In the dark prison, a cold voice suddenly rang out.
"Eddard Stark—have you still not made up your mind?"
Footsteps followed.
The soles of soft leather boots were inlaid with a piece of fine steel, striking the stone slabs of the dungeon floor and producing a series of crisp, clanking sounds.
They startled awake the guest who was staying in this prison.
The dungeon of Storm's End was damp. Water seeped from the walls, dripping steadily, chilling a person to the very bones.
In the darkness, Eddard raised his head. In his field of vision, a tongue of firelight approached from ahead, and he instinctively narrowed his eyes as the sudden brightness sent a sharp stab of pain through them.
Just roused from a deep stupor, his mind was still somewhat muddled. Hunger and weakness brought a sense of powerlessness that made him let out a muffled groan.
Then came two coughs.
"Stannis?" Eddard seemed unable to clearly distinguish the situation before him and asked reflexively.
Only after the words left his mouth did his delayed reaction catch up, and he came to his senses. A trace of pained bitterness appeared on his face as he lowered the arm shielding his eyes, gave a weak, cold snort, and said indifferently, "What is there to consider?"
Hearing his reply, the figure stopped moving. From within the shadows cast by the torch came the threat.
"If you still refuse to submit, I will kill you."
Eddard was unmoved.
He shifted his body with difficulty, trying to sit up so he could find something to brace himself against.
"Everything you're doing is meaningless, Stannis. This is nothing more than another Siege of Storm's End—only this time, no one will come to save you anymore."
As Eddard said this, his eyes stayed fixed on the direction the firelight came from, his meaning pointed.
His words plunged the shadows beneath the torch into silence.
Only after a long while did a voice come, the tone carrying a hint of softness yet still unyielding. "No, Stark. This time is different."
"How is it different?" Lord Stark's tone held mockery. "Don't tell me someone will bring you onions and carrots again this time."
"Stannis, if there's another Siege of Storm's End, you'll starve to death in this castle. This isn't like back then."
"If that's the case, then that joke is pretty funny."
The seemingly sarcastic words still carried the persuasion of this weakened gray wolf.
Yet as Eddard's voice fell, the Stannis Baratheon hiding in the shadows did not speak again this time.
In the torch's dim light, a red-robed woman emerged, her figure swaying.
She came around from behind Stannis and paced toward Eddard.
In the darkness, those fiery red eyes gradually brightened, blooming with light.
Like two glowing—or rather, burning—red gemstones, strikingly eye-catching.
Those fiery red lips parted slightly, and a pleasant voice flowed out from between them.
"Victory will ultimately belong to King Stannis. He is the hero chosen by destiny."
"Lord Stark, you would not understand. Mortals cannot see the deeper meaning behind all this. This is the will of the Gods."
Eddard naturally knew who this person was.
Looking at those eyes glowing in the darkness, he did not pay them much heed and only sneered coldly. "Your god tells you to burn the statues of other gods, then tells you to spread fear, and then to make innocent people bleed?"
When it came to the witch Melisandre, Eddard's tone was no longer as restrained as it had been with Stannis.
Yet Melisandre did not care in the slightest about his mockery. Those fiery red eyes swayed in the dim shadows, drawing ever closer.
Until a pair of scorching yet delicate hands brushed against his face, and those crimson eyes met his gray pupils.
Through his gaze, Melisandre seemed to be observing something within Eddard's eyes.
Her breath was searing; Eddard could even smell a kind of scorched heat.
"I have seen your death in the flames, Eddard Stark," Melisandre spoke just as Eddard was about to struggle free.
"It was that same Kal Baratheon—who should not have existed—who dragged you back from death."
The witch's tone was mysterious, filled with a bewitching quality.
"That won't work on me, witch," for Lord Stark, such tricks had not the slightest effect.
The witch shook her head.
"What I say is something you will never be able to understand. But that doesn't matter. You only need to understand that you should not squander the life that belongs to you. You should use it for something more important, Lord Stark."
"Only Stannis Baratheon is the future of the Seven Kingdoms. He is the one who will bring an end to the hidden threat lurking in the shadows. What you truly ought to do is kneel before the king standing in front of you."
As she spoke, the ruby at the slender curve of her neck also began to emit a glow like flame.
It illuminated her chin, outlining half of her delicate, heart-shaped face.
Yet it only made her seem terrifying, eerie.
Eddard was not afraid. Facing the face thrust so close to his own, he tugged at the shackles on his wrists, the sound of pig iron clashing echoing through the dark prison.
"A bewitching, charlatan witch—your very appearance is the real mistake."
"You have beguiled Stannis and led him down the wrong path, like dancing on the edge of a cliff."
"But you do not know that you are pushing your so-called hero, your god's chosen, into the abyss."
"You say you saw my death in the flames. Then tell me—did you see your master's defeat? Did you also see his death?"
"Your god is nothing but a false god as well—a wicked god!"
This time, Eddard was truly enraged. He hated this woman, loathed this bewitching witch.
Boom!
With no wind, waves rose.
As Eddard's words fell, a surge of heat rolled out from Melisandre's body. Immediately afterward, the torches lining the dungeon walls were lit one after another as if from nothing.
The sudden blaze of light and the scorching gust forced Eddard to shield his eyes in disarray and shrink back into the corner.
In the moment he recoiled, Melisandre released him and rose to her feet.
"I never asked for this crown, Eddard Stark. Gold is cold and heavy when worn upon the head."
In response to Eddard's challenge, Stannis stepped forward and suddenly spoke these words.
His eyes stinging with tears from the abrupt flames, Eddard endured the pain and looked toward him.
Stannis continued, "But this is not a matter of wanting it or not. As Robert's heir, the Iron Throne is mine. That is the law."
"So long as I remain king for even a single day, I bear responsibility—even if it requires my sacrifice—so long as it can save tens of thousands, even millions, of people from the encroaching darkness."
Listening to Stannis's seemingly contradictory words, Eddard narrowed his aching eyes. He could not see Stannis's expression clearly; even Stannis himself appeared hazy before him.
"What do you mean?"
Eddard was somewhat bewildered, unable to understand what Stannis was truly intending to do.
At that moment, the witch suddenly spoke. "Because the darkness is about to arrive, and we must all make a choice—man or woman, old or young, noble or ordinary. Our choice is the same."
"We are choosing between light and darkness, justice and evil. What we choose is the true god or a false god."
"To clearly perceive the essence of the world—truth surrounds you, and all things are plain to see."
"The long night is dark, peril lurks everywhere; the daylight is bright, flourishing with vitality."
"One black, one white. One ice, one fire. Hate and love, bitterness and sweetness, woman and man, pain and joy, winter and summer, evil and justice."
As the witch's chant-like cadence fell silent, Stannis's voice slowly followed.
"This is my responsibility."
"And you must also make a choice—one that has nothing to do with the delusions of power and glory."
"Eddard Stark, as Robert's Hand of the King, it was only right for you to obey his orders. Even Kal Baratheon was not wrong, because the fault does not lie with you."
After saying this, Stannis raised the torch in his hand and turned to leave.
"This will be Kal Baratheon's place of death, Eddard Stark."
"I will not have much patience, nor will my tolerance for you be great. If you still cannot make the correct choice, I will kill you and then choose a somewhat wiser Warden of the North."
Stannis delivered his final ultimatum and did not remain in this place.
Melisandre cast Eddard a long, deep look, the corners of her lips curving into a faint smile, and then followed in Stannis's footsteps.
As she departed, the torches originally set into the stone walls went out one by one.
As the source of the flames withdrew, the dungeon once more sank into a bleak, bone-chilling stillness, returning to darkness.
Eddard lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the darkness before him.
After a long while, a sigh sounded from within the blackness.
…
"This is the last raven…"
Taking advantage of the cover of night, Kevan Lannister released a raven, watching it fly up into the sky as he murmured softly.
He then rubbed his frost-reddened face with his gloved hand, exhaling a plume of pale, misty condensation, before turning away and walking to a stone wall sheltered from the wind.
A small campfire burned there. Tywin Lannister sat silently beside it, a thick, warm bearskin cloak draped over his shoulders, his hand gently stroking a Valyrian steel long-handled sword resting across his knees.
He was using a piece of chamois leather to polish the blade of this Valyrian steel sword called "Longclaw."
"The message has already been sent. After that, are we leaving this place and withdrawing toward the direction of Deepwood Motte?"
Kevan moved closer to the fire. He first picked up a stick and turned over a few potatoes roasting in the flames, then looked toward his elder brother and spoke with a trace of concern in his tone.
Tywin did not immediately respond to Kevan's words.
He focused intently on maintaining the weapon in his hands. Only after returning it to its scabbard did he lift his head and look at Kevan.
"We have only this one choice. This is the only direction in which we can achieve victory."
There was not the slightest ripple of expression on Tywin's face, as though he were speaking of something entirely inconsequential.
Hearing his words, Kevan lowered his head and looked at the flames before him.
"Yes, brother. This is our only choice…"
Ever since uncovering House Bolton's scheme at Last Hearth, this force that had defected from the Night's Watch had been fleeing back and forth across the farthest reaches of the North, doing everything possible to evade the pursuit of Robb Stark and the others.
Relying on the mountainous terrain near the icy bay of the North, along with the supplies seized earlier from House Umber and the food obtained from occasional raids by small detachments on civilian farms, this force—which had spent the past two or three months constantly on the run, avoiding pursuit and engaging in small-scale skirmishes—had nonetheless suffered unavoidable losses of more than two thousand men.
Most of these losses were not incurred in battle.
The brutal cold of the North was ultimately ill-suited to southerners. Fortunately, their persistence had finally begun to yield a glimmer of hope.
Kevan snapped back from his recollection and hurriedly fished the already roasted potatoes out of the campfire.
Ignoring the heat scorching his hands, Kevan drew a dagger from his waist and carefully peeled the skins from the roasted potatoes, placing them onto a wooden plate. He then carved off a leg from a rabbit roasting on the fire rack, slicing it into pieces with care.
Only then did Kevan bring this simple evening meal before Tywin.
Tywin watched calmly as Kevan attended to him, then took the dagger Kevan had just used to cut the rabbit, using it as his eating utensil.
Reaching up, he removed his hat, but did not immediately begin to eat.
After a few moments of contemplation, his gaze fixed on the campfire before him, Tywin suddenly spoke in a low voice, "Genna and the others have already reached Bite Bay. They will choose to launch their attack from White Harbor. That place is best suited to draw the attention of the entire North, and at the same time, it is where the greatest gains can be made."
"They will strike first. After that, we will need to set out immediately."
"The Wull clan has been searching for us throughout the mountains, trying to pin down our position. After months of maneuvering, there is no room left to retreat here. So our next move is to break through from their position and head straight for Deepwood Motte."
"The pirates of the Iron Islands, along with House Greyjoy, have landed covertly along the Stony Shore and have already mustered a large force. Their position is now near Deepwood Motte."
"The situation now is such that a single move affects everything. Our breakout will turn us into bait—Robb Stark has long since laid a dragnet outside, waiting for us."
"But this is also our opportunity. As long as this bait plays its role properly, Deepwood Motte will become Robb Stark's burial ground."
"Once that succeeds, this war of ours will finally see the dawn."
Tywin murmured the plan for the coming day, repeating it once more to Kevan.
Kevan naturally understood what his elder brother meant.
"Brother, tomorrow I will serve as the vanguard. I will be in the first wave to charge out. We must ensure that we break through the encirclement at the very first moment."
Illuminated by the campfire's glow, Kevan's expression was resolute, ready to face death.
But in response to his words, Tywin shook his head.
"No. Tomorrow, I will go with you. Don't worry—we will both be fine," Tywin said with quiet confidence, as though he felt no tension at all about what was about to happen.
As he spoke, he used the dagger to spear a piece of rabbit meat from the wooden plate, mixed it with some of the soft, fragrant roasted potatoes, and brought it to his mouth, chewing with composed elegance.
Kevan thought of the last raven he had just sent out.
Even though he knew he should trust his brother Tywin's confidence, Kevan still lowered his head slightly, a glint of firm resolve flickering in his eyes.
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