Dragonstone, the Map Room.
In the vast stone hall, an obsidian map table carved with the terrain of all Westeros dominated the center of the chamber. Stannis Baratheon sat upon the throne at the head of the table. His expression was cold, his jaw tightly set.
Beside the table stood his two most trusted advisors: Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, and the elderly Maester Cressen of Dragonstone. Davos's face was marked with worry, while Cressen appeared even more aged and weary.
Yet at that moment, every gaze in the room was fixed upon the woman standing on the far side of the table.
Melisandre.
A deep crimson robe, smooth and lustrous like blood, wrapped around her tall, graceful form, outlining a silhouette that was both elegant and dangerously alluring. Her long, night-black curls flowed over her shoulders, framing a face of striking, almost unearthly beauty.
Her eyes were a deep, burning red—two rubies alight with some strange inner flame. She stared unblinking at Stannis upon the throne, as though her gaze could pierce through his hardened shell and reach into the deepest part of his soul, where desire and doubt battled for dominance. Around her neck hung a massive ruby pendant that pulsed faintly in the dim light, casting a faint crimson glow.
"Your Grace..."
Melisandre's voice echoed through the vast stone hall. "The Long Night approaches. The ancient god of cold sharpens his claws even now. But the light has never faltered. The tale of Azor Ahai is no mere legend. The Prince that was Promised, the Lord of Lightbringer, has been reborn in the land of smoke and salt. He shall rise from the depths of despair, wielding the burning holy sword, to drive away the darkness and end the Long Night!
Your Grace... you are the Prince of Prophecy! R'hllor's flames have revealed your destiny to me. The Lightbringer destined to pierce the heart of the god of cold—only you can draw it from the fire! My prince of prophecy, you must gather your host, land in the Stormlands, and claim your throne."
"Nonsense!"
Old Maester Cressen could hold back no longer. His frail body trembled with outrage. "Your Grace! Do not listen to this red priestess's delusions. Azor Ahai? The Lightbringer? These are ancient fables—tricks used by priests to deceive the faithful! She only seeks to use you—to use the Baratheon name—to spread her heretical god's creed across the Seven Kingdoms!"
Davos stepped forward at once, eyes wary and filled with disgust toward Melisandre. "Your Grace, Maester Cressen is right. This woman's origins are unknown, and her words cannot be trusted. The Stormlands are already hell. Viserys has landed with thirty thousand Dothraki—burning, looting, killing. Storm's End has crowned Edric Storm, and the Lannisters watch for weakness like wolves. We have only Dragonstone's meager fleet and a few thousand men. To land in the Stormlands now would be suicide—sending every loyal soldier you have to die. We must wait. Wait for the Reach or Dorne to join the conflict. Wait for the Lannisters and Targaryens in King's Landing to tear each other apart. Only then will we have a chance!"
"Wait? Always wait!"
Stannis shot up from the Dragonbone Throne, his long-restrained fury exploding. His fist came crashing down upon the cold obsidian table.
A sharp crack rang through the chamber.
Blood burst from his knuckles, dripping through his fingers onto the map of Westeros spread across the table—like blossoms of vivid, defiant red.
Veins stood out on his forehead, dark blue eyes blazing as he fixed Davos and Cressen with a death stare.
"You expect me to wait until when? When Redwyne's fleet circled Dragonstone like vultures, you told me to be patient. Fine, I waited. Now Redwyne's fleet has returned to Arbor, and you tell me to wait again?
The Seven Kingdoms are bleeding. My Stormlands are bleeding. My people wail beneath savage scimitars and groan under Lannister tyranny. The Stormlands of House Baratheon are my rightful domain.
And I, Stannis Baratheon, rightful Great Lord of the Stormlands, legitimate King of the Seven Kingdoms, am to cower like a coward behind Dragonstone's stones and wait?"
His chest heaved. His gaze swept over Davos and Cressen, who stood frozen under his fury, and finally settled on Melisandre's crimson eyes burning with strange fire.
"I will not sit idle and watch my kingdom torn apart. I will not wait until I sit the Iron Throne to save it—for then there will be nothing left but scorched earth and corpses. I will win the Iron Throne by saving the kingdom.
The Lannisters, the traitors in the Reach—I will settle accounts with them, burn them to ash with the flames of justice. But now, Lady Melisandre, you say you can give me power? Guide me through the fog of blood and fire? Tell me: what power can you give me? Can you let me save my Stormlands at once? Can you let me crush that Targaryen remnant and the savages he brought? Can you let me tear that usurper, Edric Storm, from the walls of Storm's End?"
At last the mask-like, exquisite smile on Melisandre's face spread fully.
"Yes, Your Grace. R'hllor's power is far beyond mortal blades and shields. It will light your way, pierce the fog your foes have cast, make your will firm as stone, multiply your soldiers' courage, and make your enemies see visions of doom in the dark, trembling in terror. As for strength…"
She stepped forward until she nearly touched Stannis.
"The power lies in the Stormlands. I saw it in the flames. If you go to the Stormlands yourself, defeat those savages and cut off their heads, R'hllor's light will guide you to claim that power."
Her words poured into the heart of Stannis, already seared by duty and anger. Save the kingdom to claim the Iron Throne. Prove it by action. Wash away humiliation with the enemy's blood. Each phrase struck at his deepest longing.
"Very well."
Stannis snapped his hand out. His eyes sharpened. Hesitation fell away, leaving only an all-or-nothing resolve.
"Herald!"
His voice rolled through the maproom. "Gather every ship and soldier on Dragonstone. Load all our weapons and provisions. Land in the Stormlands!
Let those Dothraki savages see. Let that false king at Storm's End see. Let the Lannisters in King's Landing see what a true King of the Seven Kingdoms looks like!"
…
Beyond the Wall, the Haunted Forest.
An eternal silence ruled this land, colder and more merciless than death itself. Towering sentinel trees and soldier pines stood draped in heavy coats of ice and snow, their twisted branches stretching outward to cast eerie, warped shadows under the pale, lifeless sky.
Snow lay knee-deep, crunching with each labored step. Jon Snow trudged forward, his thick fur cloak doing little to shield him from the bitter chill that seeped into his bones. His face was numb, his breath freezing into frost the instant it left his lips.
Ser Alliser Thorne followed several paces behind, his face pale and bluish from the cold. Each breath came out in harsh gasps, every step heavier than the last.
Between them stumbled a bound figure, her hands tied with coarse rope, her movements clumsy and slow. Against the white expanse of snow, her fiery red hair burned like a defiant flame—but even that flame now flickered weakly in the cold. She trembled violently, her lips purple, her face scraped and raw with frostbite, yet her eyes still blazed with defiance and stubborn pride.
"Damn wildling, move faster!"
Alliser's voice rasped with exhaustion and anger as he shoved Ygritte forward. She stumbled, nearly falling into the snow, then whipped her head back to glare at him, fury flashing in her eyes before she spat blood into the snow.
"Old Crow, the Haunted Forest will swallow you whole!"
Her voice carried the wild, unrestrained bite of her people.
"Shut your filthy mouth, wildling bitch!" Alliser snarled, gripping the hilt of his sword. "One more word, and I'll cut out your tongue to feed the shadowcats!"
Jon watched in silence, emotion twisting within him.
Since fleeing Castle Black, they had been hunted without mercy by their own brothers of the Night's Watch. With nowhere else to turn, they had escaped through the Black Gate beneath the Nightfort and crossed into the frozen wilds beyond the Wall.
In the Haunted Forest, they had encountered a small wildling scouting party. Ser Alliser's swordsmanship had made short work of the two men, leaving only the red-haired woman—Ygritte—to guide them southward, toward a rumored coastal port.
Jon's gaze lingered on her. She called them "Crows" with scorn, yet something about her stirred him—something raw and unexplainable. She was like fire itself, bound and trembling, yet still burning with fierce life. It drew him in, against his will.
Ygritte must have felt his stare, for she turned her head sharply, meeting his eyes. There was no fear in her gaze—only a mocking, mischievous spark.
"Hey, Crow boy..."
Her tone shifted, no longer full of hatred but teasing, almost playful. "You keep sneaking looks at me. You want to bed me, is that it?"
...
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