Chapter 78: The Human Heart
"Release the Messenger!"
…
"Blasphemer of the Seven—Stannis deserves death!"
…
"Go to the Seven Hells, you damned bald bastard!"
…
Outside the Red Keep's drawbridge, a furious crowd had gathered.
Torches blazed as people pressed together beneath the walls, heads tilted upward, shouting themselves hoarse—venting the rage and resentment burning in their chests.
The noise was deafening, chaotic, no different from a marketplace on a normal day—except this time, they weren't haggling over vegetables. Each shout was a curse aimed straight at the heart.
By torchlight, the sea of black silhouettes stretched endlessly. Anyone looking down from the walls felt their scalp tighten instinctively.
Stannis Baratheon was no exception.
He stood motionless, gazing down at the spectacle, his face dark as thunder.
The nobles around him murmured suggestions—some urged riding out to disperse the crowd, others proposed ignoring it entirely—but none of them received so much as a glance from the new master of the Iron Throne.
After a long silence, Stannis finally forced out a question through clenched teeth.
"Who arrested the wizard?"
"It was Ser Imry Florent, Your Grace," Davos answered quietly—adding silently, your brother-in-law.
"And who gave him the order?"
"…It's said the order came from you."
The moment the words left his mouth, Davos sensed something was wrong.
Stannis' expression was one of genuine surprise.
If the king had ordered the arrest himself, how could he look so utterly unprepared?
After a pause, Davos added carefully,
"Perhaps we should summon Ser Imry and ask him directly, Your Grace."
A sensible suggestion—but before Stannis could reply, another lord sneered.
"Ser Imry of House Florent has already been turned into a pile of bones by that wizard. If he can still speak, I imagine he'd be happy to answer—assuming we can find the right skeleton."
"We can address that later," one of Stannis' supporters interjected. "For now, we should consider releasing that black wizard. His status is… delicate."
His words were cut off cold.
"Release him?" Stannis scoffed.
"Perhaps there were doubts before. Now there are none. Acting with such brazen contempt—he clearly does not recognize my authority as king!"
The argument was rational—but if he released the man now, where would royal authority stand?
Reduced to a pitiful king held hostage by a wizard?
What difference would there be between him and the Lannisters?
"Your Grace is being misled by petty schemes," a calm female voice said nearby—tired, but steady.
Stannis turned.
Melisandre stood there in crimson robes, her presence unmistakable.
A mocking smile twisted his lips.
"So even you side with your precious envoy now? I hear he also claims to be an envoy of the Seven."
"That title is nothing more than the delusion of false worshippers," Melisandre replied evenly.
"There are only two true divine forces—Light and Darkness. All others are lies and bones."
Half the nobles present looked awestruck. The other half bristled with rage.
"Blasphemy!" an old lord snapped. "Aren't you afraid to tempt divine retribution?"
"Ser Blempton has wished for my death for years," Melisandre answered calmly.
"Yet I see no action. I would have welcomed it."
Ignoring his darkening face, she turned back to Stannis and bowed deeply.
"Please reconsider, Your Grace. You and he should have been allies."
With another bow, she turned and walked away.
She had been absent since arriving in King's Landing, occupied with matters unknown. Only at moments like this did she reappear.
…
Stannis watched her go, his expression unreadable.
Nothing about this made sense.
He had given no order—so why had his brother-in-law acted?
Worse yet—why imprison the wizard in the Red Keep's dungeon?
Without confession, or even with one, no noble would ever be treated that way.
Who had pushed Imry to do this?
That answer would never come.
Ser Imry was already scattered bones.
What troubled Stannis even more was how quickly the news had spread.
Why was a blood-soaked black wizard being worshipped like a savior?
Why were his own people cursing him now—calling him bald, mocking him openly?
Stannis had spent months fortifying the city, preparing for war. He rarely concerned himself with the lives of commoners—but he was certain he had ruled more justly than the Lannisters.
So what had gone so wrong?
Was it really because of that so-called "Envoy of the Seven"?
He'd heard the rumors, of course.
He'd dismissed them as peasant superstition.
But now…
"Damn it, bald bastard—release the Savior!"
…
"Blasphemers will be punished!"
…
"Take your strength and use it on that ridiculous clown of yours, you pathetic excuse for a king!"
…
The abuse never stopped.
Shouts turned into shoves. Several strong men carried ladders forward. Mothers urged their children to urinate and spit at the walls.
A trembling old man hurled rotten vegetables upward. They bounced harmlessly off stone—but the wet splatter and streaks of red juice were unmistakable.
Finally, someone snapped.
A young noble dropped to one knee, eyes blazing.
"Your Grace—please allow me to lead the charge!"
Stannis looked at him coldly.
"Charge? And do what—slaughter them all?"
"These rabble have gone too far!"
"They have," Stannis agreed icily.
"And do you take me for that Lannister bastard pretending to be king?"
"They've insulted the Crown—death is their due!"
"Yes," Stannis sneered.
"And then what? Kill this group and another forms? Or keep killing until fear does the work?"
"How many would that take, Ser Morford? If you can give me a number, you're welcome to submit it."
A pause.
"For now, inform the Gold Cloaks. Let them handle it. The army exists to fight enemies—not butcher civilians."
With that, Stannis turned and walked away under a stunned silence.
He was furious—angrier than anyone else present.
But he was not foolish.
Some lines could never be crossed.
Once they were, there would be no end to the consequences.
With a gloomy expression, Stannis returned to the Great Hall of the kingdom and seated himself on the Iron Throne—hard, cold, and utterly uncomfortable. As he stared down at the vast, empty chamber below, the anger in his chest slowly began to subside.
The silence helped. One breath at a time, he forced his emotions aside and began to think rationally.
But he hadn't enjoyed that calm for more than a few moments before Ned Stark arrived in haste. And the very first thing out of his mouth was the matter Stannis least wanted to hear about.
"Your Grace, how do you intend to deal with Ser ?"
"Is that a question—or a challenge?"
The embers of Stannis' anger, not yet fully extinguished, flared back to life. Already irritable over the matter, his tone sharpened instantly.
"No, Your Grace. I am only asking."
Ned dropped to one knee, his head lowered.
"To kill freely under the king's own roof, to practice forbidden sorcery—Ser Cranston has gone far too far."
"So," Ned continued, "what is Your Grace's judgment?"
"You already know my answer."
At that, Ned lifted his head.
"…The Night's Watch?"
"A black wizard in black cloaks?" Stannis scoffed.
"Sending him north as a gift to the Others? More likely I'll take his head first and spare myself the trouble of wondering what he'll do next."
That might have been spoken in anger—or it might have been sincere. Either way, Ned could not ignore it.
He drew in a deep breath and met his king's gaze squarely.
"Your Grace, he rendered great service to our cause."
"He has already been rewarded." Stannis' face hardened.
"He saved my life."
"He killed Ser Imry—and more than a dozen loyal soldiers."
"I gave my word that he would be protected."
"Then I'm afraid you will break that word, Lord Ned."
Ned's expression darkened. After a long pause, he rose slowly to his feet.
"I do not agree."
"Oh?" Stannis' eyes narrowed.
"You would defy your king?"
"No. But if you insist…"
Ned fixed his gaze on Stannis, reached up, tore the Hand of the King's badge from his chest, and dropped it at his feet.
"Then you should take my head first."
…
Stannis stared down at the badge lying at the edge of the steps—its gold gleaming in the firelight—his face frozen in disbelief.
How dare he?
How dare he treat his king this way?
The mob outside. The red priestess. And now even the Warden of the North—once the embodiment of honor and duty.
Did none of them respect him as king anymore?
After a long, stifling pause, Stannis clenched his jaw and looked back at Ned.
"You think I wouldn't dare?"
The words fell like an axe.
The Great Hall plunged into deathly silence.
Stark lowered his head and said nothing, as if calmly awaiting his sentence.
Stannis continued to stare at him, unmoving. His right hand gripped the armrest of the Iron Throne so tightly that the jagged spikes and grooves bit into his flesh. Blood ran from his fingers, unnoticed.
The standoff stretched on—
Until suddenly, a panicked shout rang out from beyond the hall doors.
"Your Grace—terrible news! A raven has arrived! The Iron Islands have launched an invasion of the North!"