The face, half ruined by greyscale, looked so fragile now, so pitiful.
She remembered when Shireen was little, when she had still been healthy and had not yet contracted greyscale. Stannis had not been especially happy to have a daughter, but he would sometimes hold her, stroking her head with his rough hands to show his affection.
Then Shireen had contracted greyscale and nearly died. The maesters had all said she could not be saved, but Stannis had never spoken of giving up. Instead, he had tried every possible means until he finally brought her illness under control and pulled her back from the brink of death.
But Shireen's face had been ruined ever since, and Stannis had seldom had time to spend with her after that. Still, Selyse knew he loved his daughter deep down. He simply did not know how to express it.
But now he was dead, killed by Targaryen dragonfire.
Selyse rose, walked to the window, and pushed it open, gazing out at the distant sea. Clear moonlight spilled over the water, its shimmering ripples a beautiful sight. But she knew that this very sea held her husband's grave.
She did not know that nothing remained of Stannis's body. She merely thought he had been burned to death by dragonfire and sunk to the seabed. After all, apart from the two gods of ice and fire, no one in this world had ever heard of a being like King Ghidorah.
The night wind soon swept in, carrying the salt tang of seawater and clearing her head a little. A few faint lights were visible out at sea: the Targaryen patrol fleet.
Targaryen. The name reminded her of what Viserys had said: "Once the war is over, you will receive a fair trial."
*Yes, a trial. What