Stannis looked over the young woman's body, forgetting for a moment that she was a priestess. Melisandre lay stretched out on the suede bed. The morning air was damp and cold, but they felt none of it. Melisandre was stark naked, wearing nothing but her ruby gold necklace. Her slender, taut thighs and full breasts gave Stannis the feeling he had first experienced in his youth, in the forum of the Silk Street of King's Landing, in a low-roofed, upscale cushion house. Beyond the almond-shaped eyes of the perfect female form, the snow-white hue of her skin and her fiery-red, straight hair, there was little to remind him that his concubine came from the land of Asshai and worshipped a pagan god. Monterys Velaryon, Lord of the Wavebreaker, wrote of the Lord of Light's worshippers that they were born from the wives of sorcerers in the Shadowless City. If Melisandre had been born from a noble wife, rather than a necromancer, she would never have ended up on Dragonstone. But Stannis liked her so much that he formed an alliance with her.
- What is troubling you, my King?
Stannis feasted his eyes with passion on the naked woman's voluptuous curves. He could feel the warm blood flowing in his loins, and the satisfaction of masculine pride washed over him. Melisandre sat up on the suede bed, and as if a candle flame were burning, the man's searing gaze penetrated her body. The young Baratheon slowly put on his silk robe.
- I want you to tell me what the future holds for me. You wanted me to stay in bed with you tonight, and I gave you permission.
Melisandre pretended not to understand the request. She had plans for Stannis Baratheon. It was no accident that the God of Flame and Shadow had guided her to the future king.
- About the future? Want to hear about your brother? If he's declaring war on you?
Stannis' teeth clenched as he adjusted his silk robe.
- My brother must be drinking wine. He has forgotten me, and I have no business with him.
- Then what do you want to know?
- The future, Melisandre. Don't they whisper that you read signs?
The woman with whom he had lain without the blessing of the septon of the God of the Weeks now sensed the uncertainty in his voice. Selyse had once told him that there were nightwalkers, clairvoyant priestesses who could actually read the signs and see the future. When he asked his helper about the red priests, Lord Alester Florent, Lord of the Sweetwater Fortress, confirmed his wife's words. Before the Seven Kingdoms came into being, great warlords and kings such as Aegon Targaryen or the conquering Iron Kings turned to the black alchemists before their campaigns. Melisandre, too, donned a fine velvet gown, took out a small box containing the tools needed for fire-cutting, and set to work to hang her jewels on herself. As Stannis stepped behind his lover to caress her firm breasts, he looked into the fire and saw his own face. As Melisandre spoke to him, she did not turn. Behind the splendour of the jewels, the wild beauty of the woman's face, he found his own face vague and insignificant, and the unashamed redness of her plump lips made him momentarily dizzy.
- "My king, no one can see the future," she said, her voice soft, "The Lord of Light and the ancient sorcerers may know, but the spiders continue to weave their webs. Humans cannot see the whole body of weeds. If we climb the Iron Throne, we might see much. But I'm not a blood mage.
Melisandre's voice took on an unexpectedly silky tone. She liked to do everything herself, and Stannis knew that was fine.
- I know from the King himself that the Lord of Winterfell, the usurper Robb Stark, is rumored to understand the language of wolves and to have had several children. King in the North, they call him. Why should you, the pride of the Baratheons, be any different? They say the future is in your hands! I told you, I'm not a blood mage. Not even a firebender. If you sacrifice to the God of Flame and Shadow and turn to him with a pure heart, you will surely have what you desire.
Melisandre felt that she had finally managed to hold Stannis captive with her eyes. Stannis stepped closer to her.
- I know you're not telling the whole truth. Why are you lying to me?
Melisandre's mouth twitched into a smile.
- When my father sent me to you, he told me to take a good look at you. You, my king, are a man whom the gods marked at birth with a bloody sword on his forehead. I did not understand then what my father was talking about.
- And now do you?
- I know that if you truly love me, you will not ask me to do what I may not be able to do.
- 'I love you,' said Stannis with the naturalness of a teenager.
Melisandre laughed softly. Her teeth were as white as pearl shells collected from the bottom of the sea, and she put her arm around his neck.
- If Robb Stark lives, you will not be king.
- How do you know I won't?
Her fake smile burned into his soul, as if the killing fangs of a predatory wolf had slashed into him. The North would no longer be part of the Seven Kingdoms. Robb Stark's father must have some Karstark blood in him. He is a northern barbarian, after all. And his mother? She's from one of the oldest families in Westeros. The House of Tully has had many helpers. Family legend has it that the Tullys were among the founders of the Seven Kingdoms. But can he defeat a House greater than himself? Melisandre clung to him, her half-naked body feeling hot despite the biting morning chill that seeped into the castle. Why couldn't he marry her? Would Selyse object to the match? No! In the Baratheons, every lord could have several wives and concubines, regardless of house or creed. And here, he is a true lord. And as long as Ned Stark is his ward, he can be lord and king. His father, who had sent him to the Lord of Casterly Rock at the age of sixteen, would have expected him to betray the Baratheon's enemy and slit his throat at the first careless moment. When he was sent on from Tywin's court to the Starks, he might have expected him to do even more. But his father, Steffon Baratheon, is a thing of the past. Dead, drowned in Shipwreck Cove on his way home from Volantis. They said their goodbyes with a brief kiss, and Stannis left the dormitory. For a while longer he watched the burning bonfires, the dogs fighting over the sacrificial bones, the distant splash of the waves and the flapping of the ships' sails.
The menacing darkness of the empty sockets of the deer's head hanging outside the gilded door of Oberyn's suite was imprinted on Prince Martell's mood. When he arrived in King's Landing to pay his debt, he thought he might try to kill Ser Gregor Clegane backwards. If the Martell youths took part in another jousting tournament, he might be able to defeat the Riding Mountain next year, during the great tests of skill in King's Landing. He was usually in the vicinity of Robert's court, ready to be assigned some interpreting task by the King. Sometimes he did not have to translate or teach Robert's sons Dorne, but the king ordered him to pass the time with his favourite son, the heir to the Iron Throne. Of all his kinsmen, Ellaria Sand was the closest to him, a beautiful concubine born of a Norse princess. But even today he had not seen the beautiful Ellaria in the palace. Oberyn was in a dull mood that day, for no one had called on him.
- 'A raven has come to see you,' said Varys, the eunuch known by the nickname Spider, one of Robert's advisers.
Oberyn was preparing to put an old scroll in safe keeping, in his personal archives, where Robert had ordered the parchments of the cities sacked in his last campaign to be placed.
- Raven, from where?
- Winterfell.
- Winterfell?!
- From King Robb Stark.
- The King of the North has received bad news, has he?
The eunuch's mouth is agape.
- I think the King is not pleased. But ask someone else who knows better.
In the vast regions of the Seven Kingdoms, there was such an intricate network of offices, chieftains and viceroyalty that anyone could easily be drawn into it. Even Oberyn had been learning the names of foreign kings and their ranks for over five years, but even for him it was sometimes a puzzle. Then it occurred to him that Robb Stark was Eddard's son, some sort of lord in the northern reaches of the realm he had never seen. The letter would have to come faster than a raven's wing if Robb was to send an open message to Oberyn, brother of the King of Dorne. Oberyn knew full well that the Starks could travel distances on horseback that were unprecedented in the known world, tall compared to the Lannisters.
- Do you know anything else, Varys?
Oberyn didn't even notice that he was blocking the eunuch's path.
- By the God of Seven, speak, if you can!
The eunuch made a morose face. It meant little to him that Oberyn was now addressing him in the Valyr language he had learned at Robert's court, instead of the Dorne language he normally used. He was an insignificant man, but influential enough to spread some gossip in higher circles if the interests of the Starks subservient to the Lannisters so dictated.
- I'm just a eunuch. Please, my good lord, don't make Robb Stark's men cut my tongue out for talking too much.
Varys brushed Oberyn's hand off his shoulder in a graceful gesture and stepped away. His fat, hulking form was strange in the eyes of Prince Martell, but there lived in King's Landing sons of many races, Qohori, Volonians, Braavos and Pentos merchants, even Lysi mercenaries. Not many people cared for Varys, who perhaps did not know as much as he was reputed to know about himself.
- 'You are privy to Robb Stark, young prince,' he said more boldly when he slipped from Oberyn's threatening grasp, 'Seek Lord Casta in the north wing of the palace. He may have more to tell you than I.
- 'Yes,' Oberyn muttered, 'thank you, eunuch, for informing me!
- God of the Seven bless you!
The eunuch raised his hand in a smear, as if he were a septon about to give a blessing. Varys, like most eunuchs, had grown up in a sect of informers, so his graces and good wishes were worth nothing to a native of the sunlands like Oberyn. But the tensions between interpretations of religion hardly mattered in Robert's court. Oberyn could not see exactly who it was to whom Varys beckoned. Someone had gone to Robert. The lion-emblazoned doors of the king's hall opened, but closed immediately. Oberyn saw only the swish of a precious cloth outside the door as the unknown figure entered. The guards closed the door, and before Oberyn could recover, Varys was gone. Who Robert had been talking to, and what news he had received, Oberyn did not find out that day. Lord Casta was not to be found in the north wing of the palace, where he was told he had gone hunting with his father. The king had not sent for him even that evening. What is it Varys refused to tell him? Had something happened that meant bad news? War with the Dragonlord? If so, it presents Oberyn with an opportunity that is swift, painful and immediate.