Chapter 131: I Don't Understand!
Dragonstone's highest point was not the famed Drum Tower, but an open-air platform attached to a tower on the eastern side of the main keep.
Originally, it had been used by maesters to observe the stars and calculate the tides.
Now—
It served as the temporary command post of Stannis Baratheon.
The platform was small, built from black stone, with chest-high battlements along its edges.
From here, most of Dragonstone lay exposed below.
The deep-purple banners of the Redwyne fleet flickered through firelight and smoke. In the darkness, more landing boats continued ferrying soldiers ashore.
Inside the castle, plumes of black smoke marked fierce fighting in the streets, while distant shouts of battle were torn apart by the wind.
Stannis stood at the center of the platform, his back to the roaring sea wind.
He stood straight—
But the flaming stag sigil on his chest seemed dimmed, as if coated in ash.
For over an hour, he had paced endlessly—from the edge of the platform to the map table and back again.
Again.
And again.
The calm he wore was nothing but a surface.
Bad news came like the storm overhead—unceasing.
"Your Grace! The Sea Dragon Tower is out of arrows! Half the defenders are dead—the Redwynes have taken the lower levels!"
"Your Grace! The Tide Gate has fallen! Enemy troops have entered through the docks—Ser Buckler is holding them back!"
"Your Grace! The western walls are breached in multiple places! The enemy is pushing toward the main keep!"
Each messenger arrived wounded.
Each report tightened the invisible noose.
Stannis said nothing.
His sharp face remained rigid—high cheekbones, clenched jaw.
He only nodded.
Or uttered a brief acknowledgment.
On the stone table lay a crude map of Dragonstone.
With every report, his finger struck a point on it—
As if nailing each failure into place.
"Tell the Sea Dragon Tower—abandon the upper levels. Destroy the stairs. Hold the base archway. Use the choke point. Hold until dawn."
"Order Buckler to abandon the docks—fall back to the Dragonbone Hall and regroup."
"Burn the debris near the old granary. Create a fire barrier. Delay their advance. Scatter and harass—regroup beneath the Drum Tower."
Each command was precise.
Practical.
An attempt to stitch together a shattered defense.
The knights saluted and departed—
Toward duty.
Or death.
Stannis watched them go.
His expression did not change.
But the darkness on his face deepened.
Around him, the remaining guards and knights held their breath.
They knew their king.
Stannis Baratheon did not yield easily.
But now—
Even the most loyal could smell defeat in the air.
Like at the Battle of the Blackwater—
That suffocating moment when hope drowned.
At last, no more messengers remained.
The platform grew quiet.
Only Stannis, a handful of core knights, and a few dozen royal guards were left.
The wind howled louder.
So did the silence.
Stannis turned.
His gaze swept across their faces.
He wanted to see resolve.
Instead—
He saw fear.
Exhaustion.
Collapse.
These were the men who had survived Blackwater.
Who had stayed with him.
And now—
They looked broken.
Something ignited in his chest.
He could accept defeat.
He could accept sacrifice.
But never—
Cowardice before the battle was over.
"You."
He stepped forward.
"What are you doing?"
His voice was cold.
Sharp.
"The battle is not over. Your swords are still in your hands. The castle still stands."
His eyes burned into them.
"And yet you look like sheep waiting for slaughter."
"We have not lost."
The last words came as a low roar.
No one met his gaze.
Some shifted uneasily.
Some gripped their swords—but felt no strength.
Shame filled the platform.
At last, Ser Gerald Gower stepped forward.
A massive man, rough and blunt.
"Your Grace… we are not afraid to fight."
"But… the situation…"
He swallowed.
"The Redwynes came prepared. Our defenses are shattered. We don't have time to regroup."
"The docks are lost. The towers are falling. They keep coming…"
His voice dropped.
"This battle… is like Blackwater."
"We cannot win."
He lowered his head.
"Your Grace… we still have ships."
"We can withdraw. Return to Storm's End… or elsewhere."
"Better than dying here."
"Withdraw?"
The word came softly.
Too softly.
Cold spread through the platform.
Stannis raised his eyes.
"You all think this?"
No one answered.
They didn't need to.
He looked at them.
These men he trusted.
And for the first time—
He felt something deeper than anger.
Loneliness.
Absurdity.
"Why?"
His fists clenched.
"Why have you all lost the will to fight?"
"I don't understand!"
He roared—
Voice tearing through the wind.
"Why is everyone talking about Blackwater as if this place is doomed!"
"Seventeen years ago, I marched with my brother—Robert Baratheon—to overthrow a tyrant!"
"The Seven Kingdoms were united!"
"The people welcomed us! Justice was on our side!"
"That vitality—that certainty—I can still see it!"
He stepped forward.
Voice rising—
"Seventeen years later—same blood, same banners—here, in my own seat!"
"Is this where I—Stannis Baratheon, the rightful king of Westeros—am meant to die?!"
Silence.
Only wind.
And the king's heavy breathing.
The knights stared at him.
This man—
Cold.
Unyielding.
Now like a wounded stag, slamming its antlers against iron bars.
Bleeding—
But unyielding.
Shame flickered.
Something else too—
A faint spark.
Stannis steadied himself.
Sword in hand.
Ready to give his final command—
Then—
A scream tore through the air.
"Let me through! I must see the king! My husband!!!"
Stannis froze.
He knew that voice.
Too well.
A headache formed instantly.
"What is this?"
A guard rushed in.
"Your Grace—it's… the queen."
"She insists on seeing you."
Selyse Florent.
His wife.
Shireen's mother.
A woman consumed by faith.
"Let her in."
His voice was tight.
Irritated.
Controlled.
She stumbled in.
Disheveled.
Filthy.
On the verge of collapse.
She saw him—
And broke.
"Stannis!"
She rushed forward—falling at his feet, clutching his legs, sobbing uncontrollably.
"Please! Don't hurt her!"
"Don't hurt Shireen!"
Her voice shattered.
"She's your daughter!"
"She's innocent!"
"Don't give her to the flames!"
The platform froze.
Stannis stared.
Confused.
Angry.
"Who said anything about sacrificing Shireen?!"
But she didn't hear him.
"I heard them!"
"Ser Godry Farring—he was sent!"
"Lady Melisandre said… only the king's blood… can win the war…"
Her voice broke completely.
"Then take me!"
"Sacrifice me instead!"
"I am the queen! My blood is worthy!"
"Please… spare Shireen…"
Silence.
Heavy.
Unbearable.
Stannis' chest heaved.
Godry Farring?
He hadn't given that order.
He had sent Ser Edric to protect Shireen.
And Edric…
Never returned.
Then—
A name surfaced in his mind.
Cold.
Certain.
---
A voice followed.
Calm.
Unshaken.
"Your sacrifice is admirable, Your Grace."
"But… you are not of the king's blood."
All turned.
Melisandre stepped forward.
Red robes.
Burning eyes.
Faith made flesh.
"Yes."
She said calmly.
"I sent Ser Godry Farring."
"What?!"
Stannis turned—
Fury unleashed.
"Who gave you the authority to command my men—"
"—to seize my daughter?!"
"You overstep, woman!"
But she did not flinch.
"Your Grace."
"I act for you."
"For the realm."
"For the war against the darkness."
She stepped closer.
Voice unwavering.
"There is only one way to win."
"One life… for thousands."
"A necessary sacrifice."
"A sacred gift."
The words hung in the air.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Selyse collapsed before her again—
More desperate than before.
"Please… take me instead!"
"I believe! I serve!"
"My life—my blood—take it all!"
"Spare Shireen…"
A queen—
Begging at another woman's feet.
Broken.
Humiliated.
Many knights turned away.
Unable to watch.
And Melisandre—
Looked down at her.
There was neither disgust nor pity on her beautiful face. She simply shook her head slowly and repeated, with absolute clarity:
"I have already said, Your Grace."
"You are not of the king's blood."
"Your sacrifice would mean nothing in this war."
Those words fell like a final judgment, shattering Selyse Florent's last sliver of hope.
She froze.
It was as if all her tears, fear, and desperate pleas had been sealed in an instant.
The queen slumped to the ground, her gaze hollow as she stared at Melisandre's crimson robes, then at Stannis' expressionless face, and finally at the surrounding figures—some sympathetic, some embarrassed, some indifferent.
The world seemed to lose all sound and color.
The god she had devoted everything to… the "holy cause" she had sacrificed her life for… had ultimately declared her unworthy even as a sacrifice.
And her husband—the man she had never truly understood nor ever truly drawn close to—remained silent. To her, that silence was no different from approval.
The air in the hall grew suffocating, absurd and hopeless.
Then—
Everything changed.
A knight who had been standing quietly behind Stannis suddenly moved.
Without warning, he burst forward.
His heavy armor seemed to offer no hindrance as he lunged straight toward Melisandre, a cold dagger flashing in his hand. The strike was precise, ruthless—clearly premeditated.
"Stop!"
"Protect the lady!"
Several cries rang out at once, but it was too sudden, too close. No one could react in time.
A flicker of surprise passed through Melisandre's red eyes, yet she made no attempt to evade.
The dagger was about to pierce her throat.
At that very instant—
Selyse moved.
The woman who had collapsed in despair suddenly surged up, as if driven by a final, desperate force.
She threw herself forward, slamming into Melisandre.
"Watch out!"
The impact shoved the priestess aside, throwing her off balance and causing the blade to miss its intended target.
But Selyse—
Was left completely exposed.
The dagger sank into her chest with a dull, sickening sound.
Her body stiffened.
She lowered her head, staring at the blade buried in her heart as dark red spread rapidly across her gown.
Her lips parted, but only blood spilled out.
Even the assassin froze, stunned by the sudden turn of events.
"Seize him!"
Stannis roared, snapping out of his shock.
He moved before he could even think, stepping forward and driving a brutal kick into the assassin's abdomen.
The man was sent flying, crashing hard onto the stone floor several meters away. The dagger slipped from his grasp and clattered aside, still stained with fresh blood.
Guards rushed forward, pinning him down as swords were drawn.
But Stannis didn't even look at them.
His entire focus was on the woman collapsing before him.
Almost instinctively, he caught her.
Selyse Florent—his queen, his lawful wife, Shireen's mother—fell into his arms.
She felt impossibly light.
Her face was rapidly losing color, yet her eyes shone with an unnatural brightness as she looked past Stannis toward Melisandre.
"Please… help…"
Her voice was weak, but clear.
"Help Stannis… win… he needs you…"
"I… I have already… shown my loyalty… to my king… Lady…"
With what little strength remained, she turned her gaze back to Stannis.
"Please… don't… hurt Shireen…"
The final word faded into a breath.
The light in her eyes vanished.
Her head slumped to the side, her arms falling limp.
Selyse Florent, queen of the realm, died in her husband's arms.
Stannis stood there, holding her still-warm body, his mind completely blank.
After a long moment, he slowly lowered her onto the cold stone floor, his movements unusually gentle.
Then he rose.
Turned.
And walked toward the assassin.
Without a word, without hesitation, he kicked the man's helmet with all his strength.
The metal dented with a heavy clang.
Stannis bent down, seized the edge of the helmet, and tore it off.
A familiar face was revealed beneath.
Worn. Weathered. Filled with hatred—and regret.
A face that should never have been here.
The air seemed to freeze.
Stannis' pupils contracted violently, his expression twisting under the weight of something deeper than rage.
"Davos…!"
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