"No," Stannis growls. "No. She is my daughter. My family. I've told you this before."
Melisandre glides across the tent, and touches his arm, grips it gently. She can't let him do this. Not when they're so close. "My King, it is a great sacrifice, your daughter and your blood. But in this trying time, that is what the Lord of Light demands of us. The pain you feel is the price we must pay to take the Iron Throne. Your blood must be offered up if your bloodline is to reign in King's Landing forevermore."
Stannis looks into her blue eyes. She smiles. He always comes around to the side of reason whenever she smiles. "But...my victory shouldn't be-" he begins, before she interrupts him.
"You are not an unreasonable man, Your Grace. You've looked into the flames. I've shown you what R'hllor has shown me. I've shown you what your blood can do—you've shown yourself that. The usurper Joffrey, the usurper Robb Stark. A little bit of blood, and the Lord brought them justice. What wonders we could do, you could do, with just a little more." Melisandre stares deeply, intently, studying Stannis' face, making the urgency of the situation as clear as she can. She has to convince him. Even if she's wrong—and she could be—what other choice did they have, stuck out here in the middle of some field in the North with winter well on its way? The Lord had given her so much: He brought her out of slavery to join His faith, to serve Him; with His aid, she left Asshai behind forever; she was blessed by Him to come to Westeros, a land in such desperate need of His light; and most of all He brought her to King Stannis, the promised prince, who raised her up to a station she never thought possible, and who would save the world from the Other, with her right there at his side.
All He asks for in return was a little blood—the blood of the King—and how far has that blood taken them! Thinking on the work that she has done for both herself and Stannis, Melisandre can't help but feel a deep sense of pride; the priests above her back in Essos seemed especially pleased, and Melisandre wants to—no, has to—keep pushing. The Battle of the Blackwater was a huge setback for her King, but, more importantly, for her faith's spread in Westeros. Victory has always been the only option since then.
For a moment, she thinks that Stannis has been convinced, but then he turns with a jerk. "There must be another way," he says, returning to study the map on the table.
"I'm afraid there isn't. You sit there poring over that map, considering stratagems and tactics. But no amount of military prowess, no amount of expertise can help you if the Lord of Light is not on your side."
"And is He not on our side, already?"
Melisandre's eyes grow wide. Damn it, she chastises herself for misspeaking. "What a foolish question. Of course He is. It is your destiny. You are the rightful King, and He knows this. He blesses your campaign. He always has."
Stannis raps the table with his knuckles, clearly frustrated, before saying, "Then what? Has He not had enough sacrifices? Enough blood?"
"There is no such thing as 'enough,' when we speak of the Lord. But you know I have advised you in the past that in order to truly clear the path to the Iron Throne, this is the sacrifice that must be made. The child is the closest thing to you—she has in her veins more of your blood than anyone besides you."
"Do not speak of her as if she were livestock!" Stannis pounds his fist on the table this time.
Melisandre feels the anxiety rising in her throat. Her words start to trip over themselves as she starts to speak more quickly. "I- I meant no disrespect to you, my King. Of course, she- she- she- she is the Princess, she is your daughter. I have not, have never, lost sight of that. But would you rather have her with you in this, this, this tundra and be the rightful King...or- or would you rather honor her in King's Landing, from the Iron Throne, as the actual King?"
Stannis looks at her, his face rigid and stony, and Melisandre knows his decision. She dreads what he says next. "My daughter will be with me when I sit at King's Landing. She will live a long and happy life. I will be there for her as my daughter, as a Baratheon, until the end of my days. I love her, and you will not touch her. We will find another way. The Lord is on our side, yes?"
Melisandre can only stare, give a half-hearted nod of affirmation.
"Good. Then He will help us some other way. He has to. I am the rightful King. Just as you said, He knows that."
"Yes, Your Grace," Melisandre says weakly, bowing her head. She walks toward the flap to the tent, and has a thought. She turns. "Your Grace, did I ever tell you what it was like, when I first came to Westeros? You see, arriving at King's Landing in the Crownlands—I remember how enchanted that name seemed, 'the Crownlands'—sent there from Asshai by special order of the Red Temple in Volantis, it was the height of the summer just passed. Now, I don't know if you've been to Asshai, my King, but the color green might as well be a myth there. So dark and gloomy and hateful, even with the Lord of Light in our hearts. But here in Westeros, in King's Landing: the meadows were so green that I cried, cried tears of joy." Melisandre smiles at the memory. "I remember walking into the city proper from the harbor for the first time to meet the people who would send me to Dragonstone, to speak with you, even though you were still a devout believer in the Seven False Idols, a loyal servant to your brother. There was an old man selling flowers—these beautiful geraniums. I asked him how he got them to grow so beautifully, and—I'll always remember what he told me—he said that everyday he'd work his garden for fourteen hours a day, making sure that his flowers had what they needed. He'd work even when it hurt him—all for those gorgeous flowers. That was my introduction to Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms, my King. Your Seven Kingdoms. Beauty from pain. Color from sacrifice. I wish you could've taken the initiative to follow in that tradition."
Stannis only stares at her with what looks like resentment in his eyes. Or is it something else, Melisandre wonders...regret, perhaps? Suddenly she knows what she has to do—for the faith, for the King, for herself. "But I digress. Forgive me, Your Grace," she says, and quickly turns, exiting the tent.
A group of maybe ten or eleven soldiers are walking past the tent, toward the soldiers' quarters. Melisandre walks quickly, quietly toward them until she's out of earshot of the tent, as far as she can tell. "Excuse me, men!" she shouts. They turn to look at her. She can see doubt or outright contempt on some of them. This had better work, she thinks. Lord, guide me.
She walks toward them, shielding her face against the blustery wind with her hand while her blood red dress drags in the snow. "Your King has some very serious orders for you. Two of you are to collect the Princess Shireen and bring her to the north edge of the encampment, where the rest of you are to construct a pyre-with-stake, and on the double." All but two of the men move. As she walks past, she kisses one of the soldier's cheeks and says, "The Lord of Light is very appreciative of your service. The Princess," she says, indicating a large tent twenty or so yards away. The men move immediately.
Melisandre passes through the soldiers' quarters, already seeing in the distance that the eight soldiers she sent to construct the pyre are nearly finished. A sudden gust of wind chills her to the bone, and she shivers, hugging her chest. This is a risky gambit, Melisandre knows that. But this is the only way. It's what she knows. The Lord of Light helps greatly, but He demands sacrifice, whether Stannis likes it or not. If she can just start the burning quickly, before Stannis can intervene, he'll see that it is a good thing, even if it hurts. Just like growing those geraniums. Melisandre even thinks that he may already be regretting his decision. But of course, she could never be certain. So, she decides to focus on the sound of her footsteps as she walks. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The crunches lead her to the pyre, and she finally looks up. On the beach in the Stormlands, where she and Stannis made their first sacrifices to R'hllor, she could smell the wood so distinctly. Even when its smoke started to mingle with that from the burning flesh, the never mistook that beautiful scent. Of course, the odor of sacrifice was always a bittersweet one—the smell of the lucky souls being cleansed never stopped being offensive on a superficial level, but Melisandre had learned to cherish it nevertheless as one that meant holiness, goodness, progress. All the same, she still preferred to smell the wood—it seemed purer. But up here in the North, the wood's scent is drowned out by the cold. She tries to take in its perfume, but it's a fruitless endeavor.
"My lady," she hears a gruff male voice say behind her. Princess Shireen."
Melisandre turns to look at Shireen, blocking her view of the pyre. The girl is smiling. Maybe she knows what an important role she's playing, today, Melisandre thinks. She smiles back at Shireen. "Your father has asked me to get you. He needs you."
Shireen's smile grows wider, happy to be useful, presumably. Good. You should be. "He does? For what?"
"Well, we both need you to do something very important. It would be of a great help to your father in his quest. What do you say? Could you do something important?"
"Of course. Anything for father!" The girl's eyes are bright. They remind Melisandre of Stannis' whenever he thought about the Throne. In those eyes, Melisandre can see the Throne herself. Stannis as King, ruling all of the Seven Kingdoms; herself as a trusted advisor, maybe even the first High Priestess of Westeros, the faith being spread to all the corners of the Seven Kingdoms—something for the priests back in Asshai, and even in Volantis, to look upon with envy.
"Excellent! Good girl," Melisandre says, before nodding at the two soldiers on either side of her, and stepping out of the way.
Almost instantly, Shireen's face drops from joy to terror. As the soldiers drag her to the stake, she begins to scream. "Father! Father! Mother! Help me! Help!"
The anxiety Melisandre felt before quickly comes back, this time sitting in the pit of her stomach like a stone. "Quickly, quickly," she barks at the soldiers, who are struggling to get Shireen tied to the stake. But, turning back to the encampment, she realizes that all the other soldiers are starting to take notice, leaving their tents and approaching her, confused. Before she can say anything, she hears Stannis' voice among the soldiers.
"What in the Seven Hells is everyone looking at?!" he shouts, clearly getting closer.
Melisandre is too panicked to do anything, but somehow thinks, Good, now he can see how close we are. Now he can finally approve, and we can be done with it.
But once he gets clear of the group of gawking soldiers, his small Kingsguard in tow, his mouth is agape, and suddenly he's tearing across the field. Melisandre tries to say something to him, get him to calm down, listen to reason, but he blows right past her toward Shireen. The two soldiers almost immediately let go of her, and he drags her into an embrace, kissing her forehead and hoarsely whispering something that Melisandre can't quite make out. She brings her hand up to her mouth, and starts to stumble backwards, before bumping into a burly Kingsguard, who holds her hands behind her back.
Stannis slowly stands up from the kneeling position he was in and pats Shireen on the shoulder. "Go with Ser Evey," he says, and she almost sprints toward the Kingsguard next to Melisandre.
"Shireen, I-"
"Don't you dare say a word to her!" Stannis shouts. He points at the two soldiers who dragged Shireen to the pyre, beckoning for some others. "Arrest these two for treason. Have them hanged." They're almost immediately swept away by a flock of soldiers, presumably eager to see them pay for something that was wholly necessary. Melisandre is horrified.
Melisandre tries to gather her words as Stannis walks toward her, the anxiety spreading from her stomach to every part of her body, through every vein and artery. "My King, it- it...we have to do it. It's our only chance. Your blood is the only way. Shireen is the only way." She searches his face for any sign of understanding, for any indication that he knows she only did what she knew the Lord wanted.
Stannis stares back at her, his face unflinching. Melisandre hopes he's considering it, but then he begins, through gritted teeth, "Melisandre of Asshai-"
"No, no, no, no, no, Your Grace, you can't! The Lord of Light will never forgive you."
There's silence for a moment, and then Stannis says, "I think He will," before starting over. "Melisandre of Asshai, I, Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of My Name, Rightful King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby sentence you to death." He nods at his Kingsguard, and then at the pyre.
As Melisandre is led, dragged to the stake, she can only look at Stannis in abject wonder, confusion. "Why?" she yells, as she feels her wrists, legs, torso, all being bound to the stake. "You know the power of your blood! The Lord of Light delivers on His promises! You're going to starve here without that promise! That was the only way! Please!"
Stannis is handed a torch and says nothing as he sets the wood alight.
Melisandre can only shake her head at Stannis. "I just wanted to serve!" she says weakly, before looking up at the pure white sky.
Despite the cold, it doesn't take long for the fire to spread, and soon Melisandre can't stop herself from screaming as the flames begin to lap at her dress.
She tries to think of geraniums.