Dragonstone.
The ancient fortress stood at the mouth of Blackwater Bay, the first refuge the Targaryens found after fleeing Valyria. Later it became the ancestral seat of the heirs to the Iron Throne.
After Robert's rebellion, the victor had given it to his younger brother, Stannis Baratheon. Robert saw it as a reward. Stannis saw it as an insult.
Inside the Stone Drum, the heart of the castle, Stannis sat behind a massive stone table. He wore a plain dark-gray coat with the crowned stag of his house surrounded by flames. His face was all hard angles and permanent scowl. He hadn't smiled in years.
His eyes were locked on the detailed map of Westeros carved into the tabletop. His finger traced over the North, where Robb Stark's direwolf sigil had been crudely scratched out. There was no triumph in his gaze—only tension.
Beside him stood a woman in a thin red robe. Copper-red hair spilled over her shoulders like fire. She wore no shoes. Around her neck hung a necklace with a ruby that seemed to glow with its own inner light.
Melisandre.
Stannis ignored her beauty completely. His focus stayed on the narrow stretch of sea between Dragonstone and King's Landing.
"Our grain ships from Braavos are still missing," he said, voice like grinding stone. "The Crownlands patrols have grown stricter. We have less than two months of food left."
Melisandre stepped closer and placed a pale hand on his cheek, gently turning his face toward her. "I have seen it, my king. A fleet sailing through the fog, heavy with golden grain and everything you need."
Her red eyes burned. "But you must look farther, my lord. Higher than grain and swords. The long summer is ending. Darkness is coming. The world needs its savior—the prince who was promised, the one who will be reborn amid smoke and salt."
She picked up the carved direwolf piece from the map and snapped it in half. "The false king Robb Stark is dead. The other two pretenders will follow soon. Their thrones rest on lies."
"You, Stannis Baratheon, are the true king. Not by the scheming of men, but by the will of the Lord of Light. Dragonstone is not your prison. It is your forge."
Stannis stared at the ever-burning brazier in the corner. The flames never went out, just as she demanded. He didn't fully believe her prophecies, but the woman had real power. That much he couldn't deny.
A knight entered and dropped to one knee. "Your Grace, urgent news. A ship flying a black hand banner has docked. The man claims to be a messenger from Tywin Lannister. He asks for an audience."
Stannis's eyes turned to ice. "Lannister's messenger?"
Just days ago, his own Hand, Ser Alester Florent, had dared suggest making peace with the Lannisters—offering his daughter Shireen in marriage to the bastard boy Joffrey called Tommen. Stannis had thrown the man in the dungeons for it.
Now a Lannister envoy had arrived? This fast?
"Kill him," Stannis ordered without hesitation. "Cut off his head, put it in a box, and send it back to Tywin. Tell him Stannis Baratheon only speaks to usurpers with steel."
The knight hesitated. "Your Grace… the man arrived with Davos Seaworth."
Stannis's jaw tightened. Davos had only been released from the dungeons a few days ago. Already consorting with the enemy?
Before he could speak, Melisandre said calmly, "Bring him in. And bring Ser Alester Florent as well."
The knight bowed and left without question.
Stannis turned on her, voice low and dangerous. "You overstep, woman. Davos is a traitor. The only answer I give to Lannister dogs is death. And now you're deciding who enters my hall?"
Melisandre met his glare without fear. "Execution is too kind for traitors, my king. The Lord of Light's fire cleanses sin. Let them burn. Let the flames purify their lies and warn the rest of your men what happens to those who waver."
Stannis stepped closer, towering over her. "Listen to me. You may speak of your god and offer counsel. But I am the king. I decide who lives and who dies. Do not forget that again."
Melisandre lowered her head slightly. "As you command, Your Grace."
She stepped back, but the order to bring Alester had already been given.
Stannis returned to his seat behind the stone table, fists clenched. He felt trapped between the law he believed in and the strange, burning power this woman had brought with her.
Footsteps echoed outside. The doors opened.
The knight entered first, then stepped aside.
A man walked into the hall.
He was of average height, dressed in a simple dark coat rather than armor. His posture was straight, his smile polite and composed. He looked like any well-educated young lord from the Crownlands.
But the sigil on his chest stopped Stannis cold.
A single black hand, fingers spread wide, as if reaching for something.
No borders. No other symbols. Just the hand.
The man stopped ten paces from the table, gave a flawless courtly bow, and spoke in a clear, pleasant voice.
"It is an honor to stand on Dragonstone, my lord."
"Your title is wrong, boy!" the knight barked. "You stand before Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the Prince Who Was Promised—"
Stannis cut him off with a raised hand. His cold eyes never left the stranger.
"Kneel, Lannister dog. Swear fealty to your true king and confess your crimes against the rightful ruler. Do so and I may spare your life."
The man's polite smile didn't waver. He stayed standing.
"I'm afraid I cannot call you king, my lord," he said calmly. "Too many men have claimed that title lately. And most of them seem to end up dead. I find it an ill omen."
The hall went silent except for the crackle of the eternal flames.
The knight's face turned red. His hand flew to his sword hilt.
Stannis's expression darkened to pure murder.
"Burn him."