The Redgrass Field.
Late autumn winds swept across the withered plains, the soil dark and lifeless beneath the dead grass.
After learning of Stannis's whereabouts, Young Aegon pressed west, pursuing him all the way to this infamous battlefield.
When scouts from both armies almost simultaneously reported the name of the place, a complicated, unreadable look passed over the faces of both Young Aegon and Stannis.
They had met on the Redgrass Field, where the Blackfyre War had once erupted.
Fate seemed to be playing a cruel joke.
Young Aegon led the remnants of his army, survivors of the bloody fighting at Duskendale, and successfully linked up with Jon Connington, who had rushed back from the Riverlands with more than ten thousand men.
The combined host, now over thirty thousand strong, spread across the Redgrass Field in an imposing display of force.
Black banners bearing red dragons snapped loudly in the wind.
Young Aegon rode a tall white warhorse, clad in gleaming gilded armor, the Valyrian steel sword "Blackfyre" hanging at his side.
Pride filled the face of the victor as he rode out before the lines, gazing at the vastly outnumbered, poorly equipped army opposite him, and at the aged, haggard man standing at its front.
"Stannis Baratheon!"
Young Aegon shouted, his voice carried clearly across the battlefield by the wind.
"The usurper's brother! Today, on this ancient land, I will end your rule with my own hands, crush your ridiculous claims, and found my great dynasty! Everything… begins here!"
His words sparked a surge of excited cheers, weapons pounding against shields in thunderous rhythm.
Across the field, Stannis Baratheon sat upright on his warhorse, his face ashen, his eyes sunken deep.
He listened to Young Aegon's declaration without a flicker of expression, his gaze fixed coldly on his opponent.
Only after the echoes of Young Aegon's voice faded and the battlefield fell briefly silent did Stannis speak.
His voice was quiet, yet unshakably firm.
"No. Everything ends here."
Stannis said nothing more.
He turned his head slightly and looked behind him.
The red priestess Melisandre rode forward at a slow, measured pace.
She was still strikingly beautiful, her crimson eyes deep as a sea of blood. Her loose red robes could not fully conceal her unnaturally swollen belly.
Facing the stares of tens of thousands of enemy soldiers, she showed not the slightest fear. Before all eyes, she dismounted with movements that were both strange and solemn.
Then she did something that left everyone stunned.
She lay down directly on the withered grass, facing Young Aegon's army, and drew up her legs.
She began chanting ancient, obscure Asshai incantations, her voice rising higher and higher.
From Young Aegon's ranks came a burst of uncertain murmurs and mocking laughter. Many thought it some bizarre act of surrender, or the madness of a deranged woman.
But in the next instant, all laughter cut off abruptly, replaced by sharp intakes of breath.
Between Melisandre's legs, a shadow suddenly appeared, as though something were writhing and gathering shape.
It was not light, but darkness compressed to its purest form.
A vague, human-shaped shadow struggled free from her body.
It had no features, no substance, as though it were made entirely of shadow.
Yet it moved with terrifying speed, like an arrow loosed from a bow, skimming along the ground as it hurtled straight toward Young Aegon at the front of the army.
"Protect His Grace!"
Harry Strickland and Jon Connington roared almost in unison, their voices cracking with alarm.
Though they had no idea what the thing was, the dread of the unknown made the danger unmistakably clear.
Standing beside Young Aegon, another red-robed priest, Moqorro, had been watching in silence.
The instant the shadow assassin appeared, his eyes flew wide open. Without hesitation, he stepped forward in a single bound, throwing his arms wide and placing his own body in front of Young Aegon.
At that very moment, the horrific shadow struck.
It had no physical form, yet it seemed to ignore all barriers, passing straight through Moqorro's chest in an instant.
"Urgh—!"
Moqorro let out a hoarse cry of pain as his body convulsed violently.
He lowered his head, staring at his mangled, blood-soaked chest, his face twisted in agony.
After piercing Moqorro, the shadow assassin seemed to expend the last of its strength. It writhed briefly in the air, then dissipated like a wisp of smoke.
Foaming blood spilled from Moqorro's mouth. He looked toward Melisandre, who had already risen to her feet, her expression cold and distant. Gathering his final strength, he rasped,
"Fool… foolish woman! You have obstructed the will of the Lord of Light… Rhaegar's son… is the prince of prophecy… not… Stannis… you… misread… my Lord's… will…"
Before he could finish, his massive body crashed heavily to the ground. Life left him at once, his eyes still wide open, filled with bitter unwillingness.
Melisandre watched the fallen red-robed priest. A faint, almost imperceptible flicker passed through her eyes, quickly smothered by an even firmer, more fanatical resolve.
She lifted her chin, her voice ringing clearly across the suddenly silent battlefield.
"No. I am the one who is right. Stannis Baratheon is Azor Ahai reborn. He is the prince foretold in the prophecy."
Her words were not only meant for others, but for herself as well.
Young Aegon snapped out of his shock and the terror of brushing against death, instantly swallowed by a surge of fury and lingering dread.
He pointed at Melisandre, his voice sharp with rage.
"Kill her! Kill that evil red-robed witch! All forces, charge! Crush them!"
The war horns sounded once more.
This time, it was Young Aegon's army, holding an overwhelming numerical advantage, that surged forward like a collapsing mountain.
The Golden Company's heavy infantry advanced in tight formation, their steps steady and thunderous.
Dothraki screamers let out savage howls as they poured out from both flanks, hooves pounding the ground until the earth itself seemed to tremble.
Stannis's army numbered only a few thousand, most of them battered remnants who had retreated all the way from Bronzegate. In morale, equipment, and stamina alike, they were far inferior to their enemy.
Yet as they looked at the king behind them, still standing straight-backed with his sword drawn, something stirred.
They found their last reserves of courage.
Ser Davos rode up beside Stannis, his face grim.
"Your Grace, the assassination has failed. We are hopelessly outnumbered. While there is still time, we should retreat. Pull back elsewhere. There may yet be a chance."
Stannis swept his gaze across the oncoming tide of enemies, then looked back at the loyal soldiers standing behind him.
He knew better than anyone that the moment the shadow assassin failed, all his hopes and all his future had already burned to ash.
This was his final moment.
Retreat?
And retreat to where?
He had spent his entire life clinging to harsh law and his rightful claim, never yielding, never stepping back.
Now, least of all now.
He shook his head, his graying hair trembling in the wind.
His eyes were cold and resolute, even carrying a trace of release.
Raising his sword, he pointed it at the enemy surging toward them like a flood and shouted with all his strength,
"No. We will not retreat. House Baratheon never retreats. Forward!"