The Mander River, on the flat plains along its banks.
Stannis's camp looked half-collapsed, tents listing at odd angles, cooking fires giving off only the thinnest threads of smoke. The soldiers were sallow and gaunt, their eyes dull with exhaustion.
Ever since the disastrous defeat at Bronzegate, they'd been hounded like beaten dogs all the way to the edge of The Reach.
The Stormlands' best had been shattered. Many nobles had been taken captive. Fewer than five thousand men remained with Stannis now, most of them wounded, their morale sunk to its lowest point.
Stannis stood before his command tent, the lines in his face deeper than ever, his temples completely white. He looked years older than he had.
His gaze went to the distance, toward the rich heartland of The Reach, a place he no longer dared to touch lightly.
Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, came up beside him, voice tight with worry. "Your Grace, the scouts report the Reach lords have arrived. Not many of them, and they don't seem well-disposed."
Stannis gave a rough snort, his voice hoarse. "When have they ever been well-disposed? It's enough that they came."
Just then, a heavy drum of hoofbeats rolled in from afar.
A group of riders appeared over the green hills to the south.
At their head, a knight held high a banner bearing a green apple.
The sigil of House Fossoway of Cider Hall.
They halted within bowshot of Stannis's camp.
One knight swung down from the saddle. His silvered armor was finely made, and his hostility was plain to see.
He was the Lord of New Barrel, Ser Jon Fossoway.
At his side stood a severe-looking noblewoman, Lady Arwyn Oakheart of Old Oak.
And trailing behind them was a stout, nervous-looking young fat man.
Stannis didn't hesitate. With Davos and several guards, he went out to meet them.
They faced one another on a clearing by the river, and the air tightened instantly.
Jon Fossoway looked Stannis up and down. Surprise flickered in his eyes, as if he hadn't expected him to be so old and worn.
But he mastered himself at once and spoke coldly. "Stannis. You've the nerve to write to us, calling on all the Lords of The Reach? What is it, you want us to die for you, to fight that Targaryen?"
Half a month earlier, what remained of The Reach's nobility had all received Stannis's letter.
In it, he still styled himself the Iron Throne's sole rightful master, demanding the nobles of The Reach support his claim and provide troops and supplies to resist the invasion of the "false dragon," Young Aegon.
The letter had set off an uproar and widespread fury across The Reach.
When Stannis fled into their lands, they'd chosen the path of least trouble. So long as he didn't push past the line of Highgarden and Cider Hall and into the heart of The Reach, they would close their eyes and leave him be.
They hadn't expected him to make demands so brazen.
Least of all Jon Fossoway.
At the Battle of Ashford months before, he had suffered badly at Stannis's hands.
He'd escaped with his life, but his loathing for Stannis had taken root long ago.
Stannis's face went iron-dark, but he did not explode at once.
He cast a brief glance at Davos beside him.
Davos understood at once and stepped forward. He kept his courtesy, his tone firm but neither humble nor overbearing.
"Ser Jon, mind your words. The man before you is the true King of Westeros, the rightful heir of Robert Baratheon the First. And by now, anyone with even a little sense across the Seven Kingdoms knows that the boy calling himself Aegon Targaryen is nothing but an impostor, a leftover of House Blackfyre."
Jon Fossoway frowned deeply and waved a hand in irritation.
"Ser Davos, I don't care whether he's a true dragon or a Blackfyre. All I know is that he commands tens of thousands of Dothraki, the well-armed Golden Company, the slippery Dornishmen, and those slave soldiers from Norvos. Tell me, with the pitiful strength you have now, how exactly do you plan to fight them? With what?"
He deliberately pointed at the dispirited army behind Stannis, his contempt undisguised.
Davos took a slow breath, forcing himself to stay calm.
"Ser, we are not strangers to fighting the horse lords. At Ashford, we defeated them—"
He should never have mentioned Ashford.
The moment the name left his mouth, Jon Fossoway's face darkened, his expression turning stormy. He cut Davos off sharply.
"Ashford? You dare bring up Ashford?! If we hadn't been locked in a chaotic melee for half a day, our men and horses exhausted, how would you ever have taken advantage of us?! That can hardly be called your victory!"
Davos sighed inwardly, knowing he had touched an old wound, but he had no choice but to continue.
"Ser, I mean no offense. I only wish to remind you that His Grace possesses the means to defeat that Blackfyre. Do you remember how that Dothraki Khal at Ashford suddenly dropped dead?"
Jon Fossoway froze, the anger on his face stiffening.
Of course he remembered.
In the midst of the chaos, the overbearing Khal Jago had been roaring orders for a charge when he suddenly fell from his horse without warning. His death was strange and inexplicable, and it directly caused the Dothraki lines to collapse.
At the time, amid the confusion, everyone had assumed it was the work of a stray arrow. But now…
His gaze shifted uneasily between Davos and Stannis.
"You're saying… that was your doing?"
Stannis remained silent.
But he shifted slightly, allowing the figure who had been standing quietly behind him to come into view.
The red-robed priestess Melisandre rode forward slowly on a gentle mare.
She was as striking as ever, but what drew the eye most was the pronounced swell of her belly beneath her loose crimson robes.
She was pregnant again.
After the disastrous defeat at Bronzegate, Stannis had once more carried out the forbidden ritual of the shadow's child with her.
Now, another shadow assassin was growing within her, waiting to be born, ready to take Young Aegon's life amid armies and banners.
Yet the price of this second ritual was far greater than the first.
It had nearly drained the last spark of life from Stannis, causing him to age at a visibly alarming pace.
Melisandre had warned him that his flame would not sustain a third ritual.
This time was the final battle.
Melisandre turned and gave Davos a mysterious, unsettling smile.
A chill crept up his spine, but he forced himself to speak, addressing Jon Fossoway and the Reach nobles behind him.
"Lady Melisandre is blessed by the Lord of Light and commands ancient magic. What she carries is no ordinary child, but a shadow's child. On the battlefield, it can take an enemy leader's head without ever being seen. The Khal at Ashford died by this very power."
A wave of shock rippled through the Reach nobles.
...
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