He rode at the head of the army upon a tall black warhorse. The fading sunlight outlined his stern, weary profile. He looked far older than his years, his eyes sunken deep into their sockets. Yet within those dark blue eyes still burned a fire of stubborn resolve and anger.
He wore plain dark gray plate armor beneath a surcoat embroidered with the sigil of a crowned stag within a flaming red heart. In his hand, he gripped a simple, unadorned longsword. Beside him rode Davos.
On Stannis's other side was the most striking figure in the host—the red priestess Melisandre. She was still clad in her deep crimson robes, the fabric shaping her tall and graceful form. Her thick red hair drifted lightly in the evening breeze, and her breathtakingly beautiful face seemed even more unearthly in the blood-red glow of sunset.
Yet the most disturbing sight was her abdomen. It bulged high, like that of a woman heavy with child, ready to give birth. The swell of her belly stood in eerie contrast to her slender frame, barely concealed beneath the loose folds of her crimson robes. Her hands rested lightly upon the curve, a mysterious smile on her lips. The great ruby pendant at her throat glimmered with an unsettling red light under the setting sun.
Around the burning stag banner flew the standards of the Stormlands' great houses. They had brought with them the last of the Stormlands' remaining strength.
After the wildfire devastation of King's Landing, the Stormlands had barely mustered ten thousand men. Combined with Stannis's own five thousand, they formed one final army. He had watched the Stormlands' villages burn, their people slaughtered by the Dothraki—pillaged, enslaved, butchered. His heart was already seething with fury.
But he had not lost his reason. The Dothraki had thirty thousand riders. His force was outmatched.
He remembered the last siege of Storm's End, when Melisandre had told him she had a way to win it for him. Stannis had turned to her for counsel. She had said little, and that very night, in his tent, they continued what had already begun between them.
At first, Stannis hadn't understood. But as their army marched west, Melisandre's belly began to swell like an inflating balloon. He was astonished not only that she was pregnant, but at how rapidly her body changed—faster than any natural growth. And he noticed, too, that he himself seemed to have aged.
Melisandre explained that her magic drew strength from the fire within him.
On the battlefield ahead, the soldiers of the Stormlands wore faces lined with exhaustion, yet their anger burned hotter still—for their ravaged homeland.
Stannis pulled on his reins, halting his warhorse. His dark blue eyes swept across the chaos of the Ashford field. The shouts of battle, the clash of steel, and the screams of horses mingled with the sickening stench of blood, carried by the wind.
Davos drew in a sharp breath, stunned by the vast, horrific scene unfolding before him. He saw the green apple banners of Fossoway breaking, the knights of the Westerlands fighting desperately to escape, the black dragon banners of the Targaryens cutting through the field, and the golden sun and spear of Dorne surrounded by a tide of brown horsemen, on the verge of collapse. Four great armies tore each other apart.
"Your Grace, this is our chance!" a knight cried, his voice trembling with excitement and bloodlust. "They're all exhausted! We can charge now and wipe them out in one strike!"
Stannis did not answer. His gaze remained locked on the black dragon banner whipping in the wind—and on the towering figure beneath it, cutting through the chaos with a great curved blade. Jago Mormont.
He watched as Jago commanded tens of thousands of Dothraki with terrifying ease, caring nothing for formations or tactics, relying only on brute strength and sheer numbers to unleash slaughter. Stannis saw the hosts of the Reach and the Westerlands crushed under that unstoppable tide, and the proud Dornish elite slowly ground to ruin beneath the relentless storm of arrows and charges.
Stannis's voice was low. "Something's wrong. The Dornish and the Dothraki are fighting each other, but those horsemen are attacking everyone—they're completely out of control. Viserys Targaryen, that so-called 'True Dragon,' can't command this army. This Dothraki horde has turned into a pack of wild beasts."
Melisandre slowly urged her horse forward until she rode beside him. Her eyes, burning with ruby light, locked precisely on the distant figure of Jago, roaring and cutting down everything in his path. Her crimson lips parted slightly.
"Your Grace, your wisdom shines as the Lord of Light foretold. The reins that bind these beasts do not rest in the hands of that cowardly True Dragon, but around the neck of that hulking barbarian chieftain. Look—he is the head of the beast. Sever the head, and the creature will fall apart."
Her gaze turned to Stannis. "Your Grace, the flame within your body has given me the seed of light. Now is the moment to let it bloom—to clear the way before you. With this shadow, cut the chains of the savage. Then, when your enemies are spent, your iron host will sweep across the field like fire itself, and the crown of victory will rest upon your burning stag."
Stannis met Melisandre's crimson eyes, then looked again toward the distant Jago, whose scimitar carved through men like grass. He saw once more the scorched villages beyond Storm's End, the butchered innocents, and felt the life being drawn out of his body by her magic, draining faster and faster.
A fire of duty, fury, and desperate longing for victory roared to life within his chest.
He nodded, grim and resolute.
A smile bloomed across Melisandre's lips. She caressed her swollen belly, then dismounted slowly under the horrified gaze of Stannis, Davos, and the assembled nobles and guards of the Stormlands.
She walked forward to a flat patch of grass before the army, unmoved by the soldiers' confused stares or the deafening roar of the battlefield beyond.
Lifting her pale, smooth hands, she began to untie the sash of her deep red robe, her movements slow and deliberate, almost ritualistic.
"What… what is she doing?"
Davos's voice shook uncontrollably, dread coiling tight around his heart. The nearby nobles were frozen in shock—some instinctively stepped back, others gripped their weapons, terror flickering in their eyes.
The sash fell.
The silk robe, smooth and crimson as blood, slid from Melisandre's shoulders like the peeling of fruit skin, pooling soundlessly at her feet. Her pale skin shone in the dying light.
Her swollen belly was fully exposed beneath the blood-red sunset.
Melisandre seemed oblivious to the world around her. Her expression remained serene as she lowered herself onto the cold grass. She spread her legs, both hands resting gently upon her heaving stomach, which writhed as though something inside struggled to break free.
Her lips began to chant in a language ancient and unknown. The words were soft but unnervingly clear, carrying to every ear nearby as if whispered directly into their minds.
Time seemed to stop.
The roar of battle faded into distant silence.
All across the Stormlands host—even the hardened knights and grizzled lords—men stared in paralyzed horror at the sight before them.
Suddenly, Melisandre screamed—a high, piercing shriek that no human throat should have been able to make. Her body arched violently as if seized by some terrible force. Her hands tore apart from her belly.
A thick, black darkness began to ooze forth from her, so dense it seemed to swallow all light around it.
It was not liquid, nor smoke, but something alive—a shadow that moved and breathed.
It gathered quickly, shaping itself upon the grass. Within seconds, a human figure formed—made entirely of darkness.
It wore Stannis's face. Its entire form was pitch-black, bending and devouring the very light around it.
Then—it moved.
...
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