The ruins of Summerhall.
The palace that had once symbolized House Targaryen's summer pleasures was now nothing but ashes.
Stannis's army was encamped on the relatively level open ground outside the ruins.
The camps stretched on and on, dotted with campfires, amid men's shouts and horses' neighs.
He had personally led his army east from Ashford, thoroughly wiping out the remnants of the Dothraki horsemen who had fled after their defeat to make their last stands at Nightsong and Blackhaven.
Now the army was resting here briefly, preparing to return to Storm's End.
Stannis stood on a raised platform overlooking the entire camp.
He was lean and straight-backed, his face hard.
Viserys Targaryen, a remnant of the former dynasty, was locked in heavy shackles inside a specially made iron prison wagon at the center of the camp.
Tyrion Lannister was confined in another prison wagon a little farther away, his oversized, misshapen head drooping as though he were dozing.
"Your Grace."
A calm female voice with a strange magnetism sounded behind him.
Stannis did not turn. He knew who it was.
The hem of her red robes brushed over the blackened rubble as Melisandre quietly came to his side.
"The Lord of Light guided us here for more than rest."
Melisandre's voice was soft. "You are Azor Ahai reborn, the prince of prophecy, a sword born to fight the Long Night and the servants of the Cold God. The Cold God's power is gathering in the north, stirring. You need greater power, Your Grace. Power harder than steel and hotter than fire."
Stannis's jaw tightened further, his sharp gaze scrutinizing the priestess. "Power? A king's power comes from law, from duty, from the sword in his hand and the loyal warriors under his command. What power is more fearsome than