King's Landing, the Red Keep.
The Iron Throne still loomed above the far end of the Throne Hall.
But the smell in the hall had changed.
Gone was the scent of Lannister rule, that mixture of wine, women's cosmetics, and decadent corruption.
In its place was a dry, scorching odor, a strange blend of spices and burning wood.
Black cloth covered the stained-glass windows of the Seven. The walls no longer bore splendid tapestries depicting the deeds of past kings, but stag banners embroidered with flaming hearts.
Dozens of priests and priestesses in red robes stood like silent statues in the shadows along either side of the hall.
The light leaping from the bronze braziers played across their faces, making them look eerie and fanatical.
Stannis Baratheon sat at the center of all that red and black.
He wore plain black armor, and his perpetually tight face was now darker than the armor itself.
For he was clutching a roll of parchment.
It was Lynn's "Address to the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros."
Every word was like a red-hot iron nail driven deep into his eyes.
Mad King?
Kinslayer?
Follower of an evil god?
He, Stannis Baratheon, the only lawful king of Westeros, had been nailed to a pillar of shame with such vicious words by some bastard from the North!
What he found most intolerable was that the damned proclamation had actually worked.
Ever since ravens had carried it throughout the Seven Kingdoms, the lords of the Reach and the Stormlands who had been wavering, preparing to swear allegiance to him, had all retreated into their shells overnight.
Even the nobles who had already submitted to him were growing uneasy, whispering among themselves.
Bang!
Stannis slammed the parchment roll onto the floor. The stiff scroll bounced several