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A shadow.
To offer a shadow?
Stannis Baratheon's face was carved from stone, unreadable. But his tightly clenched fists gave him away.
He had built his life on law, on order, on swords and walls you could see and touch.
This kind of magic, this faint, intangible nonsense, revolted him down to his bones.
But.
He had no choice.
Joffrey, that little madman on the Iron Throne, had issued an edict of judgment against him, treating him like a common criminal to be humiliated at will. And Renly, his carrot-eating younger brother, was busy massing an army at Storm's End, scheming to topple Joffrey and steal the throne that by rights belonged to Stannis.
All of Westeros was laughing at him. The eldest son of House Baratheon. A man with every claim and no power to enforce it.
A pitiful wretch.
He needed strength. The kind that could crush his enemies quietly, without warning.
"My king."
Melisandre's voice rose again, low and coaxing, threaded through with something almost like enchantment.
"What are you still waiting for?"
"Your enemies are not waiting."
"They are carving up your kingdom. Mocking your weakness."
Stannis raised his head slowly. His dark eyes locked onto the red-robed woman.
"Why should I trust you?"
"Because I can show you hope."
Melisandre moved to the fireplace. The flames threw her shadow long across the floor, twisting and dancing.
"The Lord of Light is the one true god."
"He sees your plight. He is willing to grant you power."
"You need only show him your devotion."
Stannis went quiet.
He thought of Robert. His blood brother, the man who'd taken an entire kingdom with nothing but a warhammer and sheer force of will.
If Robert were here, what would he do?
He'd probably cave that woman's skull in, then bark something about bullshit gods, and pour himself a drink.
But Stannis was not Robert.
He didn't have Robert's charm. He didn't have Robert's strength.
What he had was fury with nowhere to go.
"Fine."
The word came out through gritted teeth, ground small and hard.
"I'll do it."
"Tell me how."
A smile crossed Melisandre's face. Satisfied. Unsurprised.
"Please stand before the flames, my king."
Stannis did as he was told. He walked to the fireplace, and the wave of scorching heat hit him immediately, pressing against his skin.
"Now gaze into the flames."
Her voice had shifted, taking on a distant, reverent quality.
"Empty your mind. Feel the warmth and greatness of the Lord of Light."
She began to chant. An old language, something ancient, something Stannis had never heard. He couldn't understand a word, but there was a presence beneath the sounds, something coiled and waiting. The light in the room seemed to sink. The fireplace blazed brighter, the only thing alive in the darkness, its flames throwing frantic shadows against the walls.
Melisandre chanted faster.
She stretched her bare hand into the fire.
The flames licked across her skin. She didn't flinch.
Her eyes fixed on the heart of the blaze and didn't move.
She was calling out.
Pouring her most fervent prayer toward her god, the great Lord of Light, begging for divine revelation, for a sign, for a path to victory.
---
King's Landing.
The Tower of the Hand.
Lynn was playing cards with Cersei and Lyanna.
He'd had Sansa put together a set of Dou Dizhu , figured he'd let some natives try it out, see if there was a market. The rules weren't complicated. Both women had picked it up fast. The loser drank.
Empty wine cups crowded the table in front of Cersei and Lyanna.
Their cheeks were flushed pink, their eyes soft and unfocused. They were well on their way.
Lyanna let out a stream of giggles and dropped her cards.
"No more, no more." She waved her hand, nearly folding over onto the table. "Lord Lynn is too good. I can't drink another drop."
Cersei slouched back in her chair and pressed her fingers to her forehead.
She hadn't felt this loose in a long time. Since Tommen had been "rescued" by Lynn, and Joffrey had settled into his new role as Lynn's willing puppet, she'd started to feel like her life had room in it again.
The price of that room was herself.
She'd decided she could live with that.
Then Lynn's smile stopped.
He felt it.
Something faint, reaching across a vast distance. A thread of belief, pure and utterly devoted, pressing itself against his consciousness.
What the hell?
He frowned.
It was like his phone was ringing, and the signal was terrible.
He closed his eyes and reached toward the source.
The next instant, his consciousness slipped sideways into somewhere else entirely.
Void in every direction. No sky, no ground. Only a single pillar of roaring flame hovering in the air.
And he was that flame.
Lynn: ???
Wait.
What?
Since when am I on fire?
I thought I absorbed the Great Other's power. I should be an ice block, not a torch. Something has gone very wrong here.
Then a woman's voice reached him from beyond the flame.
Fervent. Trembling with belief.
"Great Lord of Light, Heart of Fire!"
"Your servant, Melisandre, prays before you!"
Lynn understood immediately.
Melisandre.
The red-robed witch from Dragonstone.
She's always praying to the Lord of Light — why is it landing on me?!
He turned it over.
Could it be that absorbing the Great Other's power had thrown some kind of interference into her prayer? Scrambled the signal?
That didn't quite hold up. The Great Other and the Lord of Light were opposites. Enemies.
Unless...
He'd intercepted it.
He almost had it. The logic was there, just out of reach.
It didn't matter. The mechanics could wait.
What mattered was that right now, in Melisandre's eyes, he was the Lord of Light.
A grin, slow and wicked, spread through him.
"Speak your request, my believer."
He aimed for a voice that sounded suitably divine — weightless and vast.
It rang through the void like a bell, full of gravity and presence.
Beyond the flame, Melisandre shuddered hard.
He answered. The god answered her.
Her heart nearly burst out of her chest. This was extraordinary. In all her years of prayer, the Lord of Light had spoken only in fire and shadow, in images she had to interpret herself. Never like this. Never in clear words.
She seized the moment.
"My Lord — the prince promised in your prophecy, Azor Ahai reborn. Is it Stannis Baratheon who stands before me now?"
"Can he lead us through the Long Night to come?"
Stannis.
Lynn conjured that tight, rigid face. The joyless man who couldn't bend far enough to spare his own daughter.
Him? A chosen prince?
He very nearly laughed out loud.
He held it.
"Poor believer," he said, letting his voice go slow and sorrowful.
"You have misread my will."
Melisandre went still.
Misread?
Lynn kept going, perfectly composed.
"Stannis is faithful. But he is not the one."
"Then — then who is?"
Her voice was shaking.
"The seed of flame was planted long ago in the stag's capital."
He kept it vague. Atmospheric.
"The true prince will come from the cold. He carries dragons. He will bring down every false crown and rise as the last king."
"Dragons..." Melisandre breathed. "King's Landing..."
She turned the words over slowly.
From the cold , from the bitter North.
And King's Landing, the seat of the new Hand, Lynn's territory.
Lynn, who came from the North.
Every piece locked into place.
Could it be,
A thought surfaced in her mind, one so enormous it shocked even her.
"What must I do, great Flame?"
"Let the false kings tear each other apart," Lynn said. "Let their blood consecrate the new king's ascension. Go to King's Landing. Find the seed of flame there and serve him. Only he can drive back the darkness. Only he can bring the true dawn."
The words settled.
Lynn cut the connection.
That was enough. Push it further and he'd slip up. The Lord of Light probably didn't monologue this much.
In the Tower of the Hand, he opened his eyes.
"Lord Lynn, are you alright?"
Lyanna was watching him, brow furrowed with worry.
"I'm fine. My mind wandered for a moment."
He smiled, reached over, and ruffled her hair.
He glanced at Cersei across the table, who had gone entirely limp in her chair, well past the point of consciousness.
His mood lifted further.
Honestly? Playing god was fun.
Maybe he should look into developing a following of his own.
---
Dragonstone.
The fireplace slowly settled back to a normal flame.
Melisandre stood motionless, staring at nothing.
The shock on her face had not fully faded.
"Melisandre!"
Stannis's voice snapped her back.
"What did you see?!"
She looked at his face, the urgency cracking through his usual stone, and thought of the revelation that had just upended everything she believed she knew.
She couldn't tell him the truth.
If she told Stannis Baratheon that he wasn't the prince in the prophecy, this blunt, unforgiving man would put a blade in her before the sentence was finished.
She drew a breath. Arranged her face into its familiar, knowing smile.
"I saw it."
"I saw your enemies crumble to ash in the flames."
"I saw Renly's crown fall."
"I saw Joffrey screaming as he died."
"You will be the last one standing."
Something shifted in Stannis's face. A thin crack in the stone. The closest thing to a smile he ever showed.
The god had spoken. He would win.
Melisandre watched that satisfied look settle over him.
The Red God was her faith. Whoever the Red God named as the one to end the Long Night , that was the one. She had her answer now, clear and direct, not a vision to be puzzled over. She didn't need to think further than that.
She turned and looked out the window.
The sea heaved and churned in the dark. Somewhere past it lay King's Landing.
She had to go there.
She had to find the true king.
Melisandre turned back, a strange light in her eyes.
"Stannis. You are destined to wear the crown."
"I have received the Lord of Light's revelation. There is something I need from you."
"The shadow will clear the path of your enemies."
➤ Next: The Sacrifice
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