Stormlands, Storm's End.
The legendary fortress, said to have been built by Brandon the Builder with magic and massive stones, stood in solemn silence atop the cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay, facing the crashing waves below. The stag banner of the castle whipped violently in the cold sea wind.
Beneath the towering walls of Storm's End, built from enormous blocks of stone, the air was thick with tension. Stannis Baratheon sat astride a black warhorse at the head of the disciplined Dragonstone formation, thousands strong. Behind him stood Davos Seaworth and the striking red priestess, Melisandre. Though few in number, the soldiers of Dragonstone held their lines with iron discipline, their presence radiating grim resolve.
Across from them, within bow range of the walls, stood Lord Cortnay Penrose, Castellan of Storm's End and Hand to King Edric. Arrayed beside him were the remaining nobles of the Stormlands and their household knights, forming a defensive line. The young new Lord Wylde of Rain House looked uneasy, while Lord Sebastian Errol of Haystack Hall wore a conflicted expression. Atop the walls behind them, Storm's End's garrison stood ready, every man tense for battle.
"Stannis!"
Cortnay Penrose's voice broke the silence. "You should never have set foot in the Stormlands. This land does not welcome false kings. Turn your ships back to Dragonstone, or you will find only blades pointed at you!"
Stannis jerked the reins, his black stallion letting out a sharp, angry whinny.
"Give up your foolish defiance, Cortnay. Tell that bastard hiding behind your walls to take off his farcical crown. He's nothing but a bastard raised to a throne by lust, not a king."
The word "bastard" cut deep into the hearts of the Stormlands nobles gathered below the walls. Stannis's own anger burned cold as he remembered Robert and Lady Florent's betrayal upon his wedding bed.
Cortnay's voice rose in defiance. "King Robert legitimized His Grace Edric's birth. He carries Baratheon blood and was named by King Robert himself as his son. He is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne—beyond all doubt!"
"Rightful heir?"
Stannis gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "So you, like the Reach, have chosen your own 'rightful' king? The corpse of that so-called 'Hundred Days King,' Gendry, is barely cold. Your Edric will soon share his fate."
"You—!"
Cortnay's face turned livid with fury, and the nobles behind him murmured restlessly.
Stannis cut him off without pause. "Spare me your sanctimonious speeches. How old is that boy? Who truly rules your so-called kingdom? You, Lord Cortnay Penrose? Your hunger for power has grown disgusting."
He raised his hand, pointing toward the lands beyond Storm's End.
"Look at the Stormlands countryside—at the villages ravaged by the Dothraki! Look at the people weeping amid burning houses and scorched earth! What have you done?
You ordered scorched earth and cowered like turtles inside this stone keep while those horsemen slaughtered, burned, raped, and pillaged across the Stormlands! Your cowardice, your incompetence, your sins—no record could contain them!"
Stannis's words tore through the Stormlands nobles' thin veil of pride and justification. Cortnay's face shifted from pale to crimson under the weight of the accusation, unable to reply. Behind him, Lord Wylde and Lord Sebastian exchanged uneasy glances, shame flickering briefly across their faces.
"Stannis, you have no right to say such things!"
Cortnay forced down the turmoil in his chest. "Look at the pitiful force you've brought—not even enough to cast the shadow behind you. Do you really think you can drive those thirty thousand Dothraki savages back into the sea? Stop boasting! If you attack Storm's End, its walls will become the grave of your ambition!"
"Even if I cannot win, I must go!"
Stannis's voice suddenly rose. "To protect my people—that is what a king, what a lord, must do! Not hide behind castle walls, praying to the gods while scheming for power. If you lack the courage, then open your gates and let me in! I will lead every noble and soldier of the Stormlands who still possesses courage and conscience to drive out those beasts and save the Stormlands!"
His words exploded in every Stormlands noble's heart. To protect the people—that was the true duty of a king.
Though Stannis's frame was not tall, in that moment, before the thousands of soldiers and the towering walls of Storm's End, he seemed to radiate a light that shook the soul.
Cortnay's face shifted from red to pale. He stared at Stannis, lips trembling, then forced out a cold snort through clenched teeth. With a sharp tug of the reins, he wheeled his horse around and galloped toward the great gates of Storm's End without another word.
The nobles at the base of the wall exchanged glances. In each other's eyes, they saw the same struggle and wavering resolve. None of them looked back at Stannis. With heavy, conflicted hearts, they slowly rode away.
...
Night. Stannis's camp—the King's tent.
The interior was simple to the point of austerity: a camp bed, a rough wooden table heaped with maps and reports, a few plain chairs. Stannis stood facing the map, fingers pressing hard against the Stormlands, his brow furrowed deep.
If he was to face the Dothraki, he needed the full strength of the Stormlands. Yet Cortnay's stubbornness was beyond all expectation.
Light footsteps approached, carrying with them a faint, warm fragrance. Melisandre appeared silently behind him. Her eyes, glowing like rubies, fixed upon Stannis's rigid back.
"Your Grace…"
Her voice, soft as silk, broke the silence. "I can help you take Storm's End."
Stannis turned sharply, dark blue eyes locking on hers with hawk-like intensity. "Tell me! What must I do?"
Melisandre did not answer at once. She stepped forward slowly, until their breaths mingled in the still air. Her gaze, a gentle flame, softened the hardness of his face.
A slender white hand rose and brushed his rough, cold, weathered cheek.
At her touch, his body went rigid. A strange heat spread from that point of contact, colliding with the frozen blood and anger within him. He tried to pull back, but her burning red eyes held him motionless, as though bound by sorcery.
"Your Grace…"
Her voice dropped to a low murmur, intimate as a lover's whisper. "You need only let the fire burning within you pour into me…"
Her other hand rose, fingers tracing the golden clasp at the high collar of her deep crimson robe.
"Grant me… the power of light…"
Her deft fingers unfastened the clasp. The crimson silk slid soundlessly from her shoulders like the ebbing tide, revealing smooth, pale skin beneath. Her collarbone shimmered in the lamplight like a butterfly poised to take flight.
Then her hand moved lower, reaching for the ties of her undergarment...
Stannis's breath caught. A storm surged behind his dark blue eyes. Reason screamed for him to turn away. But deep within, suppressed instinct and a desperate hunger for power tore at his failing restraint.
He stood frozen, staring at the dazzling whiteness before him, throat dry and tight. Melisandre smiled, the curve of her crimson lips dark and knowing.
At that moment—
"Your Grace!"
A sharp shout and heavy footsteps burst through the tent flap. Onion Knight Davos shoved the curtain aside, sweating, his face a mix of wild joy and unbelieving excitement.
The tent seemed to freeze. Stannis took a startled step back, color flooding his face—embarrassment, anger, and a flash of exposed discomfiture—fumbling to smooth a robe that was not actually disordered. Melisandre only paused a moment. Her smile did not change. She deliberately drew her freed crimson robe back up, covering that dazzling patch of snow-white skin.
Davos froze the instant he lifted the flap. He had seen the rare look of panic in King Stannis's eyes. He had seen the red priestess's robe pulled up and the white shoulder revealed. He understood at once what he had blundered into. He dropped his gaze, unable to look, wishing the ground would open and swallow him.
"What is it?!" Stannis's voice rang out, edged with forced, suppressed anger as he tried to hide his earlier loss of composure.
Davos drew a breath and forced himself to steady. "Your Grace, the gates of Storm's End have been opened!"
"What?!" The anger on Stannis's face vanished, replaced by stunned disbelief. He even doubted his ears.
"It's Lord Wylde of Rain House and Lord Sebastion of Haystack Hall!" Davos spoke quickly. "They've bound Cortnay and opened Storm's End's gates. They say they will swear fealty to you. Storm's End is ours!"
The shock left Stannis momentarily speechless. He stared at Davos in disbelief, then glanced instinctively at Melisandre, now wrapped once more in her deep crimson robe. Was it her power? Or had his cry about duty and courage finally pierced the nobles' defenses?
There was no time to ponder. Joy overwhelmed him.
He snapped his hand out. "Take the castle at once. Secure every key point—especially that boy, Edric Storm. And bring me Cortnay Penrose!"
Without another glance at Melisandre he strode from the tent. Davos followed.
...
The great gates of Storm's End stood open. Stannis waited in the great hall of the keep as Cortnay Penrose was marched in under guard. The old knight's face was bruised, the marks of a violent struggle.
"Stannis! You bastard—" Cortnay's curse was cut off by the king's cold voice.
"Take him away. Lock him up. Keep him under guard."
Stannis did not look at him. His gaze swept the lords kneeling respectfully along the hall—the Wylde, Sebastion, and the others.
"Summon every lord in the Stormlands still fit for war!"
His voice thundered through the hall. "Assemble your forces. Bring every weapon and every supply. Drive those Dothraki savages ravaging the Stormlands—along with that cursed dragon banner—back into the sea!"