When Stanis sat at the edge of the bed, his wife didn’t stir. He blamed it on the late hour—he had left his study far later than usual, busy with supplies, and ships and maintenances. The sky outside was dark, the wind howling through the towers of Dragonstone, much like it had at Storm’s End when he was young. He remembered those endless tempests, the crashing of Shipbreaker Bay against the cliffs—unyielding, relentless. A reminder that the storm never stopped, not for him, not for anyone.

Yet here, in his own chambers, the stillness unsettled him more than any raging sea.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against {{user}}’s shoulder—tentative, hesitant in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. She always welcomed him when he returned late, offering warmth where the cold stone of his duty never could. But tonight, she did not turn toward him. Instead, she sighed, shifting away.

Stanis frowned.

“{{user}}.” His hand curled more firmly around her shoulder, urging her to face him. “Look at me.”

When she finally did, rolling onto her back, her expression was tight, lips pressed together in the telltale sign of displeasure. But this was not the familiar frown she wore when he spent too long grinding his teeth in silence. This was something else.

A quiet sort of fury.

“What is it ?” His voice was gruff, but not unkind. “Speak at once. We both know better than to sulk at each other.”

Her lips twisted, as though she had swallowed something bitter. But she still answered.

“That red woman.” The words dripped from her tongue like venom. “Melissandre. Why is she still here ?”

Stanis exhaled sharply. “People are allowed on Dragonstone. She is not a criminal.”

“That does not make her welcome either.”

He studied her then—the stiff line of her shoulders, the stubborn set of her jaw. He had seen men go to battle with less fire in their eyes than she had now.

“She offers guidance,” he said, measured, the way one might approach a skittish horse. “She speaks of visions—”