ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 96: 𝔗𝔥𝔢 V𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫.
[Dragonstone]
Dragonstone rose above the sea, a fortress of dark stone set upon the coast, with its towers and walls outlined against the sky and the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs that surrounded it, and although it remained as imposing as ever, the number of men living within it had dwindled over the months, so that with each passing week there were fewer guards on the walls and less movement in its courtyards.
Stannis Baratheon had lost the war.
A curious fact, considering that he had fought only a single great battle. At the Blackwater, he had gathered practically all the strength he possessed, the greatest fleet Westeros had assembled in years and the vast majority of the men willing to follow him, including his vassals from Dragonstone and, above all, those from the Stormlands who had supported his claim.
Unfortunately, Tyrion Lannister's ingenuity and Tywin's timely arrival transformed what had seemed an almost certain victory into a complete defeat, and the consequences did not take long to make themselves felt.
The Stormlands had lost too many men to become involved in the war again, and many of its lords, or at least the few who remained, agreed to recognize Tommen as the legitimate Baratheon and ceased all hostility toward the Iron Throne, which in practice left Stannis isolated.
After the defeat at the Blackwater, Stannis took no further part in any of the great battles of the war, instead remaining on Dragonstone to reorganize what little he had left while trying to gather support, but none of his efforts prospered.
He sent envoys to the Iron Bank in search of funding, but his request, courtesy of a certain impaling lord, was rejected. He also tried to establish contact with the North, but at that moment, with Robb Stark consolidating his power, there was no way the North would involve itself in another war for the Iron Throne.
As the months passed, his options dwindled until they were limited to his own island and the territories directly dependent upon it.
Most of the men who still remained under his command did so not out of conviction, but because their houses, families, and livelihoods were tied to Dragonstone or the nearby islands, which in practice prevented them from leaving.
In the end, what Stannis had left was a small core of loyal men and… Melisandre.
The red priestess had gained considerable influence within his circle since her arrival, largely because Stannis no longer had many other voices to rely upon, and her counsel, reinforced by the belief that he was the prince that was promised, was among the few things he still had to cling to.
The red witch, for her part, was convinced that Stannis was the chosen of the Lord of Light and acted accordingly, reinforcing that belief through her words and small spells of suggestion that made her claims easier to accept without much resistance.
However, that influence had its limits.
Melisandre was not an exceptional sorceress, and although her mastery of fire magic allowed her to perform rituals and obtain visions, they were rarely clear or precise, forcing her to interpret them and, in many cases, leaving her completely in the dark until it was too late.
Even so, she remained the closest thing to guidance that Stannis had left.
But even the priestess was not infallible. She could not make men across the sea choose to follow Stannis, nor alter decisions that depended upon interests, resources, and wills entirely beyond her reach, and no matter how many rituals or sacrifices she performed, the situation did not change. Without new support, Stannis's cause slowly withered.
But in the end, help did arrive.
Whether through pure luck, divine intervention, as Melisandre believed, or a carefully orchestrated strategy by a certain eunuch, the Golden Company eventually arrived at Dragonstone, offering men, resources, and a real opportunity to reverse the situation.
At the head of that force stood the young Griff, a boy barely older than sixteen who presented himself as its commander, accompanied by a face Stannis knew well, the spider Varys, whose presence made it clear that this was neither a simple coincidence nor selfless aid.
They were willing to support his cause, but promises of titles or future rewards after the war were not enough. The Golden Company demanded something more solid, something that would guarantee their involvement beyond any immediate victory.
This alliance had to be formalized through marriage, and the only possible candidate was Shireen Baratheon.
Less than a year earlier, such a proposal would have been received by Stannis with disdain, if not outright hostility, because his rigidity and sense of duty would never have allowed him even to consider the idea of offering his daughter's hand to the commander of a mercenary company.
But Stannis had not only lost the war, he found himself without real allies, with limited resources and no room to move beyond Dragonstone, and to all of this was added his conviction that he was the prince that was promised, a belief that did not allow him to consider the possibility of surrender or accepting defeat.
So, although the proposal did not fit with what he would have considered acceptable under any other circumstance, he ultimately accepted it.
Many of the men who still surrounded him did not share that decision, and among them Ser Davos stood out, for he had spent enough time around the girl to know her better than most, knowing that she was bright, kind, and very intelligent, which made the idea of giving her in marriage to a stranger, and a mercenary at that, difficult for him to accept.
However, Stannis had already made his decision, and at that point there was no room for discussion.
Shireen understood the situation better than many would have expected, because she understood enough to know that it would ease part of the burden her father carried, and although it was not an idea she found pleasant, she accepted it without protest.
As was often said, the girl was as good as a girl could be.
For her part, Melisandre supported the idea, and she did so with even greater conviction from the moment she met the young Griff, because upon seeing him she felt something that was not unfamiliar to her, a sensation she had experienced before, long ago, when she first arrived at the fortress and stood in the presence of Stannis Baratheon, a feeling she had always associated with the attention of her god.
That sensation, in truth, was nothing more than the natural response of her own connection to fire magic, which reacted more intensely to places or people tied to it, as was the case with Dragonstone, or as it was now with the young Griff, whose blood still retained, albeit in diluted form, the affinity for fire possessed by the dragonlords.
But Melisandre did not interpret it that way and, as always, a slave to her visions, she fit everything into another sign from her lord, one that reinforced the path she had followed until then.
She did not abandon her belief in Stannis, at least not immediately, because she had built too many certainties upon that idea to discard it. For too long she had interpreted every vision as proof that he was the chosen one, so she did not consider the possibility that she had been mistaken, but instead assumed that her lord's plan encompassed more than she could see.
She was convinced that if the Lord of Light had guided her to Stannis, then her presence on Dragonstone had been necessary, and if he now showed her another presence in the flames, then that too was part of the path she was meant to follow.
But the truth was that if, at that moment, she had encountered another descendant of dragon blood, she would have felt the same thing and interpreted it in the same way, because Melisandre could not conceive of the possibility of being wrong, only of not having seen enough.
That was why she did not reject the sensation, but it planted doubts in her mind, and it was precisely that doubt that unsettled her enough to decide to use every means at her disposal to dispel it, seeking a clearer answer in the flames.
So she decided to seek answers in the fire.
During a full moon night, Melisandre sat with her back straight and her hands resting on her knees. The chamber was a small windowless room, illuminated only by the flame of a candle and the reddish glow of a brazier, while smoke and heat gradually gathered between the stone walls.
She had prepared a small ritual to strengthen her connection to the fire and try to obtain a clearer vision. She knew that forcing the bond with the Lord of Light in such a way could be dangerous, because even an experienced priestess could lose herself in what she saw or damage her own body in the process, but even so, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
Visions sometimes came on their own, soft and indistinct, while at other times they burst forth violently, but that night she was not willing to settle for blurred images or difficult-to-interpret symbols, because she wanted a clear answer.
The red witch began to recite softly, using the ancient tongue of Asshai while focusing all her attention on the fire.
At first nothing happened, but then the pain came.
A dry throb drove itself behind her eyes, followed by another, stronger one, and soon she felt something warm beginning to run over her upper lip. Blood flowed from her nose, then from her eyes, and finally from her ears, but Melisandre did not stop, clenching her teeth as she forced the connection while the pain spread throughout her head.
The fire began to distort before her and, little by little, the stone, the heat, and the brazier itself began to disappear.
For a moment she felt as though she were falling, and when she opened her eyes again she was no longer on Dragonstone. A void surrounded her completely, and for several seconds she saw nothing but darkness, until little by little she began to make out a figure in front of her.
It was herself.
Melisandre saw herself from the outside, as though she were watching a scene that did not belong to her. She was chained, with her wrists and ankles bound by black shackles covered in glowing runes written in a language she did not recognize. Her robe had been reduced to a blackened rag stained with ash and sweat, while the air of the cell tasted of smoke and dampness.
Then the door burst open.
The footsteps were heard before the figure appeared, slow, clear, and rhythmic, until a shadow fell across the bars of the cell.
He was tall, broad, and wide-shouldered, with blond hair falling over his back and a dark cloak resting on his shoulders. Vlad entered without haste and stopped a short distance away, sitting down on an old wooden chair while observing the red witch in silence.
His face showed no emotion, but his eyes did.
The golden irises were still beautiful, almost hypnotic, but all that beauty was twisted by a rage so intense it seemed impossible to conceal, a cold, deep, silent fury that made that gaze something far more unsettling than a shout or a threat.
—I should congratulate you —Vlad said calmly, leaning back in the chair as he watched her from the other side of the cell— I do not know what ritual you used, witch, but you have hidden it well from me and mine. That deserves some credit.
Melisandre barely lifted her head.
—The credit is not mine —she replied in a faint voice— It belongs to the Lord of Light. I am only his instrument.
Vlad let out a faint smile, though there was no trace of humor in it.
—Even so, the effort is admirable —he remarked as he rested one arm on the back of the chair— But I will find it eventually, or in the end you will tell me where it is. You could spare yourself the pain and tell me what I want to know.
Melisandre held his gaze without looking away.
—There is no pain in this world that would make me betray the Lord of Light —she said with determination.
—They all say the same thing —Vlad replied without raising his voice— Until the pain begins.
She did not waver.
—You do not understand —she said with quiet firmness— He is our only hope. I cannot let you kill him.
Vlad's laughter echoed through the cell, cold, dry, and completely devoid of humor.
—Is this love, red witch? —he asked, tilting his head slightly, as though the idea amused him.
—Love is for children —she answered, barely lifting her head to hold his gaze despite the exhaustion and the chains— I have a blood debt to him.
Vlad slowly rose from the chair and began to walk toward the bars of the cell without taking his eyes off her.
—Tell me —he asked with apparent curiosity, as though he truly wanted to understand her.
—I made a pact with him —Melisandre said, slightly tightening her fingers around the chains hanging from her wrists— I swore to protect him as much as I could, so I hid him from you and yours. In return, he will fulfill his destiny and save humanity.
This time Vlad laughed openly, as though what he had just heard struck him as absurd.
—And what would you do if I promised to spare his life? —he asked as he stopped in front of the bars, wearing a charming smile that never reached his eyes.
Melisandre slowly shook her head, and when she looked at him again there was a cold firmness in her eyes.
—I am not going to help you —she said calmly, without looking away from him despite the chains and exhaustion— You can be sure of that.
Vlad remained standing before her, watching her from very close, and all amusement disappeared from his face.
—The realm hangs by a thread and you bargain with the life of one man —he commented with a cruel smile.
—Realms rise and fall, it is not something that concerns me —she replied, barely shrugging despite the chains— I was a slave.
—And what are you now? —Vlad asked, tilting his head slightly with an interest that seemed feigned.
Melisandre lowered her gaze for a moment toward the stone floor before lifting it again.
—It is not that difficult, I have a blood debt to him —she finally said in a lower voice— And it is my duty to repay it.
Vlad watched her in silence for a few seconds.
—And will you be able to? —he finally asked as his voice began to harden— Will you be able to repay so much blood? The burning of the temple? The sacrifice of the orphans? Little Melonni? Kinvara told me about your past.
Melisandre went completely still.
The color drained from her face and her lips parted slightly, as though she had forgotten how to breathe. Her eyes widened, and the certainty she had maintained until that moment shattered all at once.
She felt her heart tighten and a pain she had thought buried in the depths of her mind forced its way back through her as though it had never healed.
But more than the pain, what tormented her was the guilt.
A constant guilt that drilled into her chest and numbed her senses, a guilt that had never entirely disappeared no matter how much she had tried to bury it beneath prayers, sacrifices, and promises.
—Not even your Lord of Light could tear that guilt out of you, could he? —Vlad continued, staring at her while giving her a look of disgust— Because no matter how much you pray, you still see her face when you close your eyes. You failed her, did you not?
Her eyes slowly began to fill with tears and she had to look away from Vlad, unable to keep meeting his gaze while feeling all that guilt crushing her again.
—You do not have a blood debt —Vlad said, stepping closer to the bars while anger began to show in his voice— Your debt bleeds red. And you think saving a man not much more virtuous than yourself will change anything? It is the lowest sort of sentimentality. You are like a child, praying. Pathetic.
With each word his voice grew deeper and more monstrous, until it sounded like the restrained growl of a beast.
—You lie and curse, hiding behind your god like someone washing their hands —Vlad continued, taking another step toward her while the anger in his voice kept growing— You pretend to have a code that compensates for the countless horrors you have committed, but they are part of you and you will never erase them.
Tears began to gather in Melisandre's eyes.
She tried to grit her teeth and hold his gaze, but every word seemed to sink a little deeper into her, stirring guilt and memories she had spent years trying to keep buried.
Then Vlad moved, so quickly that Melisandre could not even follow him with her eyes. He passed through the thick steel bars as though they were dry branches and grabbed her by the throat with one hand, lifting her from the ground while the chains rattled violently.
Melisandre let out a strangled sound and instinctively grabbed at Vlad's wrist, trying to pull it away without managing to move it even an inch.
—I am not going to kill him —Vlad declared, the rage now fully overflowing in his voice as he held her suspended in the air— Not until I force him to kill you. Slowly. Intimately. In every way I know you fear. And then I will free him so he can see his great work and, when he screams, I will crush his skull.
The more Vlad spoke, the harder it became for Melisandre to breathe, to the point that she no longer knew whether she lacked air because of the pressure of that hand around her throat or because of terror.
Vlad suddenly let her go and Melisandre crashed to the ground, coughing as she tried to catch her breath and tears began to slide down her cheeks.
Vlad looked down at her for a moment, with nothing but disgust in his gaze.
—This is my offer to you, weeping whore —he said contemptuously, spitting out the words.
Melisandre looked up at him, completely frozen by horror, her face wet, her breathing unsteady, and her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to hold back tears she could no longer hide.
—You are a monster —she said in a faint voice, looking away.
—Yes —Vlad replied before turning around and walking toward the exit of the cell— But this world does not need a hero, it needs a monster.
The door closed behind him.
For several seconds Melisandre remained there, kneeling on the stone floor, trembling, her face wet and her breathing broken.
Then the cell began to distort.
The bars bent in on themselves, the walls cracked, and Vlad's figure began to disappear into shadows, as though all of it were being dragged toward some place far deeper and darker.
Melisandre felt an unbearable pain tearing through her head.
The smoke, the cold of the stone, and the sound of the chains vanished all at once, replaced by the suffocating heat of the chamber on Dragonstone.
She opened her eyes with a gasp.
Blood was still running from her nose, eyes, and ears, and for several seconds she could barely breathe as she pressed a trembling hand against her chest. Then the pain finally overtook her, the red witch collapsed to one side, and fell unconscious onto the stone floor.
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First of all, thank you once again for being here and reading. I really appreciate it.
Thankfully, things have been improving a lot lately, so I hope I'll be able to post much more consistently over the next few months.
This chapter was a bit trickier than usual because, even though I already had it written, as I've been saying for the past few weeks, ever since I started using my new method the format of all the chapters has changed quite a lot. So basically, I'm writing the new chapters while also rewriting the older ones so I can bring you a version that satisfies me as well. I'm not really a perfectionist, but I also don't want to upload something that I'm not happy with myself.
The previous chapter, the one with Robb's vision, was actually completely improvised. This was the real prophecy-focused chapter, the one meant to give hints about where the plot is going next.
And before anyone complains about having two chapters in a row with visions of the future, like I said, the first one came completely out of nowhere. But I also want to make it clear that Game of Thrones has always been heavily shaped by prophecies. The show ignored almost all of them, even though many characters literally lived or died because of them, and honestly, I think that was a huge mistake.
In this story, I'm not going to make prophecies come true in a literal or immediate way, but I do want them to become reality one way or another, whether through different interpretations, decisions, or unexpected paths.
There is also the interrogation scene, which I think many of you will recognize the inspiration for. I really enjoyed writing that scene and, honestly, it's one of my favorites in this arc.
By the way, if any of you notice anything that feels strange, robotic, or too obviously influenced by AI in the story, please let me know. I want to avoid that kind of feeling in the writing as much as possible. It's one of my biggest concerns, because I really dislike stories where the AI influence is too obvious and everything starts sounding the same, which unfortunately happens a lot.
Thank you again for being here this week, and I'll see you in the next chapter.