Chapter 122: Burn Him Alive
Dragonstone.
Rising at the mouth of Blackwater Bay, it had once been the refuge of the House Targaryen after their escape from Valyria, and later the cradle of their conquest. After the Targaryens forged the Seven Kingdoms into one, this island became the traditional seat of the heir—granted the title Prince of Dragonstone.
But after Robert's Rebellion, the island was given by Robert Baratheon to his younger brother, Stannis Baratheon.
To Robert, it may have seemed like reward and placement.
To Stannis, it was an insult.
He saw it as a deliberate slight—one that dismissed his unwavering defense of Storm's End.
Now, within the heart of the castle—the Stone Drum Tower—Stannis sat behind a massive carved table of stone.
He wore a plain dark grey coat embroidered with the crowned stag of House Baratheon, though this stag was wreathed in flames. His face was all sharp lines and severity: sunken eyes, perpetually furrowed brow, thin lips pressed tight. It seemed as though he had forgotten how to smile long ago.
His gaze was fixed on the intricately carved map of Westeros spread across the table.
His finger traced the lands north of the Neck—once marked by the direwolf sigil of Robb Stark, the so-called King in the North. That sigil had now been crudely scratched away.
Yet there was no satisfaction in his expression—only tension, and a simmering impatience.
Beside him stood a woman.
Though the sea wind howled through the open windows with the bite of late autumn, she seemed untouched by the cold. Clad in a thin crimson robe that clung to her figure, barefoot upon the icy stone, she radiated an unnatural warmth.
Her long red hair flowed like living flame, her skin pale as moonlight. Around her neck hung a ruby necklace, glowing faintly in the firelight as though blood pulsed within it.
Melisandre.
Stannis did not spare her a glance.
His eyes remained locked on the narrow sea between Dragonstone and King's Landing.
"The Braavosi grain ships… still no reliable word."
His voice was as hard as his face, jaw tightening. "Reports say patrols along the Crownlands coast have grown far stricter."
His finger struck the map at Dragonstone, as though he meant to crush it into the stone.
"Our stores will last… less than two months."
Melisandre moved silently across the floor, her bare feet making no sound. She came to him and raised a pale hand, gently touching his rigid cheek.
"I have seen it, my king."
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, her red eyes flickering like fire. "Sails in the mist… a fleet cutting through the fog, bearing golden grain and all that you require."
Her fingers tilted his face toward her, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"But you must see further, Your Grace—beyond grain and steel."
"When the long summer ends, when darkness and cold descend, the world will need its savior… the prince that was promised, reborn beneath a bleeding star—Azor Ahai."
"My lord has shown me—it resides within your blood, your soul."
She lifted a carved direwolf piece from the table and snapped it cleanly in two.
"The false king Robb Stark is dead. Soon, the other pretenders will follow."
"Their rule stands on lies and desire—it will crumble."
"But you, Stannis Baratheon—the Iron Throne is yours by right. Not through mortal scheming, but through destiny. You are meant to cleanse the darkness from this world."
"Dragonstone is not your prison… it is your crucible."
Stannis stared at the great brazier that had burned day and night since their arrival—lit at Melisandre's insistence.
The flames roared, crackling in the stone basin. Their light twisted shadows across the chamber—stretching, distorting them across walls and map alike, like silent specters dancing in the dark.
In truth, he still doubted her.
Prophecy. Destiny. Rebirth.
He trusted none of it completely.
But one thing he could not deny—
This woman wielded real power.
He gently pulled away from her touch—not roughly, but firmly.
"Let us hope your flames do not lie, my lady."
At that moment, hurried footsteps shattered the stillness.
A knight in mail strode in and dropped to one knee.
"Your Grace, urgent news."
"Speak."
"A merchant vessel flying a black hand banner has docked. The man aboard claims to be a messenger sent by Tywin Lannister… and requests an audience."
"A Lannister envoy?"
Stannis's eyes sharpened instantly.
Only days ago, his Hand—Alester Florent—that oily lord of Brightwater—had dared suggest surrender. Suggested that Stannis renounce his rightful claim to the Iron Throne and make peace with Tywin.
In exchange?
He would keep Storm's End. Keep Dragonstone.
And his daughter Shireen would be married to that so-called "Prince" Tommen—a boy not even of Baratheon blood.
An insult beyond measure.
A betrayal of everything Stannis stood for.
Florent had been thrown into the dungeon on the spot.
And now—mere days later—a Lannister envoy arrives?
Too convenient.
Without hesitation, Stannis gave his answer.
"Kill him."
"Take his head. Put it in a box. Send it back to Tywin Lannister."
"Tell him this—Stannis Baratheon knows only one way to deal with usurpers."
"War."
His voice was cold, absolute.
It was a warning—to the Lannisters, and to any wavering within his own ranks. There would be no negotiation.
Melisandre stood beside him, her faint smile unchanged, offering no objection.
But the knight—who had never before questioned an order—hesitated.
He lifted his head, gathering courage.
"My king… he arrived with Ser Davos… I mean—Ser Davos Seaworth…"
"You… may wish to see him first."
Stannis's frown deepened, irritation flashing across his face.
Since the defeat at Blackwater, Davos had been imprisoned. Only recently released—and now he was already standing beside a Lannister envoy?
What in the seven hells was going on?
Just as Stannis Baratheon hesitated for a brief moment, Melisandre spoke with effortless authority:
"Let him in."
"And bring Alester Florent up as well."
The knight didn't question her. He bowed and immediately left the hall.
Stannis's expression darkened.
Since this woman had arrived, she had begun issuing orders in his name more and more often—and worse, his men were starting to obey her without hesitation.
"What exactly are you trying to do?"
He rose to his feet, staring at her coldly.
"Davos Seaworth has committed treason."
"The proof? He brought a Lannister dog onto my island—and allowed him to stand before me."
"I will have both their heads cut off and sent back to King's Landing. That is my command."
He paused, his gaze sharpening with warning.
"And what is the meaning of summoning Alester Florent?"
"Do you now believe you can alter my orders at will? Decide who appears in my hall?"
Melisandre tilted her head slightly, her crimson hair slipping over her shoulder. Her faint smile never wavered.
"Beheading, my king… is too merciful."
Her voice remained soft, almost hypnotic.
"The servants of darkness fear fire. The flames of the Lord of Light cleanse sin and falsehood."
"They purify the soul… and serve as a worthy offering to R'hllor."
"They also send a message—to those still wavering in the shadows."
"Why waste such an opportunity?"
At the mention of burning, Stannis's frown deepened.
Since her arrival, people had been burned alive at intervals—reduced to blackened corpses upon pyres.
Worse still, even his wife, Selyse Florent—once a devout follower of the Seven—had become one of Melisandre's most fervent believers, constantly speaking of the Lord of Light's will.
And now, this woman was openly interfering in his commands.
Stannis drew a deep breath and stepped forward, closing the distance between them.
He towered over her, his shadow swallowing her whole.
"Listen carefully."
His voice dropped low, heavy with warning.
"Next time, you will not speak before I give an order."
"And you will not make decisions for me."
"I allow you to serve your god. I allow your counsel."
"But I am the king."
"The law is mine to enforce. Life and death are mine to decide."
"Do you understand?"
He did not shout—but the line had been drawn.
Melisandre looked up at him. Her smile faded slightly, though not from fear.
"As you command, Your Grace."
She stepped back, offering no further argument. But her earlier order—to bring up Alester Florent—had already been carried out.
Stannis turned away and returned to his seat behind the stone table, hands clenched into fists against the cold surface.
Inside, unease churned.
He felt as though he stood between two cliffs.
On one side—law, tradition, justice.
On the other—fire, prophecy, and the unsettling power this woman wielded.
And he alone walked the narrow line between them.
Soon, footsteps echoed again.
The doors opened.
The knight entered first, stepping aside.
Then, a man walked into the hall—into the flickering light of the ever-burning fire.
Stannis looked up.
The newcomer was of average build, neither imposing nor frail. He wore a simple dark robe rather than armor. His posture was straight, his steps calm, his smile perfectly measured.
At a glance, he could have been any well-educated young noble from the Crownlands or the Riverlands.
But Stannis's gaze snapped to the man's chest.
There, embroidered plainly, was a sigil he had never seen recorded in any heraldic roll.
A black hand.
Five fingers spread wide, as if reaching to grasp something.
No border. No ornament.
Just the hand.
Odin stopped ten paces from the stone table, placed his right hand over his chest, and gave a flawless noble bow.
"It is an honor to set foot on Dragonstone and meet you, my lord."
"You address him incorrectly, boy!"
The knight who had escorted him stepped forward, voice sharp.
"Before you stands the one true heir to the Iron Throne—the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—His Grace, Stannis Baratheon, the reborn Azor Ahai!"
Odin remained slightly bowed, listening to the long string of titles.
Internally, he couldn't help but scoff.
What is it with people on Dragonstone and these ridiculously long titles?
Do they never get tired of reciting them?
Yet Stannis seemed perfectly at ease, as though every title naturally belonged to him.
His stern eyes fixed on Odin.
"Kneel, Lannister envoy."
"Swear fealty to your king. Confess your past service to usurpers and their allies."
"Do so… and I may spare your life."
How generous of you.
Odin's thoughts were far less polite.
But outwardly, his composed smile did not change.
"I'm afraid… I must apologize, my lord."
He deliberately repeated the same form of address, ignoring both correction and command. His tone even carried a trace of regret.
"It is not that I am unwilling to call you king."
"It is simply that… in this land, kings seem to die one after another."
"Forgive my bluntness—but I do not believe insisting on calling oneself king is a particularly auspicious sign."
Silence fell.
Only the crackling of fire echoed through the hall.
The guards froze, eyes wide.
The knight escorting him flushed red, hand gripping his sword hilt—yet he dared not draw without orders.
What the hell… I should never have brought this lunatic in!
Who walks alone into Dragonstone just to provoke the king?
Behind the stone table, Stannis's face darkened completely.
This Lannister dog…
To speak of kings and death in the same breath—before him?
This was no mere insult.
It was blasphemy. A curse. A mockery.
Unforgivable.
He did not glance at Melisandre.
He did not seek counsel.
His judgment came instantly.
"Burn him."