Chapter 181 — The Dragon Queen's Concern
Melisandre stepped to the bedside, drew in a slow breath, and placed both hands over Stannis Baratheon's chest. Her lips began to move, murmuring an ancient incantation.
When the first recitation ended, Stannis lay utterly still.
Frowning slightly, she tried again.
Three minutes passed. Nothing.
A flicker of awkwardness crossed her face as she glanced at Davos and Jon, who were watching in growing confusion. She placed her hands back on Stannis and resumed chanting.
She had never asked Thoros of Myr how he revived Beric Dondarrion, but she assumed the process must be similar.
And yet, no matter how many times she repeated the words, nothing happened.
Was the ritual flawed?
Or was the Lord of Light simply unwilling to waste divine power on Stannis?
She tried again.
And again.
Still nothing.
At last, Melisandre lowered her hands.
If it were going to work, it would have worked by now.
There was no miracle coming.
"Have other priests of the Lord of Light truly brought people back from the dead?" Davos asked, unable to hide his curiosity.
He didn't doubt Melisandre's power—he had seen too much with his own eyes. What he doubted was whether even a god could truly return the dead to life.
"I have seen it with my own eyes," Melisandre replied evenly. "But if the Lord of Light chooses to restore a life, there is always a reason."
Her tone was calm, but deliberate—she would not allow them to think she had failed. This was not her limitation. It was the will of her god.
Jon and Davos exchanged a glance, then nodded faintly.
They both understood: reviving the dead was no simple matter—even for a god.
"We should begin preparing to evacuate Hearth's Home," Jon said after a moment, his voice steady but heavy with urgency.
Davos nodded. He cast one last look at Melisandre, leaving her to remain with Stannis, before following Jon outside to gather the remnants of their forces and organize supplies.
When they left, Melisandre remained by the bed, staring at Stannis's lifeless body in silence. Her expression was distant, her thoughts unreadable. She made no further attempt to chant.
Outside, Hearth's Home had descended into chaos.
Members of House Umber rushed to pack what little they could carry. Survivors from the retreating army trickled in, swelling their numbers to over eight thousand.
Three hours later, Bran Stark brought grim news.
The army of the dead had reached the Gift.
If they delayed any longer, the rear of their evacuation column would collide with the vanguard of the dead.
Jon and Davos returned to Stannis's chamber. One look at his unchanged body told them everything.
There would be no resurrection.
Together, they lifted his corpse and carried it outside.
As Jon turned, he caught sight of Melisandre's eyes.
Moments ago they had been empty—now they burned with a strange, renewed intensity.
It sent a chill down his spine.
For an instant, he was reminded of the night Mance Rayder had been burned—when Melisandre had looked at him with that same unsettling gaze.
No… this was worse.
Much worse.
Once outside, Davos formally announced Stannis's death.
A heavy silence fell over the gathered soldiers.
Many of them had followed Stannis since Dragonstone. Others were Baratheon men from Storm's End.
To them, Stannis had been the true head of House Baratheon.
Though Tommen Baratheon still sat the Iron Throne, no one truly believed he was King Robert's son.
With Stannis gone, the army had lost its anchor.
Its purpose.
Its king.
In the end, command fell—reluctantly and by necessity—to his cousin, Ser Godry, who would lead them for now.
The wildling host was placed back under the command of Tormund Giantsbane. Together with Jon Snow's Night's Watch and the remnants of Stannis's forces, the three factions no longer shared the same cohesion as before—but in the face of disaster, they still held together.
In total, nearly fifteen thousand soldiers were gathered and temporarily placed under Jon's command.
They held a brief funeral for Stannis Baratheon, consigning his body to the flames. When the rites were done, the army began its southward retreat along the Kingsroad.
Before departing, Jon divided the forces into several groups. Five hundred cavalry were left behind at Hearth's Home to cover the retreat and gather any stragglers, with orders to withdraw and rejoin the main force after three hours.
Once the main army crossed the Last River bridge on the Kingsroad, they were to destroy it—anything to slow the advance of the dead.
Bran Stark had said that the wights feared water. But after seeing them overwhelm even the magic of the Wall through sheer suicidal persistence, no one truly believed a river alone could stop them.
Beyond the rearguard, Jon also dispatched a thousand men across the North to warn lords and smallfolk alike, directing them toward the Kingsroad so they could retreat together to Winterfell.
Meanwhile, on Dragonstone, Daenerys Targaryen and her council had been discussing plans to attack Casterly Rock.
Then, two hours earlier, a desperate message had arrived—from the Wall.
After reading it, the room fell into stunned disbelief.
Jon had only left days ago. By that timeline, the defenders of the Wall had collapsed in less than two days after the White Walkers' arrival.
It made no sense.
The Wall stood two hundred meters high and was reinforced with ancient magic designed specifically to repel the dead. How could it fall so quickly?
Even if the defenders were overwhelmed, they should have been able to hold long enough to call for aid—not be overrun outright.
The message itself was painfully brief, offering no explanation—only a plea for help. That alone spoke volumes about the urgency of the situation.
Even Drogon, who had anticipated much, had not foreseen this. Without the catastrophic collapse caused by dragonfire in another timeline, the Wall should have held far longer.
Silence settled over the chamber.
Moments ago, they had been discussing how to isolate King's Landing. Now, they were confronted with the reality that the dead were already marching south.
Without the Wall, the North had no comparable defensive barrier. Wherever the army of the dead passed, it would leave only ruin—fields of corpses and ash.
This was no longer about strategy against Cersei Lannister.
It was about survival.
If left unchecked, the Night King's forces would sweep through the North, then cross the Neck into the southern kingdoms. And with every corpse they claimed, their numbers would swell.
The wildlings alone numbered over a hundred thousand south of the Wall.
Add to that the North's population—and the countless dead buried beneath ancient barrows—and the scale of the coming army became unimaginable.
Reinforcements had to be sent. Daenerys could not simply watch the North be slaughtered and allow the Night King to grow stronger.
But the situation was far from simple.
Her forces had only just secured key strongholds—Storm's End, the Twins, Riverrun, and Harrenhal. If she marched north now, those gains would be lost. Cersei would reclaim them without resistance, undoing everything they had fought for.
Worse still, if Daenerys committed her army against the dead while Cersei remained untouched, the balance of power would shift dangerously. Her forces would suffer heavy losses, while Cersei would sit safely behind her walls, reaping the benefits of their sacrifice.
That… was not an outcome Daenerys could accept.
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