Chapter 220

The veins on Stannis’s forehead bulged, his face turning faintly red as an ominous silence filled the tent. Everyone braced themselves, wondering how the king would react to Melisandre’s public challenge. Yet, to everyone’s surprise, Stannis didn’t explode in anger.

“Gentlemen, this meeting is adjourned. I have matters to discuss privately with my priestess,” Stannis said, his tone clipped.

At the king’s command, none dared to linger. One by one, the lords and commanders rose, exchanging glances as they passed Stannis and Melisandre on their way out. Whispers swirled as they left the tent, their curiosity and unease clear. Rumors about the red priestess—her supposed use of dark magic to kill Renly Baratheon, or that she was Stannis’s true queen—were bound to grow even more rampant after today.
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“Your Grace,” Brynden “Blackfish” Tully said as he lingered at the entrance, “we respect your faith and your god. But no matter how devoted you are, a king must not allow clergy to meddle in the affairs of the realm. Most of your bannermen and allies do not worship the Red God.”

Though Brynden’s station didn’t give him the authority to speak so boldly, his seniority as Robb Stark’s great-uncle and his role as guardian of the Vale lent weight to his words. Stannis could hardly blame others for their suspicions—what kind of king would tolerate being so publicly contradicted by a foreign priestess? He nodded slightly, acknowledging the Blackfish’s point before waving him off.
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When the tent was finally empty, Stannis’s carefully restrained anger exploded. “Woman, you’re far too bold! I am the king!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Couldn’t this have waited for a private audience? Do you have any idea what those Northmen will do now? They’ll dig through the maester’s correspondence, find the Night’s Watch’s letters, and I’ll have to waste time placating them!”

“You are wasting precious time in the wrong place,” Melisandre retorted, unfazed by his fury. “As your loyal servant, I must offer you honest counsel: if you turn north immediately, it’s not too late.”

“Leave that so-called ‘True Dragon’ to rampage through my ancestral lands, humiliating my vassals with Tyrell support until he gains a foothold? Ignore an open enemy to deal with farmers and ghosts in the North?” Stannis’s expression hardened. “It’s thanks to Robert’s final orders and the wealth of the Westerlands that the armies of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale are gathered under my banner. There will never be a better opportunity to wield their full strength. If I abandon this campaign for the North, by the time I return, the red dragon banner will already be flying over the walls of King’s Landing. If that’s what your god showed you in his flames, I regret to say I cannot obey.”

“My god?” Melisandre’s sharp gaze pinned him in place.

Stannis sighed, his frustration evident. “Our god,” he amended.

Melisandre tilted her head, her voice calm but scathing. “Do you know what your words remind me of, Your Grace? A vulgar saying among common folk: ‘You use the whore, then call her ugly.’ You’ve accepted R’hllor’s aid to claim victories, but you refuse to fulfill your duties as the prophesied prince.”

“Neglect my duties?” Stannis’s voice rose. “I’ve allowed you to spread the faith of the Red God across the Seven Kingdoms. I’ve permitted you—a woman—to break tradition and accompany my army, even disrupting my war councils without consequence! I’ve ordered half the royal fleet to sail north to support Eastwatch, commanded the Ironborn to assist the Wall, sent hundreds of prisoners to the Night’s Watch, and continued exempting their industries from taxes. What more do you want?”

“You think you’ve done enough, but it isn’t. The prophecy is clear: only the true king can go to the Wall and stop the darkness from crossing the final defense. If you don’t go, no amount of aid or preparation will matter.”

Arguing with her was like fighting the tide. Stannis clenched his fists, his temper flaring. “Fine! Kill this pretender Aegon Targaryen for me. Take Storm’s End and punish the Tyrells. Do all that, and I’ll march north without a word of complaint to fulfill your damned prophecy!”

“R’hllor grants gifts, not commands,” Melisandre said, her tone unyielding.

“Enough of your riddles!” Stannis snapped. “I haven’t seen any gifts from your god—only your shadow magic. R’hllor claims to be the Lord of Light, so why does he use such dark methods?”

“Shadows are the servants of light, the offspring of flame. R’hllor commands them to aid you.”

“Convenient how you always have an explanation,” Stannis sneered.

“As you wish, Your Grace, I’ll set aside the religious language,” Melisandre replied, her expression calm. “The flames have not shown me Aegon Targaryen’s death. He may die, but not soon.”
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In truth, Melisandre had no way of killing Aegon. She’d never seen him, didn’t know his features, and wasn’t even sure if he was truly at Storm’s End or which chamber he occupied. Without such specifics, her magic couldn’t reach him. Yet revealing this would undermine her god’s authority. Even if Stannis was the prophesied prince, some truths were better left unsaid.

“To use my magic requires sacrifices. If you insist, the most effective option is to offer more king’s blood.” She glanced at Stannis meaningfully. “But your fire burns too weakly, Your Grace. If I drew on it again, it might cost you your life. Your brother’s bastard, however, could serve.”

“Enough!” Stannis slammed his fist onto the table. “Renly’s death already casts suspicion on me. If the same happens again, my rule will crumble. I’ll take Storm’s End with my army, hang your ‘not-yet-due’ enemies from the battlements, and prove to you that I don’t need your sorcery to win.”

“Your Grace—”

“Either use your powers to clear my path or keep your mouth shut. You’ve helped me, and I’ve shown my gratitude. But I swear—if you undermine my authority in front of my lords again, you’ll learn that even a king’s patience has limits.”

Melisandre fell silent, her piercing gaze unflinching as she stared at him. The room grew oppressively quiet.

Stannis, unable to endure the tension, turned his back to her and sank into his chair. “Go,” he said curtly. “Leave my sight. Return to King’s Landing, Dragonstone—anywhere you please. Preach, rest, do what you will. Just stop whispering in my ear about where I should go and what I should do. Let me secure my kingdom, and then I’ll march north to fulfill your prophecy. You have my word.”

Melisandre lingered for a moment, as if weighing her options. Finally, she turned, lifted the tent flap, and walked out.
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Night had fallen, and campfires lit up the sprawling encampment. Soldiers spotted the red-robed woman leaving the king’s tent alone, their murmurs and speculation following her like shadows.

Melisandre paid no attention to the whispers. Her thoughts were elsewhere, consumed by doubt. The flames had repeatedly shown her a vision of the Wall—its icy, towering form etched into her mind. She had interpreted it to mean the prophesied prince must go there immediately, but what if she was wrong? What if the vision meant the prince was already at the Wall—or that she needed to go there herself?

The thought took root and refused to let go. Her uncertainty grew, and she realized there was only one way to dispel it: she had to go to the Wall and see for herself.