The snows grew worse the day after Davos Seaworth rode north with the Red Horde. Howling winds threatened to upend the camp, and men huddled together around meager fires to stave off death. When dawn came to herald a brief respite from the elements, Stannis' army began to arduous process of digging itself out from the snow, which was several feet deep in some places where the wind had pushed drifts against tent walls. There were no horses left, not after the men had scavenged any remaining horse blankets for their own warmth and left their mounts to perish in the cold. Hopelessness was a heavy pall over the encampment.

No one glanced his way as Stannis emerged from his tent in the early morning, blinking in the cloudy light. He did not particularly mind being ignored just then—the last thing he wanted was a confrontation with uncomfortable questions to which he had no answers. Instead, he made his way through the deep snow to the small tent where Shireen was quartered. His daughter had proven surprisingly resilient thus far, but with the last few days of turmoil Stannis felt a pressing need to see her and ensure she was still in good health, or at least in as good health as could be expected. She was a ray of hope in this otherwise dreadful existence—he had lost Lo Jun, then Davos, and finally even Melisandre, but Shireen would always be there.

But her tent was empty. Stannis looked around for moment in confusion, yet nothing seemed out of place. Shireen's books were still on her modest, roughly-hewn table, and her bedding had been arranged neatly with the furs folded and piled on top. Only she herself was missing—well, she and her cloak, and the little wooden stag that Davos had so expertly carved for her at some point. Shireen had been carrying it around since Davos left with Lo Shan and the rest of the mercenaries, as if the carving gave her some comfort in the man's absence.

She did not run away, that Stannis knew. It would have been impossible in the previous day's snow. Not to mention Shireen would not have left without taking at least one of her books, as impractical as they were. The girl might take off and forget to pack what little food she could scrounge, but she certainly would not have abandoned the tomes she held so dear.

He found a guard leaning on a spear outside, who looked half asleep in the cold.

"Where is Princess Shireen?" he inquired. The guard looked surprised, then supremely worried.

"Her Grace—the Queen," the man stuttered, "She and the Red Wom—er, the Lady Melisandre, they took the princess."

An icy fist gripped Stannis' heart like a vice and held it.

"Where," he demanded, but it was not a question. The guard pointed towards the copse of trees that began near the edge of camp.

"There, Your Grace," he answered fearfully, clearly understanding now that there was something wrong. "In the woods. Her Grace said something about praying there."

Stannis did not remember taking off at a run, but he found himself racing towards the line of trees with a desperation he never knew before. The cold air burned in his nose and throat and lungs, and exhaustion weighed his limbs down like a suit of plate armor. Not fast enough, he thought in despair, an all-consuming terror giving his feet wings to carry him over the crunching snow. He scarcely noticed when he stumbled, his knees meeting the frozen ground in a burst of pain, and ignored the razor scrape of ice against his bare palms. Physical pain was nothing compared to the fear in his heart, numbing all other sensations.

The trees thinned before him into a small clearing filled with people. They stood before a crudely constructed pyre, built like a wooden platform as tall as his chest, with a cruel stake standing tall in the midst. There were faces there of men Stannis once thought loyal to him, but he did not care—the entirety of his vision was consumed with the image of a small, slender child without a cloak struggling frantically against the ropes that bound her to the stake in the pyre.

"Father!" Shireen's frightened, pleading shriek was a sound Stannis never wanted to hear again as long as he lived.

The clearing was as quiet as a grave, with all heads turned to stare at him. Most of the men there had the grace to look ashamed while a few seemed upset, but Stannis would deal with them later. He tore his gaze from his daughter to find his wife and the Red Priestess, who stood dangerously close to the pyre, brandishing a lit torch in one hand. Selyse was plainly afraid, while Melisandre's beautiful, terrible face was defiant and angry.

Stannis did not pause as he strode purposefully through the parting crowd, Lightbringer shining in his hand. The pyre was sturdy—the wood did not bend under his boots as he climbed.

"You cannot," Melisandre's voice rang out, clear as a bell.

Another time, another place, it might have given him pause. Were he still wrapped around her finger, anxious to please, perhaps he would have heeded her warning. But that time was past—she no longer held sway over him. The edge of Stannis' blade made short work of the rope securing Shireen to the stake, and she buried herself in his side the instant she was free. He pressed her close with one hand, and fixed the priestess with a hard look.

"I forbade you from burning anyone else," he said, and marveled at how calm his voice sounded, even to his own ears.

"Only the princess' blood can break the storm and assure you victory," snapped Melisandre.

"Nothing can stop the snow," Stannis snarled. "We will press on to Winterfell regardless of what the gods put in our path."

"There is only one God," the priestess countered furiously, coming to stand before the pyre. "And He demands a king's blood!"

"You will not have my daughter!" His shout echoed through the clearing, leaving silence in its wake. Many of those who had come to witness the gruesome spectacle now cast doubtful looks between their king and their priestess—still, some, like Axell Florent, glared at Stannis with undisguised bitterness. Stannis might be king, but in that moment, surrounded by unwelcoming men clamoring for a sacrifice, he was an obstacle to survival, and he was vulnerable. He weighed his options—if he descended from the unlit pyre, he would sacrifice the high ground if his men turned on him. On the other hand, he did not trust Melisandre not to simply toss her torch into the pile of wood even with him standing atop it—he had never seen her so incensed, and his open rejection of her faith made her entirely unpredictable.

Luckily, he spied a group of plainly confused bannermen who had arrived on the heels of their king, their swords partially drawn. They were led by the hapless guard who had stood outside Shireen's tent—Stannis credited the man for following, even if he had ultimately failed in his duty to keep the princess safe.

Wordlessly Stannis pointed the sword he held—still glowing as if freshly pulled from the forge—to the newcomer nearest to him. For once, Justin Massey was not smiling, and he grimly stepped forward to answer his king. Massey was known as one of the queen's men, a knight who converted to the Lord of Light and followed the Red Priestess' commands. But Stannis had long suspected the man of mere opportunism—he was ambitious and proud, and saw this new faith as the quickest way to gain acclaim for himself and his poor, tiny House amongst all the other players. He was no true believer, and his initial absence at this burning spoke volumes of his true belief.

"Queen Selyse and the Red Woman are to be confined to separate tents under constant guard. No one is to let them out. These men," Stannis swept an arm to encompass those who had come to attend the sacrifice, "Are to be imprisoned as traitors to the realm."

There was only a momentary flicker of hesitation in Justin Massey's blue eyes before he nodded once. As he stepped forward, it seemed to break whatever spell the other bannermen were under—they fanned out, fresh hostility apparent in their faces. They were not fools—there was only one meaning to a pyre and a stake, and they knew Stannis was not the one Melisandre planned to feed to the flames.

Gingerly, the king eased his daughter down the treacherous steps of the pyre. Her violent trembling was of no help, but Stannis suddenly found that he had all the patience in the world—she could have taken a fortnight to descend and he would not have left her there alone. Once on solid ground, he made sure—out of instinct more than deliberate plan—to place himself between Shireen and Melisandre as a shield of sorts. At the moment, the priestess seemed unlikely to attempt anything untoward, but Stannis did not want to burden his daughter with any more fear than she had already experienced.

"You are making a grievous mistake," Melisandre admonished him, her dark eyes full of anger and disappointment. A flash of uncertainty ran through his mind like lightning, but it was gone as soon as he glanced down to where Shireen clung to his side. Buoyed by the knowledge that he had saved his daughter—his only heir—Stannis ignored the priestess and made for camp, guiding Shireen with a tender arm around her frail shoulders. He looked back once to see Melisandre staring at him with the noble hauteur of a powerful queen, a chilling impassivity that spoke volumes of the betrayal she felt. He was supposed to be the Chosen One, the king who would save all the Seven Kingdoms from peril, and yet he discarded her despite her undying commitment to seeing that vision fulfilled. Stannis knew, though, that Melisandre was not loyal to him—she was only loyal to what he was supposed to be, and who she believed he should have been.

Everyone was wrong, sometimes. He was wrong for trusting her, and she was wrong about him.

As they approached the camp perimeter, Shireen disengaged herself from his side and began to dry the tears on her face with the edge of her cloak. Concerned, Stannis paused and watched as she not-so-subtly wiped her running nose.

"I want to show you I'm brave, father," his daughter said quietly. Stannis fought a hysterical laugh—did she believe he would think less of her for latching on to him so tightly just then? She was a girl child, not a grown knight—the fact that she had not fainted during this ordeal was proof enough that she had ample steel in her spine.

After a moment of thought, he extended his hand for her to take. There were no words to describe the paternal joy he felt as she flashed him a quick, relieved smile and entwined her fingers with his. If she wanted to show him she could walk on her own, he would give her that opportunity—but she was still his little girl, and she would always be.

There was no need for Stannis to order men to protect the princess. As soon as Shireen entered her tent—her back straight and her head held high, just like the future queen she was—no fewer than five guards assembled themselves to stand watch, their faces grim and determined. While Stannis had good reason now to doubt the loyalty of a fair number of his men, these he knew as adherents to the Seven—men who respected and admired Davos Seaworth, rather than those who followed the Red Woman's siren song. As difficult as it was to trust anyone just then, these men were the best Stannis could have hoped for—in an ideal world, he would have bidden Davos himself to stay with the princess, but without his Hand there, Davos' supporters would have to do.

A crowd had gathered before the king's tent, mixed between the queen's men and those wise souls Stannis remembered had eschewed the Lord of Light. News spread fast, like fire in a tinderbox—half the army unquestionably knew, by now, of the Lady Melisandre's abrupt and disastrous fall from the king's favor. Stannis disregarded their curious and fearful glances as he passed them by. He unbuckled the glowing sword from his side as he entered his tent, and tossed it carelessly onto the table along with the thick belt emblazoned with flaming hearts in gold—it was no longer his sword, just an expensive reminder of his arrogance and poor decisions. He would find a plain blade instead from the spares in the wagons, or if they had all been lost in raids, then he would take one from the dead. They had no need for their weapons anymore, and he could do with a humble reminder that swords cared not whether they were wielded by kings or farmers.

He reemerged just in time to see one of his bannermen still faithful to the Seven escort Selyse to the queen's tent, lifting the flap politely even as she ignored him with her typical highborn hauteur. Stannis was satisfied to see the man take up his station outside her tent, standing watch against any attempts by the queen to escape, or any attempts by her supporters to rescue her. Still, he frowned only a moment later.

There was one person missing.

"Where is the Red Woman?"

Silence greeted his demand, and the knights assembled before him exchanged increasingly worried looks. Surely someone had been keeping an eye on the priestess—but no, it seemed no one wanted to accept responsibility for their failure. Stannis clenched his teeth tightly.

"She's abandoned us!" someone cried out. A shocked murmur ran through the crowd. "We are doomed," the same voice babbled, only to be hushed by others. One brave soul—a minor hedgeknight from the crownlands with a face that reminded Stannis of a shattered clay pot that had been sloppily reassembled—stepped forward out of the crowd.

"The Red Woman escaped, Your Grace," the man said uneasily. He held a spear in one hand, the tip blackened with what appeared to be soot. The closer Stannis looked, the more he realized the same black powder covered this knight's armor, as if he had been standing too close to a fire.

"She worked magic, some flames that seemed to devour her, and she disappeared. Alekyne Florent tried to grab her, but she was gone." A shadow crossed the man's face. "Ser Alekyne has been badly burned, Your Grace. He'll most likely lose that eye."

"Alekyne Florent?" asked Stannis. The knight nodded.

"Yes, Your Grace. He and his uncle fought about… your order. They'd never really been on friendly terms since Brightwater, actually—Ser Axell denounced his nephew as a nonbeliever, and Alekyne told him he'd follow you unquestioningly, Your Grace, since you were the only reason he was saved at Brightwater Keep while the Red Woman wanted to abandon him and the rest of House Florent to the Tyrells." Stannis grunted in mild surprise. He had been aware of the tension amongst the Florents, but had not expected young Alekyne to actually have the backbone to stand up to his loudmouthed uncle.

"The Lady Melisandre is a traitor, and will be executed if brought to justice," the king declared to the crowd, his expression daring those who watched him with mouths agape to argue. There was no question about it—anyone who disagreed would find themselves next up on the chopping block. No one was willing to rise to that challenge—the crowd seemed to shrink and began to disperse, an alarming number of men barely concealing their anger or hopelessness, and some not bothering to hide it at all. Stannis dismissed them coldly—they had a duty to obey him, not some fire priestess, and no choice in the matter.

The next day, Justin Massey sought an audience. While Davos would ordinarily bring Stannis any news regarding the army, Ser Justin seemed to have appointed himself Stannis' new man in the Hand's absence. The king was not surprised—trust Ser Justin to spot an opening to improve his position and take it.

"Your Grace," said Justin Massey, looking even more nervous than Stannis had been when summoned to meet Aerys Targaryen for the first time as a child, "The queen's men… the followers of the Lord of Light. They've…" He cleared his throat uncomfortably and Stannis fixed him with an annoyed look. "They've deserted, Your Grace."

Stannis stared at the man without speaking, immobilized by some invisible force. Strangely enough, he felt calm—he felt no anxiety, no fear, just a tranquil acceptance of his fate.

"How many?" His voice sounded alien to his ears. Was it truly him speaking?

"Half your men." Ser Justin answered despairingly.

Half his men. How many would have left if Stannis had indeed sacrificed Shireen? Would any of them have gone, or would they have understood? Too late now for conjectures, the king reminded himself grimly, and turned his attention back to the man standing before him.

"You converted to the Lord of Light. Why didn't you go with them?" Justin Massey blanched.

"I, um," he stuttered, the usual rosy pink of his cheeks darkening with an anxious flush, "I suppose I was not as devoted to… that faith as the rest, Your Grace. Not to a faith that would burn a child, at least." The last part sounded like a self-assured truth, and Stannis believed Ser Justin. The knight was not a cold-blooded murderer like many of the queen's men—he was sly, yes, but not a criminal.

"You may regret that choice, Ser Justin," said the king quietly.

Justin Massey watched Stannis for a moment in obvious uncertainty, before appearing to reconcile something in his own mind.

"No, Your Grace," he replied confidently, his usual smile returning to his round face. Stannis nodded once, then stepped past Ser Justin. The replacement sword he had obtained was an unfamiliar but comforting weight at his side, slightly longer than Lightbringer and a touch heavier—a blade crafted for battle, not for display, the type of sword Stannis had long preferred, before he let himself be led astray.

Shireen was overjoyed to see him, crushing him in yet another hug the moment he set foot in her tent. She did not seem to have slept at all that night, but Stannis could not blame her—he too had tossed fretfully in bed until he finally gave up and simply sat in a chair to watch the small fires dance in the braziers. Her response to him telling her that he was leaving now for battle was predictable: her puffy, red eyes welled up once more with tears, but she merely smiled through her sadness and wished him luck. He allowed her to hold his hand even as she accompanied him outside, like a tiny, timid shadow.

The man who had informed Stannis of Melisandre's escape the previous day waited for them in the snow, shifting from foot to foot.

"Your Grace," said the man, "Your wife…" He did not finish the sentence, instead gesturing helplessly towards the small wooded area where Shireen had been taken the day before. Stannis cast a look down at his daughter, whose blue eyes were huge and fearful in her pale face, and set off without her—she did not need to see her mother again, much less return to the scene of her near-death experience.

He knew before he arrived what awaited him there in the trees. It was a feeling, an intuition nestled deep in his bones. As a result, there was no surprise for him when he finally came upon the small circle of men who stood awkwardly around the body of his wife, securing her against some unknown threat until their king could command them otherwise.

Stannis watched her figure swing from the branch for what felt like an age. He should have been saddened, upset, even remorseful—and yet he felt nothing. If anything, he was relieved. Selyse had believed in him as the Chosen One, but not much else—before Melisandre came along to preach her visions of Stannis as savior and king, Selyse scarcely deigned to give him the time of day. She wanted more from her life than being the near-barren wife of the second-born Baratheon son, and no matter how hard he had tried to become the man in Melisandre's visions, he never quite succeeded.

Selyse had put all her faith in the man Stannis was not born to be. There was only one fate for her, for attempting to burn his daughter and heir at the stake. No matter her intentions, it was an act and a betrayal punishable by death, and Stannis would not hesitate to sentence her as was necessary for her crime. By taking her own life, Selyse deprived him of the justice he would naturally seek for Shireen. Her suicide was the first thing she had ever done that made Stannis respect her—he had seen many men try to end their lives and fail, but she, a weak, feeble woman, had succeeded spectacularly.

Now she was free from everything—from her disappointing life, from him as a disappointing husband, from their disappointing daughter. In a way, Stannis was even grateful—now he was free as well. Sadly, it was most likely too late.

"Cut her down," he finally rasped. "Burn her body." The ground was too frozen to dig a grave, and he did not want to expend what little energy his men had left in order to bury a traitor. A funeral pyre would be honorable enough—Stannis was a hard man, but even he would not leave his wife's corpse to be ripped up by wild animals.

He did not stay to watch. There were more pressing matters to attend to, and it was almost time for the final march to Winterfell.

Walking halfway from Castle Black to Winterfell was a wretched proposition in the first place, but the winter snows made everything take twice as long with twice as much misery. Fortunately, there was one bright spot in the otherwise dismal journey—the miles of exhausting trudging gave Stannis Baratheon ample time to reflect on the events that had led him to this low, low point in his life. By the time he and his bedraggled army reached the open plain that stretched before Winterfell, he had run through the list of his many sins thrice.

Stannis paused just below the crest of the last gently sloping hill before the start of the flatland, his breath coming heavy in the cold air. Around him his men staggered to a halt, some groans floating past his ears as they bemoaned their aching feet and empty stomachs. One of his bannermen made the mistake of coming too near the king, who caught his eye and beckoned him closer.

"Send out a foraging party immediately." He gestured to the horizon. As he well knew, food was of paramount importance. No siege could be won without food, and his supplies were nonexistent after the midnight skirmishes during the last few days. "The siege begins at sunrise." But the man beside him was no longer looking at him, and Stannis frowned.

"There's not going to be a siege, Your Grace," said the man. Stannis half knew the reason even before he turned to see for himself the lines of Bolton cavalry riding for them at a steady, determined trot. So, Roose Bolton had decided to take the battle to him, then. For a moment, Stannis grudgingly admitted that Bolton had chosen well.

He looked away from the certain death that rode for him under flayed banners and down at the frozen ground. Silently he cursed the Red Woman and her thrice-damned fire god; he cursed the Boltons and the North; he cursed his own hubris. He drew his sword. There was no way out. He would meet his end on both feet.

His men drew their swords after him. It would not be enough to save them, but at least they would die honorably. And at least they had the high ground, for now. There was no chance they could hold it, not against a cavalry charge, but it was something.

He wished he could have apologized to Lo Jun. Maybe she would know that he died thinking of her, full of regrets.

"Your Grace," someone gasped in awe. Stannis looked away from the approaching riders.

From the forest that surrounded them emerged shapes—men on horses, armored as heavy cavalry. The few men in plate were followed by light cavalry already notching arrows to small recurved bows as they rode, their reins loose or gripped between bared teeth as the riders steered their mounts with their knees. These were not Seven Kingdoms men, but foreigners—their long black braids gave them away immediately, even if the unfamiliar armor did not. Stannis could hear their chilling war cries even at this distance. Two formations, outnumbered by the Boltons but closing fast, aiming to meet the enemy lines with a charge from both sides.

They flew the flaming stag's head.

Disbelief turned to fear as he recognized a small figure mounted on a dun mare at a flat out gallop amidst the rest of the Red Horde riders. With no helmet, it was easy to identify Lo Jun even in the watery half-light of the early evening. She bore down on the Boltons from the west, riding at the center of the cavalry line with the dying sun at her back.

Was she mad? What in seven hells did she think she was doing? She was no soldier; she would be killed!

Both Baratheon formations sped towards the Bolton cavalry. The men gave their horses all the lead they needed as they raced across the snow-crusted plains. Behind him, he could hear the murmurs of his men who had also spotted the new cavalry. Courage spread quickly, and Stannis could hear shouts of encouragement from the men behind him.

Horns blew, crisp and righteous.

Four hundred meters.

The Bolton men had seen the Baratheon riders. Some wheeled to face the new adversary, their previously-orderly ranks warping as the riders adjusted to confront the new threat. Confusion spread. Red-fletched arrows began to rain onto the Bolton formation as the charging light cavalry loosed their bows.

Three hundred fifty meters.

He watched as Lo Jun drew her sword, holding it above her head like a beacon. The front line of heavy cavalry lowered their lances at the Boltons, who scrambled for crossbows to reply but were unprepared for the new front. Time slowed.

One hundred.

Fifty.

Small round objects sailed through the air towards the Bolton cavalry from the hands of the charging Red Horde, trailing short, lit cords that burned merrily. When they landed amongst the enemy men, they exploded, spewing fragments of burning ceramic and sending a wave of panic through the horses and men. Chaos instantly broke out in the Bolton lines, where horses suddenly tripped on crippled legs and some men fell screaming from their mounts, clutching at their eyes. Thick black smoke filled the air.

Ten.

The two cavalries collided just as the first Bolton ranks reached his own line, and all hell broke loose.

His men were tired and sick. They were on foot, half frozen, and disheartened by the march and events since Castle Black. But they had to fight for their lives, and those who did not run did so with single-minded desperation. To their credit, the men around him closed ranks tightly and maintained discipline as much as possible. While predictably, others in the rearguard fled, more stayed, their spirits buoyed by the return of the Red Horde. Foreign mercenaries or no, they were divine saviors just then—a miracle that could only mean the gods had not forsaken them yet.

The battle raged. To the west, he could see Lo Jun's cavalry line bend and break, the riders milling in chaos. The Bolton men threatened to overrun them completely—Stannis watched helplessly as riders in blue swarmed his spymaster and the men around her. The stag's head banner they carried wavered and dipped, then fell.

He roared in fury, a sudden surge of energy granting him a strange strength, as if he were Robert in his prime. He hacked mercilessly through a Bolton man's neck and pushed the corpse off his blade with a boot. All around him, his bannermen flailed about with their swords and what few spears they carried, stabbing at the Bolton horsemen who stampeded through the Baratheon ranks with eager frenzy. Some succeeded in unhorsing the Bolton riders—the Boltons who fell were quickly gutted. Others simply brought down the horses themselves, slashing at legs or necks from as safe a distance as possible.

Stannis cast about him wildly. The plains were a liability—cavalry could maneuver and fight on such an open field, but this was a deathtrap for soldiers on foot. The nearby woods were a far better option—had he known Roose Bolton would send out his men, Stannis would have waited in the trees rather than march out without cover.

Summoning his voice, he shouted, "To the woods!" and began to retreat, followed by those men of his who heard his cry and now took it up, spreading the word amongst the rest of the king's army. There was no solution for the disorder—they ran however they could for the line of trees while cutting down any Boltons who tried to get in their way.

They never made it to the woods. There were always more Boltons between them and the tree line—some who had seen the king and wanted the glory of killing Stannis Baratheon themselves, and some who merely happened to be there by ill chance.

It was a slaughter. The man to his left died, then the man to his right, but still he fought on. He resolved that he would not be killed, not here, not now—not at the hands of the Boltons, not when Lo Jun was so close. He did not stop to consider she might have already been slain, bleeding out on the cold, hard ground as the battle raged around her. She lives, he told himself sternly, she lives, and you must too.

This was not a battle for victory. This was a battle for survival.

He could not draw enough air into his laboring lungs—his breath came in ragged gasps, like a dying fish pulled from the sea, or a stag run down by dogs. His muscles screamed, strained past the point of exhaustion. And yet for every man he cut down, another two sprang into view—he blocked and cut and parried and stabbed with mechanical efficiency, no longer thinking but moving instead out of a lifetime of pure instinct. It did not matter where his blows landed on those Bolton men who materialized before him—there was no elegance to his movements, no fine art of swordsmanship to astound the watcher. The only important thing was that they fell beneath the onslaught of his fury, whether they be killed or maimed or simply frightened away.

Pain seared his flesh, a burst of agony as a lucky cut sank deep into his right leg. Stannis jerked away with a hiss, too tired even to shout—he had just killed the offending swordsman when a blow from a shield glanced off the side of his head, leaving warm blood trickling from his temple in its wake. The king staggered, temporarily dazed—he lifted his arm without even realizing to block another swing, and almost fell when his injured leg gave out beneath him.

Horns blew once more, rising above the cacophony of battle and the sporadic explosions of YiTish thunderclap balls. These horns were unfamiliar, not the brass call of the Baratheon bannermen. Instead, miraculously, the Bolton men began to disengage messily—those still mounted wheeled their horses and regrouped to retreat, riding hard for Winterfell. From where he stood, Stannis could see as they cut a swath through his remaining men, bodies tumbling in the wake of their charge. Panting, he signaled his men to retreat as well. His lungs and wounds felt aflame and he almost laughed at the irony—the king blessed by the fire god, feeling as if he were burning.

His few remaining men struggled past him in their retreat. He watched them with unseeing eyes.

His army had been decimated, again.

"Your Grace." One of the men who had stayed with him throughout the battle spoke up uncertainly. "Shall we follow the rest of the men?"

"No," Stannis rasped. He planted his sword in the dirt and leaned heavily on the hilt, wincing as he took the weight off his injured leg. He would need yet another new sword if he continued to use this one as a cane. "We wait for the remaining cavalry."

We wait for Lo Jun.

A/N: Lots of things happening here, but there was no good stopping point so I just kept going.

patty. clark.792: Thank you so much! I'm glad to have piqued your interest!

Guest: You're welcome, and thank YOU for reading!

Cookie. Monster 67: No burnings! I'm glad you enjoyed reading Stannis' thoughts-my favorite activity is exploring a character's thought process (although I'm pretty sure that's patently obvious by now, haha). And drat, I knew I overlooked something; that was supposed to be two burning hearts (he's just making a mess), so I'll have to correct that eventually!

El: Thanks so much! And yeah, I hated that episode. Partly because I have a blatant crush on the Mannis, but also because it made no sense. Like... he's already had an impossible time having one kid, it's just stupid for him to kill her and leave himself with no heirs.