The wind was cold, carrying the bone-seeping saltiness unique to the depths of the Narrow Sea.
Mist shrouded the surface of the sea like a layer of greyish-white, flowing shrouds.
Stannis Baratheon stood on the forward deck, his back ramrod straight, like a stone statue draped in an iron-grey cloak.
His hands were pressed against the cold gunwale, his knuckles turning slightly white from the force.
His gaze pierced through the thin mist, locking onto that direction...
The direction of home, the direction of his fief, the direction that was now occupied by enemies and where his wife and daughter were imprisoned.
The sailors and Soldiers on deck deliberately lightened their movements, even lowering their voices when speaking.
The aura emanating from the King—a mixture of exhaustion, anxiety, fury, and a deeper struggle—was more suffocating than the cold sea wind.
They had just experienced a bizarre, bloodless "victory," absorbing a massive army; their morale should have been soaring, aimed straight for King's Landing.
But a single plea for help from Dragonstone acted like a tightening curse, halting all forward progress and dragging them back to these cold, misty, and peril-filled waters.
Footsteps approached from behind, light but clearly audible on the silent deck.
It wasn't the heavy boots of a sailor, nor the clanking armor of an officer, but a softer, more... eerie rhythm.
Stannis did not look back.
"Without those pragmatic yet short-sighted counsels ringing in your ears, Your Grace will be able to hear the Lord's guidance more clearly and see the path revealed by the flames."
Melisandre's voice rang out, low and soft, with a strange resonance, as if it came not from her throat but from the ruby at her breast.
She had arrived at his side, slightly behind him, her red robes vivid against the backdrop of grey-white mist and iron-grey armor, like a congealed clot of blood.
Stannis remained silent.
His "Onion Knight," Davos Seaworth, was not by his side at this moment.
That loyal subject, who always offered pragmatic and sometimes harsh advice, had been sent by him to Storms End.
Just as the army was turning back, passing through Stone Dance and preparing to enter The Gullet from Sharp Point to strike at Dragonstone, an urgent military report reached his hands... Storms End was under attack.
The enemy was unknown and their numbers uncertain; it was only known they wore golden armor.
And the garrison he had left at Storms End numbered a mere two hundred men.
Dragonstone could not be lost.
It was his legal fief, the symbol of the King. A King who could not even hold his own fief—what talk could there be of duty and legitimacy?
But Storms End... that was the ancestral seat of the Baratheons, a strategic stronghold he had just "received" from Renly, symbolizing control over the Stormlands; it likewise could not be lost.
A dilemma. Another dilemma.
In the end, it was Davos who volunteered to lead a secondary force to reinforce Storms End.
Stannis had agreed.
It was the least bad choice he could make at the moment.
Davos was loyal, cautious, and capable. By now, he should have approached or even reached Storms End; perhaps the battle had already begun.
Stannis forced himself to withdraw from his worries about Storms End, casting his gaze back into the depths of the mist at that silent black island.
"Will Davos's journey... be successful?" he finally spoke, his voice somewhat raspy from long silence and the erosion of the sea wind. "What have you seen in the flames?"
Melisandre turned slightly, the shadows beneath her hood concealing most of her face, leaving only those red eyes, reflecting eternal fire, flickering with an eerie light in the mist.
"With Ser Davos's loyalty and ability, he will surely stabilize Your Grace's rear and share your burdens." Her voice was full of certainty, as if reading a divine oracle.
"And what I see in the flames, Your Grace, is that victory in this battle will surely belong to The Prince Who Was Promised."
She took a small step forward, standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Stannis, looking toward Dragonstone, her voice dropping lower with a mysterious, captivating rhythm:
"I have seen visions of smoke and salt, and a crown tempered in the fire to a purer radiance. I also saw a dragon... a pale gold, Three-headed Dragon that does not belong to this world."
"It struggled and roared in the flames, but in the end..."
She paused, her red lips curving into an inscrutable arc.
"...its shadow will be swallowed by a greater light. All who obstruct the Lord's path shall be turned to ash in light and heat, becoming the foundation for your ascent to the iron throne."
In Stannis's eyes, a scrutinizing light flickered, but the heavy fatigue and a more stubborn doubt deep within did not dissipate because of it.
He believed in her power.
He had to believe.
Otherwise, he could not explain why Renly had died so bizarrely in a heavily guarded tent, nor could he sustain himself through the guilt of kinslaying to reach this point.
Those shadows, those visions in the flames, were the only visible, searing, and eerie light on his dark path.
But he also remembered Davos's warnings, those pragmatic yet harsh counsels.
He shook off these stray thoughts.
Now was not the time for doubt; Dragonstone must be retaken.
His wife and daughter must be rescued.
This was his duty, his inescapable responsibility as a King, a husband, and a father.
Otherwise, even his final standing of 'legitimacy' and 'duty' would become a laughingstock. With what face would he confront the Seven Kingdoms, and that cold, grim iron throne that must belong to him?
He no longer looked at Melisandre, pouring all his willpower back into his gaze, trying to pierce that damned, thickening mist to see the details of Dragonstone and the enemy's dispositions.
Just then—
"Port side ahead! Ships! So many ships!!!"
The look-out's shrill, distorted scream from the top of the mast was like a red-hot knife, violently tearing through the Fleet's brief, oppressive silence!
Stannis's heart felt as if it were gripped by a cold iron hand, suddenly constricting!
All stray thoughts of duty, legitimacy, and fire prophecies were instantly squeezed out!
Almost instinctively, he snapped his head around, looking in the direction the look-out was screaming!
Melisandre also turned slightly in that direction, her red eyes narrowing under her hood, as if piercing the mist to verify the revelations of the flames.
The mist was dissipating at an unnatural speed. It was as if an invisible pair of hands was tearing away the greyish-white veil over the sea.
The first thing to become clear was the familiar, steep, and sinister black silhouette of Dragonstone.
Immediately following was the stretch of sea between the island and their Fleet, which should have been empty save for the waves...
A "forest" suddenly emerged from the dissipating mist.
No, not a forest.
Masts. Hundreds, thousands of masts!
Straight and dense, like a forest of death made of steel and wood thrusting suddenly from the seabed!
Upon the masts, massive sails were swelling in the sea breeze; the sails were a somber black, embroidered with glaring red silk thread depicting a ferocious, roaring Three-headed Dragon!
The Black-and-red Dragon Banners of Targaryen! Countless numbers of them!
They linked together, almost covering the entire sea between the Fleet and Dragonstone, like a black-and-red cloud of destruction gathering at low altitude, poised to pour down!
The deck instantly fell into a deathly silence.
There was only the wail of the wind through the rigging, the sound of stifled gasps squeezed from throats, the clattering of teeth that could not be controlled, and the faint but hair-raising clinks of weapons unconsciously bumping against gunwales or decks.
Stannis's pupils suddenly contracted to the size of pinheads.
His fingers dug hard into the rough wood of the gunwale, his knuckles turning a deathly white from excessive force.
Scale. Formation. Discipline.
This was no rabble of exiles, no ragtag band of pirates.
This was a true, well-trained, and well-equipped massive Fleet!
They anchored there silently, as if they had been waiting for a long time; that orderly array and silent posture were more oppressive than any war drums or shouts.
And the Fleet he had brought... the numerical advantage he thought was enough to sweep aside the Dragonstone garrison and retake his home, appeared so thin and ridiculous before this sudden, boundless "black and red forest," like a stream trying to crash against the ocean.
But he was Stannis Baratheon.
Hesitation did not belong to him; retreat belonged to him even less.
Duty was on his shoulders, his wife and daughter were in enemy hands, behind him was a newly incorporated and unstable army, and before him was a desperate situation.
There was no time for fear, no time for regret.
"Signal the Fleet!" he roared, his voice cracking from tension yet carrying an unquestionable iron will, instantly drowning out the small sounds of panic on deck.
"All ships... assume battle formation! Left wing forward, probe the enemy lines! Main center, maintain formation and advance steadily! Right wing cover the flank, maintain distance!"
"Archers! Scorpions! All to your stations! Prepare the rams!"
A series of commands, through flags and horn blasts, was transmitted—trembling but firm—to the Fleet that was beginning to show signs of chaos.
Captains and officers across the ships snapped out of their initial shock, shouting to urge the sailors to adjust sails; Soldiers stumbled to their battle stations, carrying arrows, winding scorpions, and fixing shields...
Ships began to turn, attempting to seize the windward position.
The rest of the ships also struggled to follow the flagship's movements, like a school of startled fish, hurriedly trying to form a defensive array.
However, before their formation could fully unfold and while their lines were still scattered...
The battle erupted.
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