The highest point on Dragonstone wasn't the famous Stone Drum. It was an open platform clinging to the east tower of the main keep. Maesters once used it to track stars and tides. Now it served as Stannis Baratheon's war room.
Black stone walls rose chest-high around the edge. From here the whole island spread out below—smoke rising from half a dozen points inside the castle, Redwyne banners flashing in the firelight, and more longboats crawling up the beach like insects. The wind carried distant screams and the crash of steel.
Stannis stood in the center, back to the howling sea. He hadn't moved much in the last hour except to pace from the battlements to the map table and back again. Every report that reached him was worse than the last.
"East tower's lost two floors, Your Grace! The men are falling back to the gatehouse!"
"Shipyard gates are breached—enemy troops are pushing toward the bone hall!"
"West wall's gone in three places. They're splitting our lines!"
Stannis listened without flinching. He pointed at the map, gave short, cold orders, and sent messengers running. Hold here. Burn that. Fall back and regroup. His voice never rose, but the men who left looked like they were walking to their graves.
When the last rider disappeared down the stairs, silence fell hard. Twenty of his best knights and guards stood around him. None of them met his eyes.
Stannis turned slowly. "What the hell is wrong with all of you?"
No one answered. They just stared at the ground like beaten dogs.
Sir Gerald Gower, the big bearded knight from Storm's End, finally spoke. "It's not cowardice, Your Grace. We just see what's in front of us. Redwyne came ready. Our lines are shredded. We can't hold much longer."
"Retreat to Storm's End," another voice muttered. "While we still have ships."
"Retreat?" Stannis's voice was quiet, almost gentle. That made it worse. "Seventeen years ago I marched with my brother and took the Seven Kingdoms with fire and justice. Now the same banner, the same blood, on my own island… and you talk like we're already dead?"
He stepped forward, eyes blazing. "I don't understand. Why do you all sound like the Blackwater never ended? Like this castle is already my tomb?"
The knights shifted, ashamed. Gower's face turned red.
Then a commotion broke out at the stairs.
"Let me through, you bastards! I need to see my husband!"
Selyse Baratheon shoved past the guards, hair wild, dress torn and filthy. She looked half-mad. The moment she saw Stannis she ran straight at him and collapsed at his feet, clutching his legs.
"Don't do it! Don't hurt Shireen! I know you never loved her, but she's your daughter! She's innocent!"
Stannis stared down at her, stunned. "What are you talking about?"
"I heard them! You sent Ser Gody to take her for sacrifice because that red bitch said the king's blood would win the battle! I won't let you burn my child!"
Before Stannis could answer, a calm voice drifted from the stairs.
"Queen Selyse, your devotion is touching. But you are not the king's blood."
Melisandre stepped into the light, red robes glowing, eyes like embers. "I sent the knight. The flames demand true royal blood to turn this war. Nothing less will save us."
Selyse let out a broken sob and crawled toward the priestess. "Then take me instead! Burn me! I believe in the Lord of Light—I've given everything to him! Just spare my daughter!"
Melisandre looked down without pity. "Your blood is not the king's. Your sacrifice means nothing."
The words hit Selyse like a hammer. She crumpled, empty.
Then everything exploded.
A knight standing near Stannis lunged without warning, dagger aimed straight at Melisandre's throat. Steel flashed. Someone shouted. Selyse moved faster than anyone expected. She threw herself sideways and slammed into the priestess, knocking her clear.
The blade meant for Melisandre sank deep into Selyse's chest instead.
Stannis roared and kicked the assassin so hard the man flew backward. Guards piled on the attacker, ripping off his helmet.
Davos Seaworth's face stared up at them, blood running from his mouth.
Stannis dropped to his knees and caught his wife as she fell. Her eyes were already glazing. She looked past him at Melisandre one last time.
"Help him win," she whispered. "Protect… Shireen…"
Then she was gone.
Stannis held her body, chest heaving, the roar of battle distant and meaningless. The wind howled across the platform like it was laughing at him.
He had never felt more alone.