The ink-black night, hard as iron, gripped the Wolfswood in boundless deathly silence.
The campfire flickered feebly. Sparks that had just leapt up were snuffed out midair by the biting cold before they could touch the air, leaving only a few wisps of bluish smoke that vanished in an instant.
Stannis's ice-bound blue eyes were fixed on the dancing flames. Ever since he had driven Melisandre away, those "revelations" of the true god that had once twisted within the fire had disappeared completely.
Perhaps.
From the very beginning, his eyes had never truly seen anything at all. They had merely been illusions woven by a witch with fire and whispers.
According to the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, he should have hanged that woman...
Why had he not done so then?
Perhaps he had long known that he was destined to fail. On Stannis's dry, stone-carved face, the corner of his mouth suddenly curved into the faintest smile—half mockery, half self-mockery.
Why did he still persist?
Because he refused to accept it. His entire life had been forged from that refusal.
When Robert rose in rebellion against the Targaryens, Stannis had held Baratheon's ancestral seat—Storm's End—to the death, securing his brother's rear and defending the family's honor.
After Robert ascended the Iron Throne and ordered him to eliminate the remnants of the Targaryens, he personally oversaw the construction of warships and led the newly formed Royal Fleet in a forceful assault on Dragonstone, bringing that land, which symbolized the former dynasty's crown prince, under his control.
Stannis's teeth suddenly ground together.
But Robert had ignored his achievements and, without a second thought, granted the fertile Stormlands to their younger brother—Renly.
And as for him, Robert had merely tossed him Dragonstone, an island with no dragons left, only cold stone!
Even