Chapter 22
Part III

"Kneel," spoke the blue lips of Euron Greyjoy.

Stannis Baratheon's body knelt.

"Yes," said Euron through Stannis's lips, "yessssss, this will do nicely."

In the back of his mind, a little voice was screaming.

Euron ignored it.

The Crow's Eye ran his new hands up and down his new body, exploring. He was curious.

"Pathetic. This form is in a terrible state. Numerous wounds: worst, the gash on the arm and that great gaping wound from belly to shoulder. Badly starved, parched throat, nearly dead of blood loss. Hasn't slept for weeks, hasn't eaten for days. Not just gaunt. Emaciated. My, my! You have not recovered even now. You truly did suffer when I trapped you in your mind for a few moons when I caught you spying on me, didn't you?" Euron chuckled. "I would say I'm sorry, but I never lie.

"And the pain—gods, how do you live with the pain of it? How do you keep walking around? I wouldn't. I would have slain myself moons ago. If I had to live in this wreck as my main body, I would slay myself right now. Fortunately, I am not so hindered.

"You really ought to take better care of yourself, little brother," Euron scolded, sounding for all the world as if he truly were a brother, stern but caring. Then the effect was spoilt when he laughed.

"Killing you is no great loss. You are dying anyway. Truly, you should be thanking me. I am doing you a favour, ending the wretched and miserable existence you've endured.

"Now, as entertaining as this mockery is, I did not reach the heights I have attained by being careless. Drop your weapons."

And Euron dropped Stannis's weapons: the Shadow-sword and the bow of burning gold. The little voice tried to stop him. It tried to stop the movement of the arms and legs that had once been its own. But it was like wrestling against a stone wall, hard and unforgiving.

"Still trying, little brother?" This amused Euron. "Don't bother. You will fail. But why am I bothering to tell you? Of course you will try and fail. You always try to stop me, stubborn as an ass, and you always fail. That is who you are.

"This was inevitable. I hope you know that. That was why I lured you here to the Shadow Lands. I was never concerned or afraid. I knew at every moment that there was only one way it could end, you and me.

"Me. Always me."

Euron kicked the sword and bow away with his feet. They were out of reach. Inside his mind, the little voice cried out in despair.

"Oh, don't cry. This is just more proof—as if more were needed!—of your weakness."

It looked wrong for Stannis Baratheon's mouth to form that knife-sharp smile and for his voice to hold that languid condescension.

"You are not a greenseer, child. You are a fool boy playing at powers he does not understand. A true greenseer has no need of tools like these. I used them too, once, but I have outgrown such childish things long ago. If I have an enemy, I've no need to kill him. I simply invade his mind and make him kill himself.

"That is what you will do for me now. You will serve me—of course; all must serve me. Your manner of service will be to die for me. You will sacrifice yourself with your own hands, and that will be the sacrifice to open the Only Gate to pave the way for my ascent to godhood."

You will not gain godhood, thought the little voice, in what little corner it could spare of the mind that had once been its own. You will only die. Stop this, Crow's Eye. Even for your black heart, it is folly. Nothing good will come to you when the Enemy descend upon the world of men. The power of their killings will not come to you. It will come to them. Then they will slay you just the same as they will slay all of us.

"It is possible." Euron did not seem perturbed by this as the little voice would have imagined. "I am not afraid. I know the magnitude of the powers I am playing with. Godhood or death… those are the forks of the path. Either I rise beyond the constraint of mortality or I die screaming. I would prefer to succeed, of course, but if I die, I die a legend. The whole world will burn for my glory. What greater glory is there than that?

"It is like the greenseer's very first lesson. You ought to remember it. Fly or die, the crow told us. From that first moment of power awakening, every greenseer must die or become something more than human. You plainly didn't learn that first lesson, little brother; but I did.

"Caution is for cowards. Let them have their long lives of meaningless miserable mediocrity. That is not for me. Better to die a god than live a slave.

"Not that you understand that. You'd rather sacrifice yourself to save the ants beneath our feet. Fear not; I shall spare you the trouble. You will die for a worthier cause: me."

Furious and hateful, fearful of what Euron's victory meant for mankind, the little voice tried to push back. Stannis Baratheon strove to stand. He tried with all his might and all his strength of will.

Euron ignored it. Indeed, he did worse. Just to twist the knife of Stannis's helplessness, he forced Stannis's body into an even sharper kneeling posture than before. The heels of Stannis's boots dug painfully into his rear end.

"By all means, keep struggling. I need some amusement, now I have won my victory." Using Stannis's own hands, Euron patted Stannis's body on the head like a dog. He spoke with sweet condescension: "Have fun. You needn't worry there's any chance you will actually succeed. You are mine, as you were born to be."

The little voice screamed its voiceless hatred and denial. Euron only laughed.

"Now—onwards."

Euron stood up in Stannis's body. It linked hands with Euron's own. Hand in hand, walking in lockstep, the two Eurons strode away from the corpse of the dragon. The wight-dragon had wandered a fair distance from the Only Gate as it circled around, breathing ice, seeking out the darkness-shrouded Stannis Baratheon. Euron and Euron had to make their way back.

As they walked, Euron could not resist taunting his defeated enemy. The words switched between Euron's two mouths, seamlessly changing from one to the other mid-sentence.

"Your arrogance doomed you, child," said Euron's blue lips. "I am about to gain two—"

"—horns from the two boons," said Stannis's thin ones. "The boon of strength will be a horn; the boon of knowledge will be the knowledge of where—"

"—to find the other horn. One horn to bind dragons to my will—"

"—and one to tear down the Wall."

"And I couldn't have done it with you." This they chorused together, with matching wicked smiles.

"If you stayed away, I would be helpless." Speaking with Stannis's tongue, Euron rubbed salt in the wound.

"Well, not helpless," corrected Euron through the shade-of-the-evening-tainted lips he had been born with. "It would have taken—"

"—years more to gather all the shadowbinders, water-workers, moonsingers, skinchangers and various lesser sorcerers I'd need to sacrifice in place of—"

"—one greenseer. Years. Ugh. How boring. How tedious." Euron's birth form gave a theatrical shudder.

"Luckily, I could easily bait you to follow me, come here—"

"—that was why I destroyed your brother's fleet with the sea of blood, by the way. All those—"

"—men of the Seven Kingdoms, brave men loyal to House Baratheon, dead, just for you. Don't you feel special?"

Both Eurons smirked at Stannis's dismay.

"As I was saying," said Euron from Stannis's mouth, "I tricked you into coming here—"

"—to the Only Gate, to lay down your life for me on a silver platter—"

"—and you fell for it!, because you were fool enough to think that you stood the tiniest chance of besting me."

Both Eurons stopped the march to the Only Gate to roll on the grassy ground with laughter.

"Poor child," Euron's birth form cackled sadistically. "You put yourself through all—"

"—this pain," continued Euron in Stannis's form, "all this torment, all this suffering—"

"—because you wanted to save the world of men from me—"

"—and instead, your actions have doomed it. You are the reason why I've won."

"I just wanted you to know that," both Eurons concluded, perfectly simultaneously. Two faces wore the same expectant gleeful grin.

Locked prisoner in his own mind, Stannis Baratheon was weeping in rage, self-loathing, guilt and despair.

Euron giggled. He drank in Stannis's misery like sweetest nectar.

"Delicious." Euron burped.

"Look!" said the other Euron, pointing. Stannis's pure black eyes, well suited to seeing in the dark, had caught it first.

Haloed in the ice-blue witchlight that issued from Euron's eyes—the only light anywhere to be found, for miles—there was a great black wall in the distance. It was taller than ten men, taller than a hundred men, taller even than the corpse of the city-sized dragon. Once it had been the wondrous wall of Al'Alaniel, mage-wrought, rippling with splendid light of every colour of the rainbow. Now it was the wall of Stygai, and it was made of smooth black stone, devoid of glimmer, devoid of glint, blacker than starless midnight, like a hole in the world. It drank up and devoured Euron's witchlight whenever foolish rays of light dared to approach.

And in that black wall, there was an unmistakeable protruding silhouette: a gate. The City of the Dead dwarfed Volantis, which itself dwarfed King's Landing. It should have had a hundred gates. But the wall stretched for uncounted miles, and there was one gate. Only one.

Terror's chill fingers clutched deeper into the heart of Stannis Baratheon.

The Only Gate. He did not have much time.

"Our destiny awaits," breathed the first Euron in tone of rapture.

"Good eyes on this one," remarked other-Euron.

"Indeed. A pity about… well, everything else."

Both Eurons snickered.

"Still," said Stannis's body, "more than worth it to sacrifice for our glorious ascension."

The words could have come from Euron's own lips.

They may look like two Eurons. They may speak like two Eurons, sometimes. But in truth, in mind, in heart, in soul, they were only one.

The little voice, in the small corner of Stannis's mind that was left to it, gathered its thoughts into some measure of coherence. Trying to resist openly had failed. Stannis's mental strength was not strong enough to overpower Euron's imperious will. It was a bitter draught of truth to swallow, but truth it was, and Stannis could not afford to flinch from hard truths now. The situation was too desperate for self-delusion. Carefully, furtively, the little voice did as much as it dared, for now, attempt:

Stannis wiggled his toes, on one foot, as his body was walking.

Euron in both bodies kept striding towards the black wall of Stygai. He made no response. Nor did the little voice sense any sudden alarm or disturbance in the greater mind that overlay its mind-fragment.

He did not notice. He did not notice! Stannis's heart soared.

…then sank. Or he did notice and he is toying with me. That would be like Euron Greyjoy, ever delighting in cruelty.

No. I have to believe he did not notice. I have to hold hope.

For if I have no hope, the world has none.

Both bodies of Euron Greyjoy strode towards the Only Gate. The sinister edifice of void-black stone towered far above them. It seemed taller every second. Stannis saw the end of his life rapidly approaching.

As he did, the bulk of him that was Euron Crow's Eye rejoiced with the glee of a plan fulfilled. And as he did, the fragment of him that was the consciousness of Stannis Baratheon plotted his last, desperate chance for salvation.

He could move his body without Euron noticing. Not all of it; not the muscles Euron was using at the time. But some. Right now Euron did not know he could do this. The moment he did it, that would change; Euron would become much more guarded. And the moment he used a muscle against Euron, Euron would immediately reassert control of that muscle; and Stannis would try and fail to stop him. He knew that. He knew from bitter experience that his will could not overpower Euron's.

So he had one opportunity. One chance. One arrow in his quiver. One shot—one and only. The first shot had to be perfect, or else his chance was lost, his hope was lost, and all hope for the world of men with it.

First time counts for all.

He had to take that shot carefully. He could not throw away his only chance at saving the Wall and the world on a helpless, over-ambitious goal, or else the Horn of Joramun would be sounded, the Wall would fall and the Enemy would come through and destroy the world of men. What then could he do?

Stannis had no weapon on his person, be it in hand or nay. Euron, no fool, had disarmed him of those. Nor did Euron hold one. The only weapon Stannis could see on either of the Eurons was a sword hanging in its sheath on the belt of Euron's birth form. Euron surely intended to use that sword to kill Stannis, whether by Stannis's hands or the hands Euron had been born with. He had said it would be Stannis's, but Stannis would not put it past Euron for that to be a lie, told to entice Stannis into believing, falsely, that he would have a choice to hold a sword in his hand. Stannis could not, would not, rely on Euron Greyjoy's words being true. That way lay madness.

What then could he do unarmed? He could not strangle Euron. Stannis knew he could kill Euron with his bare hands; he was strong enough for that, but not fast enough. It took too much time to reach around someone's neck and snap it. Euron would not be dead in time. The Crow's Eye would notice, take control of the muscles and stop him, and then all would be lost.

It would be ideal if Stannis could get at Euron's sword. But it was hanging on the other side of Euron's birth self, out of Stannis's reach unless he moved his legs, which he could not. Euron was using those legs right now to walk towards the Only Gate. He could not wrest control of them from the Crow's Eye.

Then, lightning-like, a flash of inspiration:

When Euron reaches the Only Gate, he will stop walking.

That is it. It has to be.

A shudder of fear ran through Stannis's mind. He did not like it. It meant allowing Euron to march his body all the way to the Only Gate, ready to sacrifice him. Walking, tamely, straight to his death.

He feared the choice. He hated the choice. He knew it was the only choice.

As they walked, Euron spoke, conversationally, as casually as if he were chatting with an old friend.

"You needn't feel bad about losing to me. Everyone does," said Euron, again patting Stannis on the head, dog-like. The condescending show of false comfort was betrayed by Euron's blue lips twitching in a smirk. "Truly, it was not a fair fight, with my great advantage—"

"—in experience," Euron in Stannis's form continued. "Silly child. You knew I have been learning the higher arts since before you were spat out your mother's cunt. And you tried to fight me." Stannis's body shook his head mock-sympathetically. "Foolish, foolish," Euron tutted.

"Very foolish," Euron agreed with himself. Stannis supposed the Crow's Eye was narcissistic enough that he could carry on a conversation with himself all day. "How exactly did you expect that you might win? We have already—"

"—discussed your inferiority in magic. I have forgotten more otherworldly knowledge than you will ever know. Both in—"

"—knowing magic and experience of wielding it, I am far your better."

"In supernatural allies, your hasty bargain with the darkness in Stygai—"

"—is not near equal to the bargain I struck with the Enemy."

"You underestimate the Enemy of life. The Shadow does too. Millennium after millennium, their power has been growing. Now it has grown strong enough—"

"—that they could sustain a tremendous wight-dragon, here, in the heart of the Shadow Lands, the centre of power of their enemy."

"Far away from the Land of Always Winter, the centre of power of their own."

"That is what the Enemy of life can do on the opposite side of the world. Imagine—"

"—just imagine what they can do at home."

"It will be glorious to witness when they destroy the world of men."

"Exquisite." Both Eurons gave a theatrical shiver.

Stannis hated, and watched, and waited. The Only Gate was growing larger and larger. By now it reached so high above their heads it seemed hard to see that there was any top to it.

"The power the Others bequeathed to me gave me an undead dragon that could lay waste to King's Landing. What did you get? A fiery sword?" Euron grinned. "Hardly a fair match."

"In powers my own and bequeathed, I am far the greater."

"In strength of will as well."

"The very manner—"

"—of this—"

"—conversation—"

"—is thoroughly—"

"—proving—"

"—that."

The two Eurons exchanged words one to the other rapidly. Euron was making a point, clearly: he had mastered Stannis's body as much as his own.

"In cunning, too, I far surpass you. And in cleverness."

"Falling for that trick with the witchlight? All I needed was for you to make a sound. 'Come, here, I look vulnerable, go make a sound, I dare you!' Really?" The Eurons giggled.

"Likewise in being unchained by foolish moral scruples. If you weren't carrying all of that absurd guilt—"

"—like manacles around your feet—" Euron spoke with amused disdain.

"—I know you killed your family but so did I. So do lots of people. Why be so upset about it?"

"—then maybe it would have been actually difficult to conquer your mind and make you mine."

"It wasn't, by the way," Euron added brightly. "It was easy. Very, very easy. Like taking coins from a small child."

"You are of course the better swordsman, but you can't truly have—"

"—thought that a duel of greenseers would be decided by such rough means as swords, did you?"

"They're simply irrelevant."

"The only thing you are better than me at?" Euron paused, as if waiting for Stannis to respond, by word or thought. When he did not, Euron said, "Come, child, aren't you curious?"

Stannis did not deign to reply.

Euron spoke with a gleeful flourish: "Losing."

"Suffering. Failing. Call it what you will," said Euron through Stannis's mouth, dismissively. "I have never tolerated it. You tolerate it again and again and again. The time I caught you spying on me with Aeron; the matter of Li Xinong; the dragon I sent after you; and now this. Every time you confront me, you find painful failure. And you keep coming back for more."

"Perhaps that is why my victory was inevitable. Mine is the strongest will to win. I gain victory because I tolerate nothing less than victory."

Euron stopped. There was no more ghost grass in front of his two bodies. In front, and stretching seemingly forever to both left and right and also upward, most of everything Stannis could see was the black wall of the City of the Dead, filling the world with pitiless, all-consuming darkness. To the side—only discernible by where the witchlight from Euron's eyes faded away—was the shape of a hinge, a colossal pillar of black stone, wider than a great oak and reaching into the sky high as the heavens.

The black gate of Stygai loomed here.

Euron stopped walking—

—and Stannis lunged. Sheer surprise let him move the legs that Euron was no longer marching.

Everything Euron had said about his sorcerous strengths over Stannis was true; but he was a light, delicate man and Stannis was a big broad one. Stannis's weight barrelled over Euron. Euron's mismatched eyes went wide with shock. As fast as he could, Stannis reached to seize the sword from its sheath. His right hand closed around the hilt.

It stayed there.

Stannis tried to pull at the sword. He could not. His arm would not obey him. The muscles of both his arms had frozen as if encased in ice.

Desperation seized Stannis. No. I cannot fail. I must not.

With every ounce of willpower he could muster, Stannis battled to reclaim his arms. He fought in vain. Euron's unbreakable will held his arms motionless and Stannis could not best him.

Slowly, Stannis's right arm released the hilt of the sword. Then it punched him in the face. Stannis staggered, reeling. He had hit himself so hard his nose was broken and pouring out blood.

Euron got up. Both Eurons. Their legs marched in absolute lockstep. The motion was jerky, inelegant, less smooth than before, less befitting the different scale of Stannis's body to Euron's. It was plain to see that Euron was prioritising control over smoothness.

"That was foolish," Euron said, two mouths speaking at once. For once he was not smiling. "You knew how it was going to end before it started, I am sure. Or at least you should have known, if you are not mad. You know I am the stronger. Still you persist.

"Why? Do you not know you are going to die? Do you not know that your every act of resistance will merely mean I make your end more painful?"

Euron did not grant Stannis control over his own tongue, so he could not answer aloud.

Yes. I know it, he thought.

"Then why?" Euron sounded honestly baffled.

Because the stakes are this high. If there is a chance to stop you—any chance—I must take it. Stannis could vividly see in his mind's eye the Wall falling amidst Euron's laughter, the sound of a blowing sorcerous horn, and the cold elegant Others streaming through. It was abomination. It was everything he had been working against since he was a boy of six namedays. He would do anything to prevent it.

"You simply never give up, do you?"

Stannis answered: No.

"Your stubbornness used to amuse me." Despite his words, Euron did not sound amused. "Now I find it an irritant. Let us erase it."

Stannis's body knelt before the Only Gate, bending his neck down, ready for an executioner's sword. Ready for a sacrifice.

Euron drew his sword.

Paralysing terror fell upon Stannis. Not for himself. He had known of his imminent death since before this journey started; had known it for years. Before he even knew what the Only Gate was, he had known that he would die at a great gate of oily black stone. No, Stannis Baratheon did not fear death. But like this… like this…? His death as the sacrifice that gave Euron the boons of the Only Gate, his blood as the fuel for Euron to tear down the Wall and let the Enemy triumph over mankind? That was what terrified Stannis.

He must not die like this.

But he was going to die like this.

Euron lifted the sword. Stannis yearned to spring free and away; but Euron Crow's Eye was no fool. In this critical moment, his mind's grip over the muscles of Stannis's legs was like cold iron.

Stannis tried with all his might to snap that grip on his legs that was forcing him to kneel. He could not snap it. Euron's force of will was too strong.

A frenzy overtook Stannis. There had to be a way. There had to. The world of men needed it. Defeat was not a choice. But what could he do against a greenseer who was better at everything?

No, he thought. Euron had said it himself. Not quite everything.

"Pathetic. This form is in a terrible state. Numerous wounds: worst, the gash on the arm and that great gaping wound from belly to shoulder. Badly starved, parched throat, nearly dead of blood loss. Hasn't slept for weeks, hasn't eaten for days. Not just gaunt. Emaciated… And the pain—gods, how do you live with the pain of it? How do you keep walking around? I wouldn't."

"The only thing you are better than me at? …Losing. Suffering. Failing… Every time you confront me, you find painful failure. And you keep coming back for more… I have never tolerated it. You tolerate it again and again and again."

Euron's sword was a long grey blade, nothing elaborate. Plain steel, not Valyrian. It was no greatsword. It was more than long enough to put Euron out of Stannis's reach.

…to put Euron out of Stannis's reach.

In a heave of effort, Stannis threw everything he had, everything he was, all his thought and hope and willpower into moving his arms for one last desperate strike.

Not at Euron.

But at Stannis himself.

Stannis thrust his left arm up to his face and jabbed his thumb as hard as he could into his eye.

The agony was immeasurable. His face screamed with white-hot pain, worse than branding, worse than dragonfire. Every reflex roared at him to stop. He did not. He shoved his thumb deeper and deeper, defying his instincts, gouging into his eye's soft flesh.

He heard two screams: his own bass bellow of agony; and another, higher, a tenor.

Euron's scream. Euron, who was also inhabiting this body. Euron, who, by testament of his own words, was used to always winning. Euron, who by his own admission had much less tolerance for pain than Stannis did.

Where Stannis's was a roar of terrible pain, Euron's was a shriek. Shrill, helpless; the cry of a man unaccustomed to being hurt.

Screeching, Euron dropped the sword with a clatter of metal. He yanked his thoughts brutally out and away from Stannis's. What Stannis had tried and failed to do for most of an hour—to separate and disentangle the possessing link of minds—Euron himself now sought in an instant.

And Stannis stopped him. Even as the soft flesh of Stannis's eye squirmed and burst under the pressure of his thumb, even as the agony ripped and tore at him, even as vision on his left side went dark and he knew it was forever, Stannis somehow found the strength of will to hold Euron's thoughts within his own.

I am not letting you go, Crow's Eye, Stannis thought viciously. Never. You always win? As you say. Let me show you what it is like, losing!

Euron writhed. He had fallen from his feet and was screaming, squirming and twisting on the ground before the Only Gate. Stannis could not see him; the witchlight had gone out, and there was no light without it; but he could hear him, and that was enough.

Blind in the dark, his face blazing with the worst pain of a lifetime, he crawled one-handed towards Euron.

As tightly as he could, Stannis clung to Euron's thoughts. They must not separate. Not until he could reach the Crow's Eye.

Together were the two greenseers, entwined in thoughts, entwined in pain. Both their minds were dominated by sheer incoherent agony.

But the unifying embrace was fading. Slowly, the white-hot agony of Stannis's bursting eye was turning to a duller red-hot pain of an eye already obliterated. With the decline of the pain came the strengthening of Euron's thoughts; and those thoughts were powerful:

I am Euron.

I take; I dominate; I control.

I bow to no-one.

I am master, I am not subject.

I am glad I killed my family.

I will kill yours too.

I am master of my mind and all that I can control, which is all. I am everything.

I am strong. Without pain. Without weakness. Without shame. Without guilt. Without remorse.

I will not be joined with you. Weakling. Pained. Remorseful. Failure.

I am Euron. I am the supreme will. I am master here.

Stannis realised it a moment after Euron himself did, with the burst of glee in the Crow's Eye's thoughts:

He was not strong enough. He, Stannis Baratheon, did not have enough strength of will. Euron's mind was extremely powerful. Stannis was struggling to hold him.

He was doing as best he could; but the Crow's Eye was too strong for him.

In a matter of seconds, Euron was going to break his mental grip.

With that, the dark waters of despair drowned Stannis. All the more so when he heard a cry of triumph. Euron in his writhing had chanced upon the sword. Euron's fingers closed around its hilt; Stannis could not see it, but he heard it; and Euron lifted it high.

It was too late. He, Stannis Baratheon, had failed. He was about to be sacrificed.

And that thought brought to mind another thought, a memory; the memory of his old master's voice, whispering in his ear:

Sacrifice is never easy, Stannis. Or it is no true sacrifice.

And Stannis jabbed his thumb into his other eye.

It was excruciating. He almost blacked out from the exquisite agony of it. White and black spots swam over his vision, though there was nothing to see here but the black of Everlasting Night. The world grew strangely heavy. His limbs drooped.

Only through sheer supreme effort of will, Stannis kept himself awake and conscious.

Stannis screamed. Screamed the worst scream he had screamed in all his life…

…but not half as much as Euron screamed. The Crow's Eye again fell to the ground, dropped his sword and writhed in agony. Euron was overcome by Stannis's pain and Stannis was not.

Fully blinded, both of his burst eyes throbbing with unbearable pain, Stannis braced himself. He clenched his muscles, which were begging to twitch and go mad from the pain. He ignored that. He forced his body to his bidding.

Then, straining with agony and effort, slowly—slow as a mountain and with terrible inevitable purpose—he got up.

Stannis stood.

And he walked over towards Euron.

The Crow's Eye was not hard to find. Stannis could no longer see, even if there were any light to see by, which there was not. But Euron's shrill, agonised shriek would have revealed him anywhere. Quite literally, a blind man could find him.

The towering figure of Stannis Baratheon bent down in the direction of the screaming. He reached down with a bony hand.

Euron (Stannis recalled) was a handsome man, perfect as a maiden's dream, small and delicate and slender. Stannis was big, ugly, and built like a brick house.

Stannis plucked him up off the ground, easily, one-handed. At long last, he pulled out of Euron's mind. He did not want to share the man's mind at the moment he died. That always induced madness.

…then felt a spurt of pain. Hot, sharp, sudden. Quite small, compared to the pain in his eye. But this one was in his chest.

Stannis reached down, towards his heart, and felt the dragonbone hilt of a dagger.

"You will not make me the lesser in significance," Euron hissed, even as Stannis's hand held him like a toy in the air. "If I fail, you fail with me!"

Spiteful to the end. Stannis contemplated his enemy. Petty. And he does not understand me at all. Euron had failed. Stannis had not. Death was not failure to Stannis. All the way from the Rhoyne to Stygai, he had come here knowing he would die. How had he failed? He had stopped Euron. He had saved the world. He had got everything he wanted. His purpose was never himself. Euron was so selfish he truly could not understand that anybody was not.

To Stannis's own surprise, Stannis felt a twinge of pity for him—for Euron's empty existence, for everything that Euron Greyjoy would never, ever understand.

Then—with a decisive, brutal flick of his wrist—his hand snapped tight. Euron's neck broke with a hideous crunch.

Stannis tossed the corpse of the Crow's Eye aside like a bag of manure. Then he fell to his knees. There was a pain in his chest, sharpening, throbbing. Stannis put a hand to the wound. The hand was instantly drenched with blood.

Stannis Baratheon was a greenseer; but he was also a sellsword. He had fought in hundreds, maybe thousands of battles. He had been fighting battles almost constantly for the last more than ten years. He had seen many, many hurt and dying men.

He knew it at once: this wound was mortal.

In that moment, Stannis thought of his family. He had killed little Renly. He had killed his lady mother and lord father. He had been a black plague upon his family. Only Robert lived, the Baratheon he loved the least… but still a Baratheon. Robert's bloodline lived, even ruled, in Westeros—thousands of miles away, on the far side of the world from here. The Baratheon family would endure.

Stannis had killed those he had loved the most. Now he was going to join them in oblivion.

Stannis slumped against the Only Gate, blood pouring from his pierced heart. It was not such a bad thing, he thought, that he was dying alone, unloved, unlamented, far from family or friends, here on the soil of the Shadow Lands. He deserved it.

It was better this way. House Baratheon and the world would be better off without him.

He had slain Euron Greyjoy. He had thwarted the Enemy of mankind and given his life for it.

Stannis was vaguely amazed that he could die like a good man. He did not think he deserved such a good death as this, after all that he had done. But he would gladly take it.

Quietly, at peace with himself and with the world, Stannis rested his head against the Only Gate. As his heart's blood and the blood of his ruined eyes spilt out on the oily black stone, he was content.

Silent as the grave—as perfect as if it had been oiled yesterday, though it had not been tended or touched for the last eight-thousand years—the black gate of Stygai swung open.