Bronzegate, a military council.
Ser Davos looked graver than usual. "Your Grace, word has come from Storm's End. Their food stocks are running low. We brought most of the army's provisions with us, and now that boy calling himself Aegon and his pack of Dothraki curs have hemmed them in. The supply lines are almost completely cut off. The castle's reserves will last a month at most."
The Earl of Haystack Hall added grimly, "Yesterday, we fought a skirmish with those Horsemen on the Kingsroad. We lost nearly two thousand men. Those Dothraki riders aren't human. They're beasts! Their horsemanship and archery are terrifyingly good. Our infantry formations can barely withstand their charges."
One piece of bad news followed another.
Stannis sat at the head of the table, his face taut.
His gaze kept straying toward the silver-grey hatchling, Orys, chained with silver links to an iron stand in the corner, still clumsily breathing fire to roast meat.
Damn it, the dragon was too small!
Stannis then turned his gaze to Melisandre, who stood quietly nearby.
The Red Priestess calmly returned his gaze, her eyes shimmering.
Seeing their eyes meet, Davos felt as though a knife were twisting in his heart.
It seemed Stannis had already made up his mind to use that shadow magic again.
He hesitated for a while, but ultimately gave up trying to dissuade him.
Their situation was dire.
Had that Aegon not been besieging Storm's End, they would probably have had to retreat to Felwood.
Bronzegate, late at night.
Up on the walls, Rorik felt himself drifting off. Half asleep, he shook his head, trying to clear it.
He was a local levy from Bronzegate who had enlisted less than a fortnight ago, a farmer driven from his land by the Horsemen rampaging through the