Same afternoon – Northeastern cliffs of Dragonstone
The view here made the busy Dragonstone harbor feel like another world. Sheer black cliffs dropped straight into the sea, jagged rocks waiting below. Waves slammed against them in an endless roar.
The air smelled of salt and sulfur, and volcanic mist from the mountain kept everything wrapped in a gray haze.
A crude stone pyre had been built right at the cliff's edge, stacked high with dry driftwood and kindling. Two bodies lay on top.
One was the Summer Islander bed-slave Kalisto. The other was Stannis's fool, Patchface.
Kalisto had been stripped of his fine clothes and wrapped in plain linen. The man who had once been famous for his beauty and dancing was now just a cold corpse. His face still carried the terror frozen there last night when Stannis's guards dragged him out of the warehouse.
He'd received "special attention" from the jailer Moss—the same brute who had followed Stannis from Storm's End. Moss didn't care who you were or what you'd done; he only followed orders. If anyone had torn away the rag covering Kalisto, they would have seen the hundreds of cuts and bruises underneath.
Compared to him, Lady Selyse and her baby had been lucky. They had died peacefully in their sleep after drinking the sweet-sleep poison. Their bodies had twitched and sweated at the end, but for a noblewoman who had betrayed her husband, it was about as dignified a death as anyone could hope for.
Patchface looked even stranger. The half-wit fool still wore his multicolored motley, though the paint on his face had started to run. His eyes were half-open, staring blankly at the gray sky. Officially, he had "slipped and fallen down a well" last night during the chaos after his lady's death. It sounded believable enough.
The fool had always babbled nonsense around the castle. Whenever Pierce entered his Shifter state, Patchface would have one of his "fits." People on Dragonstone whispered that mermaids had stolen his wits and life-force, which was why he could see things normal people couldn't.
In the Seven Kingdoms, any whisper of magic could ruin a man. Patchface's ravings had never caused real trouble yet, but Loana—the head maid and Pierce's chief spy on the island—had decided the risk was no longer worth it. One small fool wasn't going to threaten Pierce's bigger plans.
Stannis Baratheon stood three paces from the pyre, dressed head to toe in unrelenting black. His back was ramrod straight, hands clasped behind him so tightly his knuckles were white. His stone-carved face showed nothing, but his blue eyes burned with a cold fire—not grief, but something harsher and more final.
Jon Arryn and Ser Barristan Selmy stood a little behind him on either side. The sea wind today was vicious, whipping at their cloaks like it wanted to knock them off the cliff.
Jon looked even paler than when he arrived. His breathing carried a faint rasp. Barristan's face was grave, his white Kingsguard cloak snapping in the gale.
"Light it," Stannis said, voice short and dry.
A guard stepped forward and tossed a burning torch onto the pyre. The oil-soaked wood caught instantly. Orange flames roared upward, swallowing the bodies in seconds.
In Westeros, the dead were usually buried. Burning was reserved for plague victims. But these two weren't Westerosi, and Stannis's hatred for the dark-skinned slave made the choice easy.
The fire blazed hotter in the wind, a raging serpent of flame. In moments both corpses were engulfed.
Ser Barristan took one step closer to stand beside Stannis. "My lord," the old knight said quietly, "please accept my condolences. Losing family is always painful, but the Seven will guide their souls to rest."
In Barristan's mind, Stannis was mourning his wife, his newborn son, and the fool who had been a strange reminder of his parents.
He had heard the old stories about Patchface being the only survivor from the shipwreck that killed Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana. The old knight assumed the fool had become a living memory of that loss.
Stannis didn't answer. He didn't even turn his head. His eyes stayed locked on the flames consuming the two bodies, as if he wanted to brand the sight into his soul.
Jon moved up beside them, voice heavy with exhaustion. "Stannis, I know nothing I say can ease your pain right now. But remember—you are a Baratheon, Prince of Dragonstone, Master of Ships. You have duties. You cannot let grief destroy you."
Jon knew the full truth. He also knew that any man—highborn or low—would be shattered by this kind of betrayal. He had always had a soft spot for Stannis. Even though Robert disliked his younger brother, Jon understood how much the realm needed him. That was why he had dropped everything in King's Landing and sailed here the moment Stannis asked.
This time Stannis finally reacted. The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but something closer to a spasm.
"Grief?" he repeated, the word dripping with bitter sarcasm. "Lord Jon, do you truly think what I feel right now is grief?"
Jon and Barristan exchanged a quick, uneasy glance.
Stannis kept staring into the fire, but his words seemed meant for both of them. "Patchface… he was the gift my parents brought back from Volantis. They said I was too solemn, that I needed a fool to make me laugh."
His voice grew distant, as if he had slipped twenty years into the past. "The day they sailed, Maester Cressen took me to the docks to see them off. I still remember how handsome Father looked, how beautiful Mother was. Father told me, 'We're going to Volantis. We'll bring back something special for you and your brothers.'"
The memory clearly hurt. "Truth is, I never wanted a fool. Maybe if they had just stayed with me…"
The fire cracked loudly. A foul smell of burning fat and flesh drifted on the wind.
"Then, a year later," Stannis's voice sharpened, "my parents died in that shipwreck off Shipbreaker Bay. No survivors."
He turned to face Jon and Barristan for the first time. "A few days after that, this damned fool washed up on the beach. The servants pulled him out of the water. Everyone thought he would die. But he lived."
Stannis's eyes were haunted. "From that day on, every time I looked at Patchface I remembered two things: my parents' hopes that I would become more lively… and the fact that I didn't die with them."
That was the knot in Stannis's heart. As a nobleman he knew he shouldn't resent the harmless survivor. But every time he saw the fool, the old wound reopened.
"Now," Stannis said, turning back to the pyre as the flames began to die, "that reminder is finally gone. The last gift my parents left me has turned to ash."
One last thing he didn't say out loud: the humiliation he had carried had burned away with them.
His voice dropped, but every word was clear. "Everything has been burned. All the weakness. All the feelings. All the… burdens."
The fire shrank. Wood became glowing embers. The bodies were reduced to blackened bones. The wind snatched up lighter ashes and scattered them toward the sea.
In that moment both Jon and Barristan felt it—something fundamental had changed in Stannis.
The rigid, stubborn, duty-bound man was still there. But something else had vanished from his eyes. Maybe the last trace of ordinary human softness. Maybe the last bit of attachment to the world's feelings.
In its place was something colder and sharper: pure, unapologetic ambition. Not the hunger for power itself—Stannis had never been that kind of man. This was deeper. He wanted to prove himself. To rise above his brother Robert. To become someone no one and nothing could ever break again.
He would climb higher—not for glory, but because standing at the top meant he would never again be a pawn moved by fate.
"The ashes will be swept into the sea," Stannis said at last, voice calm once more. "From this day forward, there is no more Kalisto on Dragonstone. No more Patchface. My wife and child are dead. House Baratheon's new generation now consists of only one person… Shireen."
Jon's heart gave a heavy thud. He understood the unspoken warning perfectly: if Robert's three children were not truly Baratheons, Stannis would press his claim without hesitation.
And this time he would not be held back by emotion, honor, or loyalty. He had burned his past. Now only the future mattered—and the road to it, no matter how many bodies lay along the way.
The fire finally went out, leaving a pile of smoking black embers. Stannis gave it one last look, then turned and walked away down the path toward the castle without another word.
Jon and Barristan stayed behind, watching his back disappear into the mist.
"He's changed," Barristan said at last, voice heavy with unease.
Jon nodded slowly, the motion weary and final.
"And I don't think he's ever going back. Whether that's good or bad for House Baratheon… only the gods know."