The highest point of Dragonstone was not the famous Stone Drum Tower, but an open-air platform attached to the eastern tower of the main keep.
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This place was originally where the Maesters observed celestial phenomena and calculated tides, but now it had become Stannis Baratheon's temporary command post.
The platform was not large, built of black stone, with chest-high battlements along the edges.
From here, most of Dragonstone could be seen at a glance.
The deep purple banners of the Redwyne Fleet flickered amidst fire and thick smoke; in the darkness, it seemed even more small boats were continuously ferrying soldiers onto the beachhead.
Inside the castle, black smoke rising from multiple locations marked the sites of fierce street fighting, the sounds of battle intermittently carried away by the high winds.
Stannis stood in the center of the platform, his back to the howling sea breeze.
He stood ramrod straight, but the flaming stag sigil on his chest seemed to be covered in a layer of gray defeat.
They had been stationed here for over an hour. Since arriving, Stannis had been pacing continuously from the edge of the platform to the central map table and back again, his inner turmoil clearly belying his calm exterior.
Bad news followed one after another like the gloomy weather, never ceasing.
"Your Grace! The Sea Dragon Tower on the east side is out of arrows, the defenders have suffered over fifty percent casualties, and the Redwyne men have already occupied the lower two floors!"
"Your Grace! The Tide Gate leading to the underground docks has been breached! A squad of enemy forces has broken in via the waterway, and Sir Buckler is leading men to stop them from advancing further!"
"Your Grace! Multiple points on the western outer wall have been breached. The enemy is infiltrating the main keep through the Old Granary District; our men are being cut off!"
Every messenger or knight who came to report bore wounds of varying severity. Their hurried words and heavy breathing wove together a great net named 'Rout' that was slowly tightening.
Stannis listened without saying a word.
His face was angular with high cheekbones and a tight jaw; he only occasionally nodded or uttered a short syllable or two to acknowledge the reports.
A rough defensive map of Dragonstone Castle was spread across the central stone table. With each report, Stannis would press a finger heavily onto the corresponding location on the map, as if pinning the failure there.
"Tell the commander at the Sea Dragon Tower to abandon the upper levels, blow up the stairs, and retreat to the tower base archway. Use the narrow terrain to hold them off; hold out at least until sunrise!"
"Order Buckler to abandon the docks and retreat toward the Dragonpit, then regroup with Earl Sweety's forces."
"Send word to the commander in the Old Granary District: set fire to the debris piles on the edge of the district to create a wall of fire and slow the enemy's advance. Then, break into small groups and use your familiarity with the terrain to harass the enemy while moving toward the rallying point under the Stone Drum Tower."
Every command was specific and practical, attempting to piece back together the shattered defensive system to buy time for a possible turnaround.
The knights and scouts who received the orders acknowledged them loudly, then turned and hurried away to meet their respective deaths or missions.
Stannis watched their departing backs, his expression not changing in the slightest.
However, anyone could see that the expression of the King of Dragonstone was beginning to turn grim.
The personal guards and the few remaining knights around him held their breath, not daring to make a sound.
They knew their king too well; Stannis Baratheon never admitted defeat easily. But at this moment, even the most loyal could smell the scent of failure in the air.
It was like the latter stages of the Battle of the Blackwater—that sense of despair, where carefully constructed hope crumbled inch by inch and icy river water flooded one's senses, seemed to permeate the air once more.
When the last dispatchable knight had left with his orders, the platform suddenly felt much emptier, leaving only Stannis, his twenty most elite Royal Guards, and a few core knights.
The wind grew stronger, making the banners snap loudly and causing hearts to flutter with unease.
A long silence followed.
Stannis slowly turned, his gaze sweeping across every face around him.
He had hoped to see determined looks in his subordinates' eyes, but wherever his gaze fell, he saw only panic and dejection.
These core members who had followed him through the crushing defeat at the Blackwater and still held Dragonstone seemed to have had their spines removed.
A surge of nameless fire rose in Stannis's chest.
He could accept failure, he could accept sacrifice, but he could never accept cowardice before the battle was over!
"You all..."
"What are you doing?"
He took a step forward, his sharp gaze piercing everyone as he questioned them coldly: "The battle is still being fought, the swords are still in your hands, and the castle has not yet fully fallen."
"Look at yourselves—like a flock of sheep surrounded by hounds, waiting to have your throats slit. Do not forget, we haven't lost yet!"
He almost growled the last sentence.
As his gaze swept over them, people lowered their eyes one after another, not daring to meet his look.
Some shifted their feet uneasily; others gripped their sword hilts but felt powerless.
An awkward and embarrassing silence filled the platform.
Finally, Ser Gerard Gaul, a man as burly as a bull with a face full of bushy beard, stepped forward with difficulty.
He was a veteran of Storm's End, known for his bravery and strength, and he had always been a straight talker.
"Your Grace..." Gerald licked his cracked lips, his voice dry. "It's not that we fear the fight, it's just the current situation... everyone can see it clearly."
"The Redwynes came prepared this time, launching a general offensive from all sides. Our defensive lines have been torn to shreds."
"Regrouping the troops takes time, but the enemy won't give us that time."
He paused, stealing a glance at Stannis's increasingly cold expression, but having started, he had to continue: "The docks are lost, and most of the outer towers likely won't hold. Enemy troops are pouring in incessantly. This battle..."
"I'm afraid it's just like the Blackwater; the tide has turned, and we cannot win."
As he spoke, Sir Gerald suddenly bowed his head and quickly suggested: "Your Grace, we still have ships, and we still have soldiers loyal to you... let us retreat!"
"Retreat to Storm's End, or find somewhere else. Anything is better than being wiped out here!"
"Retreat?" Stannis's voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, yet it sent a chill down everyone's spine.
He slowly looked up, his gaze sweeping over the crowd once more.
"Is this what you all think?"
No one dared to answer, but their expressions clearly answered Stannis's question.
The knights buried their heads even lower, wishing they could shrink into their armor.
Gower's suggestion, though harsh, spoke the minds of the majority.
The nightmare of the Blackwater was too horrific; no one wanted to repeat it on this isolated island.
Stannis looked at these faces—some evasive, some dejected.
These faces he once trusted and relied upon now made him feel a bone-deep loneliness and absurdity.
Why?
He clenched his fists.
Why had even his most loyal followers lost the will to fight?
"I don't understand!"
Taking a deep breath, Stannis waved his hand and roared: "Why has everyone been talking about the defeat at the Blackwater since a moment ago, as if this ancient battlefield of Dragonstone is destined to be our doom?"
"Seventeen years ago, I set out from Storm's End to follow my brother Robert in the war to overthrow the tyrant, and the Seven Kingdoms were unified!"
"Wherever the righteous army went, the people supported us. We held the moral high ground. That scene of vitality and everything flourishing is still before my eyes!"
"Only seventeen short years later, the same bloodline, the same banner, here, in my own fiefdom!"
"Has it come to this, that it shall be the burial ground for me, Stannis Baratheon, the rightful King of Westeros!"
He practically shrieked the last sentence, his face flushed with emotion, but beneath that flush was an even deeper ashen hue.
The platform fell into a deathly silence.
Only the king's heavy breathing echoed with the wind.
The knights were shocked by this unprecedented outburst of rage. They looked at their king, who was usually known for being calm, strict, and
unsympathetic, but who now seemed like a wounded stag trapped in an iron cage, madly ramming its antlers against the bars, refusing to stop even if its head was bloodied.
Gerald Gower's face turned red as shame and a lingering bit of fighting spirit welled up within him.
The other knights also raised their heads, a more complex emotion rising in their eyes—perhaps guilt, or perhaps a faint, rekindled will to fight.
Stannis panted heavily a few times, forcing his churning emotions to settle.
He held his longsword, the tip pointing diagonally toward the ground, preparing to give the final order.
Just then, an abrupt commotion came from the direction of the passage guarded by the outer sentries.
"Get out of the way! You executioners, let me through! I want to see the King! I want to see my husband!!!"
The voice was incredibly shrill.
Stannis's brow instantly knit into a tight knot.
He was too familiar with this voice—so familiar that he would subconsciously feel a faint headache every time he heard it.
He looked up toward the source of the sound; the guards were somewhat at a loss.
"What is going on!" Stannis's voice was not loud, but it was very cold.
A member of the Queen's Men guarding the passage ran in quickly and knelt on one knee: "Your Grace, it's... it's the Queen."
"She insists on seeing you; we couldn't stop her!"
Indeed, that voice belonged to Selyse Florent.
Stannis's queen, his legal wife, and Shireen's mother—a woman who had devoted her entire being to the Lord of Light, yet always expressed it in the most awkward and ineffective ways.
Hearing this, the muscles in Stannis's jaw twitched slightly.
At this moment of life and death, every second was crucial. What mess was she here to add to?
Was she here to wail about her fear because the castle was falling?
Or to reiterate her devotion to that Red God nonsense?
Either way, it made him feel doubly irritated.
But he had to see her.
She was the Queen, at least in name.
"Let her in."
Stannis said sharply, his voice suppressed with anger, as if he just wanted to dismiss her as quickly as possible.
He had once been incredibly loyal to his wife, but she had thrown herself heart and soul into her faith in the Lord of Light, even going so far as to encourage him with the Red Priestess...
Hearing this, the Queen's Men guards on the perimeter hesitated for a moment, but in the end, they didn't dare disobey the King's command and cleared a path.
A figure practically stumbled inside.
Queen Selyse Florent looked terrible right now; her silk gown was covered in dust and stains, and her hair was disheveled.
On that face, which was never beautiful to begin with and even a bit hard to look at, panic and distress were written all over it, as if she were on the verge of collapse.
She immediately saw Stannis standing in the center of the hall, surrounded by knights.
"Stannis!"
The Queen let out a wail, completely disregarding her decorum and the startled looks of the surrounding knights and guards. She practically crawled to the King's feet and reached out with trembling hands to tightly clutch his leg.
Tears gushed out, and tears and snot stained Stannis's greaves.
"Don't! I beg of you!"
"Don't hurt my daughter! Don't hurt Shireen!"
She looked up, face covered in tears and snot, her voice broken: "I know, I know you've never liked her, never liked me, but she is your daughter!"
"She is innocent! Don't give her to the flames! Don't!!!"
This unwarranted crying and shouting echoed throughout the hall.
The knights, whose fighting spirit had just been somewhat rekindled by the King, all showed expressions of shock and uncertainty.
Stannis was momentarily stunned, taken aback by the massive misunderstanding and the absurd accusation.
Sacrifice Shireen?
Who?
When?
Right, that woman had indeed mentioned it to him before, but he had immediately and directly rejected it.
Why had this reached Selyse's ears?
"What nonsense are you talking about!"
Stannis crouched down, gripping his wife's shoulders tightly as he questioned her: "Who wants to hurt Shireen? Who told you to sacrifice her!"
His voice was thick with the indignation of being slandered; he knew his wife's madness mostly revolved around her faith in the Lord of Light.
But such an accusation was truly going too far!
Selyse seemed not to hear his questioning, or rather, she was so immersed in her own fear that she spoke incoherently: "I heard... I heard them say it!"
"Sir Godry Farring—you sent him to seize Shireen, because Lady Melisandre said... said only the blood of the king's kin, the blood of a true king, can light the fires of victory and repel the enemy..."
"
As she spoke, she raised her tear-filled eyes and pleaded bitterly: "I know... I know there must be a sacrifice. The Lord of Light needs an offering! I am willing!"
"Stannis, let me take Shireen's place! Sacrifice me to the God!"
"I believe in Him, I serve Him devoutly. My blood, my life—you can take it all. Just please spare Shireen for the sake of her being your only child! She is still so small!"
A dead silence fell over the hall.
Only Queen Selyse's uncontrollable sobs and pleas echoed through the room.
The expressions of the knights became extremely complex.
Some showed pity on their faces; after all, seeing a mother beg so humbly just to protect her child was enough to touch the softest parts of the heart.
Others were more uneasy, their gazes shifting constantly between the Queen and the King; most of them were members of The Rear Party.
His wife's words felt like a rusty knife carving into his heart, and Stannis's chest heaved violently.
Godry Farring?
He certainly hadn't sent Godry Farring to carry out any mission related to Shireen.
In fact, his last explicit order was for Sir Elon to ensure Shireen's safety, and after that... there had been no news from Elon.
So, who had authorized Godry Farring to mobilize men and act against Shireen?
Without any surprise, a cold name surfaced in his mind.
"Your Majesty, your spirit of sacrifice is moving."
As if to confirm his suspicion, a calm voice came from the entrance of the passage: "But unfortunately, you are not of the King's blood."
Everyone turned to look and saw Melisandre, the Red Priestess and messenger of the Lord of Light, walking in slowly.
She still wore that deep red robe, her hood down, revealing those red eyes that seemed to burn with an unquenchable fire.
Several loyal guards in red robes with fanatical gazes followed closely behind her.
In front of everyone, her face remained perfectly calm, and her tone didn't fluctuate as she directly admitted: "That's right. It was I who sent Sir Godry Farring."
"What!!!"
Stannis turned his head sharply, his gaze fixed intently on Melisandre's face.
This time, his anger was no longer suppressed, erupting like a volcano as he questioned her loudly: "Who gave you the authority to mobilize my men, and even command my knights, to seize my daughter!"
"Woman, you have overstepped!"
Facing the King's fury, Melisandre's expression did not change in the slightest.
She even tilted her head slightly, her red eyes always reflecting a certainty of eternal truth: "Your Majesty, I mobilized them for you, for the kingdom, and to oppose the darkness that is about to consume everything."
O
She walked forward two steps, her gaze sweeping over the knights with their varying expressions, before returning to Stannis. She said loudly: "Now, that is the only way for us to win this war, and ultimately win the final war against the winter."
"Sacrificing one person, offering them to the fires of the Lord of Light to save millions from the encroachment of darkness—it is a heavy price, but it is also a sacred blessing."
"Sacrifice is never an easy thing, Your Majesty; otherwise, it would not be worthy of the name."
These words were like a spell, making many in the hall hold their breath.
It sounded full of wisdom and compassion, yet it concealed a logic that made one's skin crawl.
Hearing Melisandre admit it herself, Queen Selyse was struck as if by lightning, her body trembling violently.
She let go of Stannis's hand and crawled toward Melisandre on all fours, throwing herself at the red-robed woman's feet once more, her posture even more humble and desperate this time.
"Lady! Lady Melisandre!"
The Queen's voice broke with sobs as she prostrated herself completely, her forehead almost touching the tips of Melisandre's shoes: "You heard me, I am willing to take her place!"
"I am the Queen, is my blood not noble enough? I believe in the Lord of Light! I am willing to offer my soul and my flesh entirely to Him!"
"I beg for your mercy, spare Shireen! She is just a child, she understands nothing, let me take her place!
Let me be the one who is sacrificed!"
The scene was so ironic.
A Queen, kneeling at the feet of another woman, pleading so humbly and miserably.
Many knights turned their faces away, unable to bear the sight.
Melisandre looked down at the woman at her feet, who was covered in tears and snot, nearing a total breakdown.
There was no disgust on her beautiful face, nor any sympathy; she simply shook her head slowly and clearly repeated what she had just said: "I told you, Your Majesty."
"You are not of the King's blood."
"Your sacrifice would be meaningless to this war."
These words, like a final sentence, shattered the hopes of Selyse Florent.
She was stunned.
It was as if all tears, fear, and pleas were frozen in an instant.
The Queen slumped to the ground, her eyes hollowly watching Melisandre's red robe, then slowly turning toward the expressionless Stannis, and then to the surrounding faces—some sympathetic, some awkward, some indifferent.
The world seemed to lose its sound and color.
The Red God, to whom she had devoted all her faith and life, the "sacred cause" to which she had given everything, finally rewarded her by judging that she wasn't even qualified to be a sacrifice.
And her husband, the man she never truly understood or felt close to, remained silent at this moment—a silence that, in her eyes, was no different from consent.
The air in the hall seemed to solidify, pressing down until it was hard to breathe, feeling utterly absurd and desperate.
However, just as this suffocating silence continued.
A sudden change occurred!
A knight who had been standing quietly behind Stannis, fully armed and indistinguishable from the others, moved without any warning!
The heavy armor didn't seem to slow him down at all as he suddenly lunged, his target clear: Melisandre, who stood in the center of the hall, drawing everyone's attention!
A cold, glinting dagger in his hand was aimed straight at the Red Priestess; the strike was ruthless and decisive, clearly calculated!
"Stop!"
"Protect the Lady!"
Several cries rang out almost simultaneously.
But it happened too suddenly, and the distance was too close; most people's reactions were a beat too slow to stop it.
A hint of surprise flashed in Melisandre's red eyes, but she herself didn't seem skilled at physical evasion, or rather... she didn't care.
The dagger was about to pierce her throat.
At this life-or-death moment!
Queen Selyse, who had been slumped on the ground as if she had lost all life, suddenly erupted with an astonishing burst of strength.
She actually leaped up from the ground and, with her thin body, threw herself recklessly at Melisandre!
"Watch out!!!"
The force of the push made Melisandre stagger back, avoiding the dagger.
However, Selyse herself was now completely exposed to the blade.
Puchi!
Blade into flesh.
The dagger originally aimed at Melisandre plunged deep into Queen Selyse's heart without resistance.
Selyse's body stiffened.
She looked down, watching the dagger sink into her chest, her exquisite clothes quickly soaked by the deep red liquid.
Her mouth opened as if to say something, but only a large gulp of fresh blood surged out.
The assassin clearly hadn't expected this sudden turn of events either, standing there dazed.
"Seize him!!!"
Stannis roared in fury, finally reacting from the extreme shock.
Before he could even think, his body moved ahead of his consciousness, taking a large step forward and kicking the assassin hard in the stomach!
Bang!
The assassin was sent flying by the powerful kick, crashing heavily onto the stone floor meters away. The dagger flew from his hand, landing nearby with a clang, its tip still stained with warm blood.
Several royal guards and knights who had regained their senses swarmed forward, swords drawn, pinning down the struggling assassin.
Stannis didn't look at the assassin; all his attention was on the figure slowly going limp.
Almost instinctively, he reached out his arms and caught his wife's sliding body.
Selyse Florent, his Queen, his legal partner, Shireen's mother, now lay in his arms.
She was as light as a child.
Her face turned grey at a visible rate, but her eyes were exceptionally bright as she looked over Stannis's shoulder at Melisandre, whose expression remained calm.
"Please help... Stannis win... he needs you... needs... my King."
"I... I have already..."
"
Selyse's voice was weak but clear: "To my King... expressed... loyalty..." She used her last strength to turn her gaze to Stannis: "Please don't... hurt... Shireen..."
"
The last syllable dissipated in the air like a sigh.
The light in her eyes went out completely, her head slumped to the side, and her arm fell.
Selyse Florent, the Queen, died in the King's arms, in order to push away the priestess who might have harmed her daughter.
Stannis stood there, holding his wife's still-warm body.
His mind seemed to go blank as he looked down at this familiar yet strange face, at the hideous wound on her chest and the blood covering her.
After an unknown amount of time, he slowly laid his wife's body down on the cold floor.
His movements were much gentler than they had ever been during their past intimacies.
Then, Stannis turned around.
One step, two steps.
He walked to the assassin and looked down at him; the armor was common, with no special markings.
The assassin's face was hidden by a visor.
Without any intent to interrogate, Stannis raised his foot and kicked the side of the assassin's helmet with all his might!
Clang!
The massive force deformed the helmet and left the assassin dazed.
Stannis leaned down, grabbed the edge of the helmet, and yanked it off!
The helmet was violently torn away.
A familiar face was exposed in the dim light, weathered and wrinkled, eyes full of hatred and regret.
This was a face that absolutely should not have been here, let alone wearing armor to commit an assassination.
The air seemed to freeze completely at this moment.
Stannis's pupils contracted to points, and the muscles in his face twitched uncontrollably.
All his anger was struck by a massive sense of absurdity at this moment.
"Davos!!!"