Shireen
The dawn came early for them this day. Her mother had kept her awake until far into the night, offering prayers to R'hllor for his favor. Well, her mother had prayed to the Red God, she had prayed to the Seven. At first she prayed to the Warrior, asking him to protect her father during the coming battle. But as the night wore on, she began to pray to the Mother, begging her to please shut her mother up and let them get some sleep. Finally, when she was so tired she could barely think, she prayed to the Stranger, begging him to please just kill her now and end her suffering. One of the Gods must have finally taken pity on her, because shortly afterwards her mother had finally told her it was time for bed.
It seemed that her head had barely hit the pillow when she was awakened by one of the servants. Hells, she was still groggy and could barely keep her eyes open. Twice she had almost dozed off into her porridge. Her mother wanted to pray again, but she had begged off, pleading that she wanted to see her father one last time before the battle. Her mother had finally relented when Devan Seaworth, the Onion Knight's son and her father's squire, had offered to escort her to him and back personally.
Which is how she found herself standing on the outer wall as a small group of riders under a flag of truce rode up to the gates. Her father stood tall and proud beside her on her left while Devan was on her right, pulling temporary double duty as both her father's squire and her temporary guardian. In his plate armor, her father was an imposing figure. Well over six feet tall and powerfully muscled, he seemed invincible to her. Her father watched the riders approach stoically with one hand resting on his antlered helm which he had set on the wall in front of him with his other hand loosely wrapped around the pommel of his sword.
On her opposite side Devan stood tall and proud, wearing a simple, unadorned helm on his head, a coat of silver ringmail over a thick gambeson and a surcoat in the colors of her house emblazoned with her father's flaming heart sigil. In one hand, he held her father's personal banner, while with his other hand, he copied her father and had it resting lightly on the pommel of the sword he had strapped around his waist. He looked every inch a squire to a King.
A squire in the party carried a plain white flag while another carried the banner of House Baratheon of King's Landing, gold with a black, rearing crowned stag on it. It appeared that, unlike Joffery who had incorporated the Lion of Lannister into his sigil, Tommen intended to only use Uncle Robert's banner.
Of the men in the approaching group, one wore a suit of plate armor that was of the darkest blue, like the sea on a cloudless day. Emblazoned on the breastplate was a cluster of rich burgundy grapes. His pauldrons were embossed with the same grape cluster while his helm gave the appearance of having grape vines wrapped around it. Beside him was a knight, likewise armored in full plate. His armor was highly polished silver and adorned with roses with his helm likewise decorated with golden roses. His shield had three gold roses on a field of green. Unlike the man next to him who wore a rich blue cape, this Knight wore the pure white cape of the Kingsguard. Based on her knowledge of House sigils and her best guess at their ages, this could be none other than Lord Paxter Redwyne and Ser Loras Tyrell.
When Shireen glanced at her father, she saw that he wore a sour expression on his face, as if he had just bitten into a lemon. Her father soon confirmed her suspicion at who the men were when he said with bitterness in his voice:
"Tyrell and Redwyne. They besieged me at Storm's End in Robert's Rebellion and they do so again now."
When the party riding towards them got within fifty yards of so of the wall they were standing on, her father called out to them:
"That's far enough. What do you want?"
Paxter Redwyne replied, "Lord Baratheon, we come on behalf of your nephew, King Tommen Baratheon. He commands you to lay down your arms, strike your banners and swear fealty to him as your King. If you comply, he will spare the lives of your men. He offers you the choice and the honor of taking the Black and serving the Realm in the Night's Watch or of being charged with treason and facing the headsman. The choice is yours My Lord."
The entire time that Lord Redwyne was spreaking, Shireen was watching her father. At hearing him addressed as "Lord Baratheon," she saw him visibly bristle. Her father was a King, not a Lord. He would never forgive Lord Redwyne the slight. She loved her father desperately, but in some ways, he was far too unyielding. Especially when he was convinced that he was in the right. Her father's reply to the demand was not long in coming. He told them:
"Tommen is no nephew of mine. There isn't a drop of Baratheon blood in the boy. He is no true King, only a bastard born of incest. By all the laws of Gods and men, I am the One True King of Westeros. And you would do well to address me as such.
"You have one chance and one chance only. Swear fealty to me as your King, renounce Tommen as a bastard born of incest, and commit your men to taking King's Landing with me. Do so, and I will pardon your treason and I will not strip you of your lands and titles. I'll have your answer now."
The Knight in Tyrell colors exploded at hearing what her father said. He practically screamed at him:
"TREASON?! YOU SPEAK TO US OF TREASON AFTER WHAT YOU DID TO YOUR OWN BROTHER?! YOU MURDERED YOUR OWN FLESH AND BLOOD USING BLOOD MAGIC!! I HEARD ALL ABOUT HOW A SHADOW WITH YOUR FACE BURIED A KNIFE IN RENLY'S BACK!! COWARD! VERMIN!!! KINSLAYER!!!
"COME DOWN OFF YOUR WALLS AND FIGHT ME IN THE OLD WAY IF YOU HAVE THE STOMACH FOR IT OLD MAN! LET US SETTLE THIS WITH SINGLE COMBAT, IF YOU'RE MAN ENOUGH TO FACE YOUR ENEMY IN THE DAYLIGHT RATHER THAN SENDING A SHADOW TO DO YOUR DIRTY WORK FOR YOU IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT. COME DOWN OFF YOUR WALLS AND DIE."
Shireen was shocked at the viciousness in the man's voice and in his words. Father, a kinslayer? That couldn't be true. Father would never. Beside her, she could hear her father's teeth grinding. He replied to the men:
"You are mistaken Ser. I was asleep in my bed the night Renly died. I mourned for my brother, for the boy he had been. But I shed not a tear for the traitor he had become. Renly attempted to lay claim to a crown he had no right to and he paid for his treason with his life. You have my answer. If you want this castle Sers, you will have to take it from me by force."
With that, her father stepped back from the parapet and called out, "Archers! Knock!"
In one fluid movement every archer and crossbowman on the wall stepped forward raised their bows and crossbows, arrows and quarrels already in place. Far below, the men who had come to parley cursed, threw down their white banner and galloped back to where their men awaited them. In a soft voice, her father next said:
"Devan, take my daughter back to the Stone Drum Tower and keep her safe there. That is your place during this battle."
"As you command, Your Grace," Devan replied. Turning to her, Devan held out an arm and said, "Princess?"
Shireen reached out and took Devan's offered arm, but before they could leave, Father put his hand out to stop them. In a move that was almost nothing like him, her father bent down and gently kissed her head and muttered:
"Be safe, my sweet one."
Shireen impulsively threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. After a moment of surprise, her father hugged her back. She wished he could hold her tighter, but her father had to be gentle seeing as he was armored in full plate and probably didn't want to crush her. When she, reluctantly, let her father straighten from her embrace, he said to Devan:
"Protect her, son. You have the heir to the Iron Throne in your charge. And more importantly, you have my daughter under your protection."
"You have my word, Your Grace. No harm will come to her."
With a curt nod, her father dismissed them and turned back to look out over the walls. The last she saw of her father as Devan walked her back to the Stone Drum Tower, he was lowering his helm onto his head before loosening his sword in its scabbard. The way he looked as he was stoically preparing for battle was an image that she would remember for the rest of her life.
Five days had passed since Shireen had last seen her father. Five days since Ser Loras had shouted out his challenge. They had launched their first attack four days ago, charging the walls under the cover of darkness in the hope that they would catch the defenders sleeping. According to Devan, who had heard it from a page, the attack had been something less than a success. Her father had expected something of the sort and had held his men in readiness on the walls. They had rained a hail of arrows and stones down on the attackers and thrown them back with apparently heavy losses. The walls had been under attack every day since.
Her mother was rarely with her these last five days, preferring the company of the Lady Melisandre. For that, she had been mostly thankful. Her mother could be very cold at times. But two days ago, she wanted her mother with her. For at dawn two days prior, the battle took a new and sometimes terrifying turn.
The men outside their gates had finally finished assembling their catapults and at dawn, had sent the first stones soaring through the air to crash into the walls and the buildings behind them. Mostly, the stones thudded harmlessly into the thick outer wall or some of the more stoutly constructed keeps behind them. But occasionally, one would find a weaker building to crush or perhaps a badly maintained parapet to shatter. And once she overheard some of the men talking about how one of their mates had been in the exact wrong spot and had one of the stones flatten his skull when it landed on him.
That night, she learned what terror truly was. She was standing outside on the roof of the tower, enjoying the coolness of the night air and breathing the salt tinged air in deeply when she saw something truly frightening. In the distance, she saw what looked like a large torch flare to life. Before she could blink, the torch was hurtling through the air, flying straight and true for the walls of her home. When it crashed into the wall, flames erupted from the spot, soaring over a hundred feet into the air. Time after time, the catapults outside their walls subjected them to the firey bombardment. The firey blasts that occurred whenever one of the projectiles slammed into the walls terrified her almost to the point of panic. That was when one of the older men in the castle had told her that was the point. The Redwynes were throwing clay jugs filled with oil at them. They would rarely cause any real damage, but they kept men from sleeping soundly and their unexpected nature could unnerve even the stoutest heart. She calmed a bit after that. Besides, she was quite far away from the walls where the flaming jugs were apparently being targeted.
In the afternoon on the fifth day of the siege, Shireen, Devan and several others were standing atop the Stone Drum Tower when another attack was launched on the walls. She watched as the Lannister and Tyrell men made it up onto the wall itself and were only repulsed by the arrival of her father with more men. She was enraptured by the sight of her father in his plain grey armor and antlered helm fighting like a demon on the walls. Her breath caught in her throat as her father waded into the thick of the fighting. She could even hear him bellowing at his men to fighter harder and throw the traitors back over the walls. After what seemed like ages, the attack was repulsed. The bodies of those killed from both sides were pilled high along the ramparts and at the base of the wall where they had fallen. She only turned away from the sight when a servant told her that her Lady Mother desired her to join her in prayer.
Inside, Shireen groaned. Joining her mother to pray to a god she didn't believe in was near or at the very bottom of the list of things she wished to do. With luck, she wouldn't be forced into another all night session like she was when the attack began. Steeling herself for the coming ordeal, she began to descend the steps to where her mother waited.
Only it wasn't her mother waiting for her when she got there. It was Melisandre. Looking at the Red Priestess quizzically, Shireen said, "My Pardon, My Lady. But I was told that my Lady Mother wished me to join with her in prayer?"
Melisandre answered, "You were told correctly, Princess. But the Queen changed her mind and asked me to speak with you instead, to more fully explain why our God acts as he does and demands the sacrifices that he does. Does the Lord of Light frighten you, Princess?"
Shaking her head, Shireen replied, "No. At least I don't think he does. I don't really know whether I believe in any gods. The old, the new, the Lord of Light, the Drowned God. They all just seem like stories told to frighten children in an attempt to get them to behave. Well, not just children I suppose."
"Many share this same view, Princess. May I ask why you feel this way? I have found those who profess a lack of faith either struggle to grasp things that are not of this world, have suffered from some kind of trauma and lost their faith, or they believe in the gods but despise them. Which are you Princess?"
"I'm...not sure. I guess maybe the second one? Where were the gods when I was afflicted with Greyscale? Maester Cressen was the one to cure me, not any gods. My father prayed to both the old gods and the new to cure me, but they didn't." Gesturing to her face, she continued, "I'll carry these scars for the rest of my days. No gods have healed them, no matter how many times my father or my mother or I prayed for that. So why should I believe in the gods?"
"That is an understandable view to have Princess. But who's to say that that gods didn't answer your father's prayers by giving Maester Cressen the skill needed to heal you? The gods, whether they are the old, the new, the Lord of Night or any others, don't always respond the way we want them to. In the case of the false gods worshiped throughout the world, it is because they lack the power to respond. And sometimes the answer R'hllor gives us is 'no.' But The Lord always answers. In your case, he answered your father's prayers by giving your Maester the knowledge and skill to stop the spread of the greyscale. But when you and your father and your mother prayed to have the scars removed, the answer was no. "
Shireen was about to demand why the answer should be no when Melisandre held up hand and continued saying, "The answer was no, not to punish you Princess. Or to punish your parents or the Realm as some night claim. The answer was no in order to make you strong. Forgive my bluntness My Princess, but you were not blessed with great beauty, at least not the kind of beauty that a man would see. Instead you were blessed with a beauty that is wholly on the inside, child. R'hllor saw this in you and gave you a way to find this beauty. You have a caring and kind heart, Princess. But beneath that, you have great strength within you. Most who have been afflicted with greyscale would throw themselves from the highest wall they could find, or let themselves drown in the sea. But not you. You have neither wilted from the heat of the flames that have forged you, nor have you allowed them to harden your heart and make you cruel. You are instead a Princess, and I believe a good person. Those are rare traits to share."
Finally, when Melisandre was finished, Shireen responded, "I still don't fully understand. But what you've said does make some sense. That doesn't make the gods any less cruel though.
As it is, I fear it will be a lesson that I will not be able to benefit from. The Lannister's forces are able to breach our walls now. My Lord Father has to rush about on top of them, bringing men with him to throw them back off. I may only be a child, but I'm not a foolish one. I know he can't keep that up much longer. He can't be everywhere at once. And sooner or later, enough men will reach the top of the wall that it won't matter. I have no illusions about what will happen to me once the castle falls. At best, I'll be hostage, at worst, I'll be killed as a rival claimant to the Iron Throne."
Placing her hands on Shireen's shoulders and looking deeply into her eyes, Melisandre said, "You must have faith, Princess. Have faith that R'hllor will protect your father and give him the victory he so desperately needs. There will be a great victory here, and it will be one that is won in your name."
Shireen had to admit, when the Red Priestest stared into your eyes this way, it was like she was looking into your very soul. You could almost feel the conviction of her words. Shireen nodded in acceptance of the place that Melisandre had won in her Father's House before excusing herself and making her way to her bedchambers. From her window, she watched Melisandre prepare and light her nighfire. She could even hear a few words of the prayers she was offering. Shireen was not a religious person. She prayed to neither the old gods or the new, or to this new fire god, unless she was made to. But when Melisandre spoke, she made you feel her passion and the strength of her convictions. It was nearly enough to move her to believe as well. Perhaps one prayer before bed?
Shireen slept little that night, her dreams were filled with visions of dragons, breathing fire and roasting her alive. But sometimes, the dragons burned her enemies as well, enemies that wore the crimson of the Lannisters, the Green of the Tyrells and, most disturbingly, enemies that were little more than bones wearing rags and marching through a snow covered forest. Each time she dreamed, she awoke with her heart hammering in her chest and her lungs gasping for air, with the sheets tangled about her as if she had spent the last hour thrashing about and fighting them.
When the servants entered to comb her and dress her for the day, she was barely even half awake. When she exited her room, she was still barely functioning. Though Devan, her ever watchful guardian, seemed to be as bright and alert as he always was. Perhaps his heritage as a sailor and smugglers son had given him some innate need for less sleep? This morning Devan was attired in the colors of his own House, wearing a pale grey surcoat with a black ship emblazoned on it. The ship, as befitted the son of the Onion Knight, had an onion on the sails. Below his surcoat, she could see a coat of ringmail atop a gambeson made thick with layer after layer of linen and topped with boiled leather. At his hip he wore a long sword, but one that had been shortened to match his height. In his left hand he carried a shield emblazoned with her Father's arms and in his right he carried a wicked looking poleaxe.
She had rarely seen Devan fully dressed and prepared for battle. The last few days, he had gone with just a mail coat and his sword. Why the change? Deciding to ask him, she said, "Devan, why are you dressed as if you're going to battle this morning?"
He replied, "It was the King's command. He has ordered all his men to be prepared to fight this day. So now I get to sweat my arse off in this heat. Begging your pardon Princess. I shouldn't use foul language around you like that."
Reassuring him that she didn't mind, as long as he didn't do it too much anyway, she let Devan escort her towards the Great Hall To break her fast. Behind, a page followed in their footsteps. But as they reached the landing at the base of the stairs, they were met by a group of Knights that called themselves "The Queen's Men." It was rumored that, though they had pledged themselves to her father's cause, they were more loyal to the Queen, or perhaps Lady Melisandre, than they were to the King.
One of the men stepped forward and said, "Princess Shireen. We have been commanded by the Queen, by the Lady Melisandre and by the Lord of Light himself to bring you before them in the courtyard. Your Lady Mother and Lady Melisandre require your attendance at an offering to R'hllor, to beseech him for his blessings in winning this battle. I and my men are to see you safely escorted there. Your Lord Father's squire will not be needed."
Something in the way the man spoke and the queer look in his eyes sparked a warning in her head. It had sparked one in Devan's head as well it seemed as he answered them, "I am charged with the safety of the Princess, Ser. Wherever she may go, I follow at her side, now and always. Only her Lord Father may relieve of this honor."
The man who had spoken to them looked Devan up and down, shrugged his shoulders and before she could so much as scream, had filled his hand with his sword and swung it at Devan's head. For all the shock Devan must have felt, he responded quickly and well. He met the sword with his shield and drove the point of his poleaxe forward into the knight's stomach. The had worn only mail with no padding under it and the point on Devan's poleaxe was needle sharp. With a pained grunt from the knight, his mail was pierced and the point was driven home into him.
As the knight fell, Devan recovered from his thrust and began shouting at her to get back to her chambers and bolt the door. As she turned to flee, she heard him yell at Addam to run and get the King. After that, she heard nothing but the clash of arms as Devan, a boy of only 13, outnumbered and alone, fought bravely to save her. He had to know he would die in the attempt, but he fought nonetheless.
When she reached her rooms, she slammed the door shut, threw the bolt across the lock and then feverishly looked for any place to hide. She was still looking when she heard a crash against her door. Jumping at the sound, she dove under the bed and attempted to still her rapid breathing and wildly beating heart before they gave her away. With another mighty crash, the door to her room began to splinter and now her breath caught in her throat. With a final crash, her door flew open and banged harshly against the wall. Shireen had both hands clamped over her mouth to keep herself from crying out in terror. But it was no use. Within moments, she was being dragged out from under the bed and carried back through the door and down the stairs.
A few steps up from the landing where Devan had so valiantly defended her, she saw his body laying on the stairs. He had tried to retreat up them to limit how many men could attack at the same time. But it had all been for naught. He had still been cruelly cut down. His blood pooled beneath him as it flowed from a dozen wounds. But as they passed, she heard him groan and reach out a trembling hand towards her. Gods be good, he still lived.
She tried shouting for the men to fetch Maester Pylos, to get a stretcher for Devan and see his wounds treated. But the Knights who carried her ignored her pleas. One simply muttered that whether "the foolish boy" lived or died was in the hands of the Lord of Light, and he would recover or not as the Lord saw fit. Tears filled her eyes as she saw Devan laying helpless and bleeding on the cold stone steps before they turned a corner and he was lost to her sight.
When they reached the gardens that the Targaryens had built, she saw the great stone dragon that had been erected in it. Beside the dragon stood Melisandre and her mother. And pilled all around the dragon was brush and wood while a knight held a burning torch in his hand. With sudden clarity, she knew what was intended for her.
Shireen began to scream, "No, Mother!!! Please, don't do this!! Please! Mother! I'm begging you, please stop!"
With each scream and entreaty, her voice became more and more shrill as she was filled with sheer terror and panic at the thought of being burned alive. She fought as hard she could, her fear giving her renewed strength, but she was no match for the battle hardened Knights that served the Red God. She punched and she kicked and she bit, but it was no use. She was carried inexorably on towards the pyre. As they drew closer, she could see chains draped around the statue with manacles at the ends to secure her in place. When they forced her onto the pyre, her arms were roughly pulled above her head and her wrists were shackled in place.
Still, she begged her mother to release her. Twice she saw her start towards her, and each time Melisandre stopped her with a hand on her shoulder and a word whispered in her ear. Shireen was weeping openly now, with tears running from her eyes and down her cheeks. But her pleas fell on deaf ears.
The Red Witch approached her then and said, "Have no fear, Princess. For death by fire is the purest form of death. It cleanses us of all our sins. And your's shall serve a greater good. For from the ashes of your sacrifice, the great stone dragon will be born again, fire made flesh. And the Lord's chosen one will ride him to victory here and in the wars to come. Every victory he wins shall be in remembrance of you."
Stepping back, Melisandre called out in a strong voice, "Lord of Light, we come before in our hour of darkest need. We offer you this child, of a King's Blood, as proof of our devotion to you. Lord of Light, show us the way!"
Still Shireen screamed and begged and pleaded. And still no one listened. Instead, the knight with the torch handed it serenely to Melisandre who turned towards the pyre and prepared to drop the flaming brand into the prepared kindling.
