A thick, suffocating fog hung heavy over Dragonstone, making it hard to breathe.
Davos stared out at the harbor. Just a few days ago, before they sailed, the water had been black with ships, packed hull to hull.
But after the Battle of the Blackwater, out of two hundred warships, fewer than twenty remained. Even the Fury, the flagship representing Stannis's glory and victory, had been consumed by the flames.
The few remaining masts sticking out of the water looked like markers in a graveyard.
"Two hundred... down to twenty..." Davos whispered. He thought of his four sons. Not one had survived the battle.
Every time the memory hit him, it felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He couldn't even bear the thought of returning to the lands Stannis had granted him on Cape Wrath. He didn't know how to face his wife.
Before the war, she had prepared a hearty feast, making sure their four boys were well-fed and strong. But now...
Four sons. Four pregnancies. Back when Davos wasn't a noble, his wife had nursed all of them herself. Even when their youngest, little Stannis, was born, she hadn't hired a wet nurse. All told, she had spent nearly eight years nursing them.
Those were eight of the best years of a woman's life, and now, all of it had been buried by his own ambition.
Davos knew that if they had won, he could have secured knighthoods or lands for his sons. And more importantly, it was his duty to repay his King.
But the cold logic of duty and the raw pain of loss were tearing Davos apart. He had already wept until his eyes were dry.
Sometimes, he even cursed the Gods—why hadn't they let him burn in that green fire alongside his boys?
Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps pulled Davos from his grief. He looked up to see a soldier of House Florent, recognizable by the family's trademark jug ears.
A flash of anger sparked in Davos's eyes. Before the battle, he had urged Imry Florent to send scouts into the Blackwater to check for traps. But Imry, looking down on the former smuggler, had rejected his advice.
But the "Onion Knight" quickly hid his anger. House Florent was the Queen's family. If they were summoning him now, it had to be urgent.
Besides, Imry was dead. There was no point holding a grudge against a corpse.
Davos followed the soldier to the Stone Drum, the central keep of Dragonstone's castle. In the days of the Targaryens, the heir to the Iron Throne would be named "Prince of Dragonstone" and reside here before ascending the throne.
In other words, almost every Targaryen king—including Rhaegar, who died at the Ruby Ford—had once lived within these walls.
The Stone Drum was no longer the bustling place it had been before the fleet launched. The guards stared blankly into the distance; handmaids hurried through the halls with their heads down. Davos pulled his cloak tighter. It felt as if the biting winds of the North were blowing straight in from the sea.
The entrance to the Stone Drum was shaped like a gaping dragon's mouth. As Davos stepped inside, the chill deepened.
A crowd had already gathered. Knights, lords, guards—the air was filled with whispers, the clinking of armor, and heavy sighs.
Davos looked toward the center of the room and his pupils constricted. Kneeling on the floor was the Hand of the King—Alester Florent.
He was Queen Selyse Florent's uncle. What crime could he possibly have committed?
Alester was over fifty, the Lord of Brightwater Keep. He was generally respected and known to be a kind man. Why was he being treated like a criminal?
Davos was confused. Maybe this is just what failure looks like, he thought. In business, if you fail, you go home and complain to your wife. But when a King fails, heads usually have to roll to vent the fury.
Davos looked at the man standing next to the prisoner: Axel Florent, Alester's brother. He was a stocky man with a plain face, currently twisted with intense anger.
"Traitor!"
"Turncloak!"
"Shameless!"
The knights and lords around the room were muttering their judgments. It turned out Alester had tried to negotiate peace with the Iron Throne by offering to marry Stannis's daughter, Shireen, to Tommen.
Looking at the old man kneeling on the stone, Davos felt a pang of sympathy. In a way, Alester wasn't really betraying them; he was trying to salvage something from the wreckage. He hadn't directly harmed Stannis's interests.
The problem was that they had just suffered a crushing defeat. Everyone's nerves were raw.
Especially Stannis. Since returning to Dragonstone, he had locked himself in his chambers and refused to see anyone.
"All hail His Grace, King Stannis! All hail the Lady Melisandre!"
Stannis entered, flanked by the Red Woman in her flowing scarlet robes. He brought with him the scent of cold seawater.
Davos noted a crucial detail: Stannis had appeared with the "witch" Melisandre, not his lawful wife, Queen Selyse.
It was a clear sign that the court was fracturing.
The massive fleet had been lost due to Imry Florent's arrogance, and now Alester Florent was suspected of treason. Stannis's opinion of his wife's family had likely hit rock bottom.
But Melisandre... Davos instinctively took two steps back, trying to put as much distance between himself and her as possible.
She was beautiful, yes, but to him, she was a monster. He had been there. He had watched her give birth to that shadow assassin.
That scene haunted his nightmares every time he closed his eyes.
Seeing Stannis arrive, the defeated-looking Alester seemed to rally his spirits. He shouted, "Your Grace! We can no longer contend with the Iron Throne! Cooperation is the only way to save ourselves!"
"His Grace will never cooperate with traitors!" Axel roared at his brother.
Stannis looked at the two brothers with his deep, dark blue eyes. His expression was unreadable.
"Your Grace, I truly did not betray your interests! If the Lannisters agree to the marriage, we won't have to face their armies. We—"
"Silence!" Stannis snapped, his voice cold and raspy. "Shireen is my heir. Tommen is nothing but Cersei's bastard! You want a princess to marry a bastard? No—an abomination born of incest! You deserve to die!"
To Stannis, a man who worshipped justice and law above all else, there was no grey area.
By law and custom, a bastard wasn't just unfit to marry royalty; they weren't even supposed to be in sight of them.
Just as Jon Snow hadn't been allowed to sit near Joffrey when King Robert visited Winterfell, Stannis viewed this proposal as a supreme insult.
"I hereby strip Alester Florent of the office of Hand of the King. Throw him in the dungeon!" Stannis delivered the sentence.
Alester, pushed past his breaking point, laughed in anger.
"Stannis! Look at yourself! Look at what you have left! Just this rock, Dragonstone! As Hand of the King, I govern nothing outside these walls anyway. You think I care? Take it! Take it back!"
Alester ripped the brooch symbolizing the Hand of the King from his chest and threw it violently onto the floor. Axel, seeing this, kicked his brother hard in the ribs.
Lords insulting kings, brothers turning on brothers. The hall of the Stone Drum had turned into a farce.
"Enough! Take him away!" Stannis's face was dark, a storm brewing in his eyes.
Beside him, Melisandre watched it all unfold without a flicker of emotion on her face.
Amid the chaos, guards dragged Alester away. The other lords and knights, following protocol, began to file out of the hall.
Before everyone had left, an assistant Maester hurried up to Stannis.
"Your Grace. A... a letter from King's Landing."
Since the old Maester had died, Stannis hadn't had time to request a new one from the Citadel, but the assistant was capable enough to handle basic correspondence.
Stannis stared at the letter, and the sound of his teeth grinding together—grind, grind—echoed slightly.
He assumed it was another letter from the victors in King's Landing, sent to mock him.
He forced himself to calm down, took the tube, and pulled out the parchment. Just as he was about to read it, Melisandre turned to him and smiled.
"Your Grace," she said softly, "the Iron Throne is yours."
Her smile was enigmatic. Before Stannis could process her words, he opened the letter.
His eyes locked onto the text. They widened. He read it again. And a third time.
He looked up at the courtiers who were still filing out of the room. He turned to his guards and barked:
"Get them back here! All of them!"