Castle Black, the Wall
It took time to hand out the weirwood branches, Baratheon men and Night's Watch alike putting the pieces of wood into the hands of the Wildling captives. Overseeing it all was Melisandre, her thin robes banishing the chill which struck at the men around her. With an air of constant premonition she called for the Wildlings to renounce their gods, the many faced trees which held no power before the Lord of Light and his chosen warrior Azor Ahai. Towards a small pyre they were led, armed Nights Watchmen careful to see to it that none thought to try and make a fight of it. Though, whether due to the cold in the air or the number of men armed and armoured, the fight had gone out of the Wildling captives. Like cattle they were driven towards the waiting pile of timber.
"Bring forth the deserter," the king finally ordered, watching with silent judgement as Mance was brought out before the masses. "For the crime of deserting your post and breaking your oaths to the Night's Watch, I, Stannis Baratheon, hereby sentence you to death."
Taking her cue, Melisandre's voice called out, each note ringing throughout Castle Black. Five queensmen stepped forward with eager intent, driving their torches into the waiting weirwood. As the flames took hold, they joined in singing the chorus, echoing the priestess's words as fire danced towards the King-Beyond-The-Wall.
From on high Stannis passively watched the proceedings, Davos at his side. He did not smile as the Wildlings threw their gods into the gaping maw of the flames, nor did he smile as they were forced to stare at the melting frame of their false king. Wildlings do not respect laws, he had been told time and time again. Wildlings follow a strong leader because they have to, not because they want to. There was power in Kingsblood, as the teachings went. Mance had been their king, in name at least.
It took a time for the traitor to die, screaming as the flames bit hungrily into his seeping flesh. Each cry sent Melisandre' followers into a frenzy, their own words redoubling in power. There is power in fire and blood, he accepted, his jaws setting themselves.
Finally, when the fires became too great to sustain themselves on Old Gods, the red priestess called the Wildlings to take an oath. On bent knees they were forced, heads lowered before the sight of Stannis Baratheon, their king and savior. A rumbling echo of her words reached his ears, of Wildlings naming him their leader. Maybe it was a fear of death which urged them to speak. It could have been because they accepted him as a leader. Rather, the reason could have been Jon, no longer a crow and yet still a friend of Wildlings.
"You will be found lands in the Gift," Stannis told them. "That will be your new home, safe under my domain." He looked out at them, these savages who had resisted authority for the eternity of their existence. "You will be left in peace, until such times as you will be called upon to stand against the Great Enemy, the white demons of ice. For as long as you keep the laws of my land, you will be protected. You will have safety and prosperity: that is my oath to you."
With the words spoken, he marched away, Davos on his heels. "Now we have a realm to win back."
Mole Town, the Wall
Stannis rode at the head of the column, the royal standards flying high at his back. The letters had been sent, the ravens long since arrived at their destination. Now, it was for the northmen to make their choice: allegiance to Baratheon or death. So he marched, the fiery stag's head and the crowned beast leading a great procession of animals and plants: grey seahorses and black nightingales, red foxes and moths grey on grey, an orle of flowers on green and an open pod of peas. Beneath those bolts of cloth rode men true to his cause, men who had dared the dwarf's green flames and refused to join the shade of Renly and the traitors Tyrell and Lannister. In return, he had brought them north. He had made them saviors of the realm, loyal vassals ready to win great lands and titles in his impending victory.
Knights rode alongside the Men-At-Arms, a shimmering sea of plate and chainmail. Longbowmen, astride their loyal mounts, followed closely behind, their own armour still bearing the marks of Wildling blood. In all direction went scouts, the weather necessitating far-flung eyes and ears. From above they did not look as impressive as the great host which had marched on the capital, but there were no traitors within their ranks. Each man was condemned in defeat, their only hope lying with seeing Stannis victorious over the corpses of his many foes. And even for the least supportive members of the true king's army, they had the red priestess. Behind the king she rode, the men too fearful to stray too close excepting for her most ardent of followers.
Towards Last Hearth they rode, the southerners went. Towards victory or death.
Skagos, Skagos
Davos looked around the dreary island, finding himself disliking the land just as much as the Far North. So far from the Rainwood, from his wife.
"I don't like this," muttered one of the Essosi mercenaries, his hand never leaving the dirk at his side. Fifty of them had disembarked alongside the Hand of the King, rowing on small boats to reach the coastline. Within an hour of their arrival the Skagosi had found them, what amounted to nobles barring his passage further inland. Taken to what could only be described as a warcamp, Lord Seaworth and his men were surrounded.
"Who is this Stannis? one of the islanders demanded, his armour denoting him as a leader. "What does he want of me?"
"He is the true king of Westeros. I must ask you of your name, Lord?" Davos felt himself reaching for his knuckles, long gone.
"You south men and your lords," he grinned with malice. "I am Lord Magnar. Who are you, onion man?"
"Lord Seaworth, Lord Magnar. I am the Hand of the King."
The Skagosi burst in to laughter. "I wondered why you had one hand. If a man did that to me, I would kill him."
"Stannis Baratheon is a just man, a true lord. He came north to protect the realm from the threats beyond."
There was a moment of quiet. "Seems like you love this man," his features narrowed. "I don't like men lovers."
Davos was stunned in to silence. As the seconds passed it took one of the Essosi to wake him from his paralysis. "I love him as my king, as the last heir to Robert Baratheon. I come in his name, to seek an alliance with you and ours to defeat the Boltons."
The name of Stannis' chief foe brought a reaction from the Skagosi man. "You fight the Boltons?"
"Yes, Roose Bolton and his son, and all the northern houses who pay him homage."
"Kill northmen for your king? To what end, Handless Hand?"
"To put Jon Stark in Winterfell."
