined to the host army, nods grimly. "Lord Grafton speaks true, my Lords. Baelish feigns for rebellion against the Lannisters to us while shows loyalty to them in their small council at Kings Landing. Lord Royce may be headstrong amongst all of Lord Declarant, but even he grows tire of the Mockingbird's double tongue. With Lady Lysa plotting here own game, the Vale needs order before the madness swallows it whole."
Barristan glances sidelong at him, his eyes narrowing at the man who said it. "And you lacked the means to deal with him all this time, Lord Templeton?"
A flush crepts up the young Lord's neck hearing Ser Barristan question. "Only six great houses dared stand against him, Ser Barristan forming a group called Lord Declarant. The lesser lords still cling to Lady Lysa's sweet and useless words, and other major house like that of Corbray remain loyal to Baelish's promises. Lady Anya Waynwood fears civil war between the Vale's banners should we push harder, according to her Baelish is more dangerous than Lord Tywin."
Lord Celtigar, riding silent till then, opens his mouth at last, his tone sharp as ever. "Lions or birds, it matters little, my lords. None matters when dragon lands in your House to burn everything you own." The cold wind carried his words down the long mountain road, where the banners of the red dragon were carried by the Royal army made of Unsullied men.