The golden sun rose, climbing until it stood high in the sky.
Outside Storm's End, a great host surrounded the castle. The wind carried a sense of dread, and dark clouds loomed overhead.
Yet within Storm's End there was still no movement. The letter of surrender sent into the castle might as well have fallen into a deep pit and vanished without a trace.
"Stannis Baratheon has truly gone mad…"
Looking up at the sky, Baelor Hightower, eldest son of Lord Leyton Hightower and heir to the Hightower, could not help but shake his head.
No one knew what Stannis was thinking, but the situation before them had already made his stance unmistakably clear.
Still, just when everyone believed the silence would continue until the dragon rose roaring and burned down this castle—one that neither the sea god nor the wind goddess had ever destroyed—several figures appeared upon the battlements.
Most importantly, Lord Eddard Stark also appeared there, the very man who had been confined under house arrest by Stannis Baratheon ever since Storm's End had fallen.
Just as people began to think that Stannis had finally come to his senses and was preparing to surrender, the gates of Storm's End slowly opened.
Yet only a single figure emerged—a red-robed sorceress.
She stood at the gate, her fiery red eyes calmly fixed upon the army before her.
Not knowing what they intended, the noble lords of the Reach, the noble lords of the Stormlands, and even the noble lords from Dorne who had come here all looked at one another in confusion.
"I'll go ask what she wants."
In the end, it was Lady Arwyn who stepped forward.
However, when she arrived before Melisandre and had not yet spoken, Melisandre interrupted her.
"King Stannis commands that Kal Baratheon present himself."
Lady Arwyn frowned slightly and instinctively lifted her gaze toward the battlements, where Stannis stood leaning against the crenellations, looking down at them.
After a moment's thought, Lady Arwyn said nothing more. She silently turned and walked to the side of Ser Loras Tyrell.
If someone had not been holding him back, he might already have drawn his sword and charged at the red sorceress who bewitched men's hearts.
"They request an audience with His Grace. Ser Loras Tyrell, you will go and make the report."
As king—and the one offering terms of surrender—Kal could hardly remain here waiting alongside the gathered lords and nobles.
Thus Lady Arwyn used this opportunity to send Loras Tyrell away.
"…Yes, my lady," Loras said through clenched teeth as he looked at the red sorceress.
House Tyrell was gone, yet Kal had spared several of them. And with Margaery Tyrell now kept at Casterly Rock, Loras knew he had to conduct himself even more carefully.
As if noticing the hatred in Loras's gaze, Melisandre's fiery red eyes swept toward him. Her face remained expressionless, and the glance passed just as quickly.
Her gaze had already lifted toward the golden dragon circling overhead at a not very great height.
Casting an inconspicuous glance toward the northeast, Melisandre's brows drew together slightly, then soon returned to calm.
"Your Grace, Ser Loras Tyrell reports that Stannis Baratheon wishes to meet with you."
"Oh…?"
At that moment Kal was playing a game with JJ, pinching its mouth shut so it could not lick him with its tongue.
Hearing Garlan's report, he raised his head and looked over.
"Does Stannis mean to surrender, or is he preparing to struggle a little longer… or perhaps he intends to surrender, but wishes to make some demands?"
Faced with the king's question, Garlan shook his head.
"No, Your Grace. Although the gates of Storm's End have opened, the only one who came out was the red sorceress. Stannis Baratheon himself still remains upon the gate."
"And he has brought Lord Eddard Stark, as well as Ser Barristan Selmy—whom you sent to protect him—onto the battlements."
"We noticed they have all been bound. It appears…"
Garlan did not finish his words. After all, if it were a surrender, it could hardly look like this.
Hearing Garlan's answer, Kal himself could not tell what these two were truly plotting.
Yesterday the shadow assassin had been accidentally detonated by a single Wither, yet now they still had the courage to stand against him.
Thinking of this, Kal could not help but let out a quiet laugh. Then he clapped his hands and rose to his feet.
"Then let us go and see him. If his demands are not excessive, I will permit him to become the last Night's Watchman of Westeros."
Upon the silent battlefield, the smell of the sea drifting up from the cliffs not far away was thick and heavy. The damp wind struck the face, almost suffocating.
Neither side of the standoff spoke much. The silence pressed upon people's hearts like a massive stone.
Just then, a loud herald's cry rang across the battlefield.
"King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, His Grace King Kal the First of House Baratheon approaches!"
As the resounding proclamation echoed across the field, Kal rode forward slowly from the rear of the army upon a white horse.
Today he wore a suit of teal dragon-forged armor. Over his shoulders hung a black-and-red cloak embroidered with the jeweled river sigil of House El, wrapped diagonally across his shoulder and waist and secured by a belt woven of golden thread.
He wore no helmet. The dragon-shaped helm of the same teal hue, gleaming faintly with a metallic sheen, was held in one hand and rested upon the saddle before him.
His deep blue eyes looked calmly ahead.
His ink-black hair, long untrimmed, drifted across his brow, stirring lightly in the sea wind.
Tall and powerfully built, his posture stood straight and firm. His handsome and resolute features drew the eye, like a timeless painting—sacred and imposing.
One could not help but bow one's head in respect.
"Roar!"
Just as, upon the battlefield and within the castle, everyone's gaze was focused upon the sole protagonist of this scene, a dragon's roar suddenly sounded in the sky.
At the same time, as a streak of bluish dragonflame burned across the heavens, the faint blue light it cast made the figure riding the white horse appear all the more imposing.
Pulling on the reins, Kal halted his horse. He first glanced at Melisandre, who still stood alone before the castle gate, then looked toward Stannis and the others upon the battlements of Storm's End, who were likewise watching him.
"…Melisandre, it seems this is the first time we have met."
Kal's gaze rested upon Stannis on the battlements. He then turned his head slightly to look at his father-in-law, Eddard Stark, giving them a slight nod, though the words he spoke were directed to Melisandre.
"But I have seen you many times in the flames, Kal El."
At that form of address, Kal felt a trace of curiosity.
Drawing back his gaze, he looked down at her from atop his horse and asked, "They all call me Baratheon. Why do you call me El?"
Facing Kal's question, Melisandre lifted her head to look at him.
Melisandre truly was a beauty. She had a heart-shaped face and fiery red eyes, with copper-red hair, and her entire person carried an indescribable charm.
Moreover, Kal could feel heat radiating faintly from within her body, as though standing before a blazing furnace.
As she raised her head, from this distance Kal could appreciate her beauty from a more advantageous angle.
A delicate face, snow-white skin, and a generous, unabashed bosom.
And most importantly, the golden necklace hanging around her neck, set with a ruby that was faintly glowing red.
Noticing this, the corner of Kal's mouth lifted in a subtle arc, though his gaze remained calm.
"Because you ought to be El, not Baratheon. You ought not to be king, nor will you be king—even if now you seem to resemble a true king."
"If I recall correctly, you have never even sat upon the Iron Throne. That was the right choice."
"Surrender, Kal El. You will still be Lord of the Westerlands and Protector of the Realm, but you will never be king."
Hearing such upside-down words, Kal could not help but laugh in anger.
More importantly, his nose caught the faint smell of scorching, along with a subtle sizzling sound.
The golden necklace set with the ruby had already become like a red-hot branding iron, pressed against Melisandre's neck and burning with a sharp hiss.
Then, in the very next moment, Melisandre suddenly raised her hand without warning. In an instant she tore off the robe she was wearing and with a sharp shake and throw cast it straight toward Kal, who sat upon his horse before her.
At the same time, with her movement, a fierce flame sprang into existence from nowhere, bursting into fire from the robe she had thrown.
The sudden attack made everyone who witnessed it gasp aloud, their eyes wide with shock.
No one had expected Stannis—or this red sorceress—to be so despicable as to seize the chance of parley to suddenly attempt the assassination of the king.
Yet just as the people's cries of alarm were about to burst out, they stopped short, like hens with their throats suddenly seized.
For the flames that had burst forth out of thin air strangely halted in place.
And they grew smaller… and smaller… until they had shrunk to the size of a bead.
Then the bead of flame suddenly flashed, tracing a lingering arc through the air before piercing through Melisandre's chest.
Melisandre had not expected her long-prepared attack to be resolved in such a way, nor had she been on guard against this strange counterattack.
Thus, in the brief blur of an instant, she suddenly felt a sharp pain in her chest. Immediately afterward, a sheet of flame burst into life behind her, exploding before the gates of Storm's End like a bomb.
Yet strangely, the explosive force—which should have been able to blow the gates apart—was stopped by an invisible wall of air when it came within a meter or two of Storm's End.
In the end, only a wave of hot wind was blown into the castle.
Ignoring the explosion behind her, Melisandre first lowered her head in a daze and looked down at her chest.
A hole the size of a fist had appeared in her breast.
Through that great hole one could already see the flames burning behind her.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, yet no words came out. Instead, she slowly lifted her head again and looked toward the woman who had drifted forward from behind Kal and was now descending gently to the ground.
She had pointed ears and a strange ash-black complexion.
"Was it… you?"
"If you mean the curse you cast upon my master, and this divine flame—then yes, it was I."
Erevi answered Melisandre's words, yet she did not spare her so much as a glance. Instead, her gaze was fixed with gravity upon the gate of Storm's End that had managed to block her strike that had been meant to succeed without fail.
She was not blind to such obvious defensive magic.
Kal, still seated upon his horse and gently calming the white steed that had been startled, felt somewhat surprised when he heard the way Erevi addressed him.
It was not that Erevi had never called him that before—but most of the time it had been while carrying out certain matters, and she would usually add certain verbs and requests afterward.
To hear that form of address used in such a public setting was a first.
But immediately afterward, Kal's gaze also drifted toward Storm's End, which had resisted Erevi's magic, before falling once more upon Melisandre, whose chest had been pierced clean through with a hole the size of a fist.
As Erevi's words faded, the flame magic that Melisandre had unleashed with all her strength—only to have it seized and used by Erevi in an instant—gradually dissipated, revealing the gate behind it, completely unharmed.
Hearing the mysterious woman speak these words in such a disdainful tone, Melisandre could not help but be momentarily stunned.
Her legs suddenly went weak, and she collapsed to her knees, utterly drained.
The ruby set in the golden necklace hanging at her neck seemed as though it had suffered some attack as well. With a sharp crack, it shattered into fragments and fell into dust.
At the same time, as the ruby necklace was destroyed, a pallor appeared among Melisandre's hair and gradually spread across her whole body.
"…Why…"
Melisandre did not look at her wound, nor did she pay any attention to the shattered magical necklace. She merely stared in a dazed and bewildered manner—yet with a trace of madness—at her hands, which were rapidly growing old.
"Why? Stannis Baratheon was meant to be the savior. It was not supposed to be like this… it was not supposed to be like this!"
"Lord of Light, it was not supposed to be like this. The prophecy You told me was not like this. The prophecy You granted from the flames was not like this!"
"Kal El is not the savior… he…" At this point, Melisandre's frantic and disbelieving words suddenly halted.
Then she abruptly raised her head and looked toward Kal, as though she had realized something.
"I know now. It is you, Kal El—you are the true disaster…"
"The purpose of your existence is to destroy everything before that moment arrives!"
"You went beyond the Wall before coming here, and you even brought your servant out of the darkness…"
"You… you!"
"You are an alien god, a god of darkness, the soul of black ice, the incarnation of the god of night and terror!"
"You are the true Long Night!"
The torrent of time washed mercilessly over Melisandre's body. In no more than a dozen seconds, a beauty was reduced to a hunched old crone.
Yet even so, Melisandre's eyes were wide open, as though in that moment she had truly understood something.
She shouted loudly, accusing and denouncing, crying out every warning she could muster before her final awakening.
She knew her destruction could no longer be stopped.
But before that, she had to fulfill her mission. She had to reveal Kal El's true secret to the world!
Perhaps this was her true mission all along—the sole reason the Lord of Light had allowed her to exist until now.
She had awakened, on the very eve before life completely left her and her body burned away.
Why the Lord of Light had always spoken of Kal El in the flames. Why every recent prophecy had pointed toward him.
All of it now had its reason.
She had been wrong. She had never been the one meant to assist the hero.
She was the bell-ringer before the darkness descended—the torch that burned its own flesh and soul as fuel, illuminating the fog-bound world and guiding travelers who had lost their way.
Melisandre's shrill cry echoed across the battlefield, sending a final warning and awakening to everyone gathered here.
In the next moment, from the body of the hunched old crone, now withered into a frail bundle, a pillar of flame suddenly burst into the sky.
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