[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 76 - 80

Chapter 76: Black Stag and White Stag

"Your Grace, I bring greetings from Lord Monford Velaryon of Driftmark, dispatched from his vessel at sea." Ser Cortnay Penrose presented a sealed parchment with deference.

Renly took the letter, glanced over its contents, and tossed it onto his desk with a soft laugh.

"Young Lord Velaryon grows quite bold. He seems to believe forty warships will cow the proud lords of the Stormlands into submission."

Renly crossed to the window and gazed down at the sea, where dozens of ship silhouettes huddled together against the shoreline—a display both formidable and strangely insignificant from this height.

"Pay him no mind. It seems Velaryon has forgotten the very meaning behind Storm's End. Let the ancient stones and the gathering storms welcome his 'invincible' fleet on our behalf."

Every child in the Seven Kingdoms knew the legend of Storm's End.

The old songs told how Elenei, daughter of the sea god and the goddess of wind, fell deeply in love with the mortal Durran. She forsook her immortality to spend a brief but joyous life by his side.

Elenei's divine parents, however, were consumed with fury at this choice and sent a dreadful wedding gift of tempest and flood.

The gift proved too terrible to bear. Durran's castle crumbled beneath its force, and all his kin and wedding guests perished. Only Durran and Elenei survived, protected by her lingering divine grace, to witness the grim aftermath when calm finally returned.

Yet Durran and Elenei refused to surrender to despair.

They rebuilt the castle, and again the gods unleashed their wrath. New strongholds followed, each more formidable and towering than the last, only to fall in turn.

Until at last, with the aid of a mysterious figure—some said Brandon the Builder himself—a castle arose that withstood the fury of wind and wave alike.

This fortress was named "Storm's End," and Durran became the first Storm King, ruling over the vast territories that would come to be known as the Stormlands.

All this had transpired thousands of years ago, in the Age of Heroes.

And in all the long centuries since, Storm's End had never fallen.

Cortnay Penrose wore a puzzled expression. "Lord Velaryon commands from the deck of the 'Glory of Driftmark'—the pride of their fleet. Why does he trouble himself with such personal attendance?"

Renly returned to his seat, fingers drumming lightly against the oak. "Perhaps Lord Velaryon simply serves his king with genuine devotion. His dear Grace has not seen fit to restore Dragonstone to little Shireen, after all."

Renly harbored no illusions about the matter. Monford Velaryon must have calculated that Joffrey's victory was assured, else he would never have wagered so boldly.

After all, when the Velaryon fleet had set sail, Joffrey had not yet issued his preposterous decree.

Renly barely suppressed a smile. "Ser Cortnay, the Iron Throne's proclamation has been circulating for a sennight now. What sum does Storm's End supposedly owe in taxes?"

Cortnay Penrose shook his head, clicking his tongue in disbelief. "It defies imagination, Your Grace. If calculated from the Targaryen era, selling the entirety of the Stormlands would scarcely cover the debt. Even if reckoned only from King Robert's ascension, the arrears total one million, six hundred thousand gold dragons!"

Inwardly, Renly found himself cheering his opponent's folly.

If the situation in the Stormlands was already so dire, the other six kingdoms must face even graver circumstances.

And Joffrey had granted a mere three years for repayment. When that time elapsed, could the lords and dukes of the Seven Kingdoms possibly offer up such vast fortunes?

Which great lord would willingly drain his family's coffers to feed this bottomless pit? Should they attempt to extract these taxes from their subordinate bannermen, the resulting resentments would inevitably undermine their own authority and power—all cost with no reward.

Even if Eddard Stark and Tywin Lannister maintained their unwavering support for Joffrey, would their vassals obey the Iron Throne without reservation?

Renly knew the scales of victory had tilted dramatically in his favor. He need only wait for the final weight to fall, and the balance would shift irrevocably to his side. House Baratheon would reclaim the Iron Throne—though under a different branch than before.

Loras, I am sorry for your suffering. Soon we shall be reunited.

Renly struggled to conceal his mounting impatience. "Two weeks have passed. Has the Reach still offered no reply?"

Though he kept his voice level, Ser Cortnay sensed his lord's anxiety nonetheless. Renly had posed the same question thrice already this day alone.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A crisp rapping at the door interrupted them. Ser Cortnay moved to investigate, returning moments later with undisguised elation brightening his weathered features.

"Your Grace—a message bearing the seal of the rose."

Renly took it with barely concealed eagerness, examining the impression with care. Indeed, the exquisitely rendered golden rose in bloom was both familiar and unforgettable—the sigil of House Tyrell, Lords Paramount of the Reach, rulers of the most fertile lands in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Renly drew a steadying breath, broke the wax seal with deliberate movements, and unfolded the scroll to read in silence:

"To Duke Renly of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Master of Laws, of House Baratheon:

The Tyrells and all loyal subjects of the Reach pledge to uphold the lawful succession of the Iron Throne.

If the bloodline of King Joffrey I stands in question, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms must not shrink from their duty to seek truth and justice, no matter the cost.

House Tyrell stands ready to lead this righteous cause.

—With all respect, Willas Tyrell."

Willas Tyrell—eldest son of Mace Tyrell and heir to Highgarden. Renly felt both satisfaction and a twinge of disappointment.

How much stronger his position would be if Lord Mace and the formidable "Queen of Thorns" had openly declared their support.

Yet he reconsidered almost immediately. No, if the Tyrell family were truly so reckless, they would hardly prove worthy allies. This measured commitment would suffice for now.

The decisive weight had been placed upon the scales.

Renly rose to his feet, mind racing with calculations.

The battlefield would lie south of King's Landing and Casterly Rock, north of Highgarden and Storm's End.

Three months—that was the longest this conflict could possibly last.

The North was the most distant kingdom and could muster perhaps twenty thousand men at most. The Riverlands and the Vale might each field between twenty and thirty thousand. The Westerlands could raise forty to fifty thousand seasoned troops. The Crownlands, being closest to King's Landing, might arm another ten to twenty thousand soldiers.

But with Joffrey's ruinous tax decree hanging over their heads, many lords would likely send only token forces as a gesture of nominal compliance.

Old Lord Hoster Tully of the Riverlands lay dying, while Lysa Arryn of the Vale had become a neurotic recluse. Both regions would likely choose only to defend their own borders.

Dorne and the Iron Islands harbored no love for House Lannister.

At best, Joffrey might command fifty thousand men.

The Stormlands alone could field twenty to thirty thousand troops. If the Reach contributed fifty thousand or more, this battle for the Iron Throne would prove devastating for the crown's forces. Indeed, many of the enemy might defect before the first arrow flew.

Renly could almost see the courtiers beneath the Iron Throne bending their knees to him in his mind's eye.

"Ser Cortnay, summon all the lords of the Stormlands. We shall gather our strength here at Storm's End and prepare for war. Also, dispatch this letter to every castle in the Seven Kingdoms—including the Red Keep itself."

Ser Cortnay accepted the parchment, which bore no seal. He glanced at its contents and froze in place.

"Your Grace, Joffrey, he..."

Renly smiled coldly. "Ser, I am His Grace now. Your eyes do not deceive you. Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella are all born of incest. By every law of gods and men, the Iron Throne passes rightfully to me!"

"Yes... Your Grace."

His sovereign's eyes burned with such fierce intensity that Ser Cortnay found himself looking away. His gaze fell upon the banner hanging on the wall.

Against its field of gold reared the arms inherited from the ancient Storm Kings—the symbol House Baratheon had borne for three centuries—a mighty stag crowned and wrathful.

A black stag.

Beneath the crowned stag banners of the Red Keep, Lady Hanna brought welcome tidings to King Joffrey.

"Hunters have discovered a pure white stag in the Kingswood, Your Grace. This surely portends divine favor for tomorrow's coronation."

Joffrey received the news with indifference. "A reward of one hundred gold dragons for the hunters. Rain grows ever more unruly—perhaps the time has come to change my mount."

War loomed on the horizon. The coronation ceremony presented an ideal opportunity. On the morrow, King's Landing would begin its rebirth, and Westeros would witness the foundation of a magical empire cloaked in the guise of faith.

Azor Ahai, the Hero King.

"Where is Melisandre, the red priestess of R'hllor from Asshai?" Joffrey inquired.

Hanna recalled the woman's whereabouts. "She lodges at an inn beside the Mud Gate, Your Grace. Shall I summon her to court?"

Joffrey merely smiled.

After tomorrow's events, Melisandre would seek his door of her own accord.

Chapter 77: Azor Ahai

The red priestess Melisandre closed her eyes and offered her silent prayer:

"Lord of Light, Heart of Fire, God of Flame and Shadow, grant me vision of your promised prince, your champion in this world."

The air around her had grown stifling, her lips cracked and dry from the oppressive heat.

This was hardly surprising.

Since taking residence in this chamber at the inn, the flames in her hearth had never once died, even now as summer sunlight streamed through the window to bathe the room in golden light.

Such was the way of R'hllor's servants—to dwell always in the company of fire.

She knew that the Lord of Light spoke through embers and dancing flames, conveying his omens to those chosen few among his followers.

And none were more adept at deciphering these cryptic messages than Melisandre of Asshai.

She opened her eyes, fixing her gaze upon the flames.

Before her, flickering phantoms writhed and swayed within the fire.

Faces and forms appeared with maddening impermanence.

One image would take shape only to dissolve, melting gradually into another; Colors shifted—sometimes golden, sometimes crimson, sometimes a blinding white; The shapes were by turns strange, terrifying, bewitching, and holy;

Yet nowhere could she discern the prince who was promised.

Another failure.

Melisandre strove to master the disappointment and uncertainty that gnawed at her faith.

She sat motionless before the sacred fire of the Lord of Light.

The ancient texts of Asshai foretold: "When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons from stone."

Melisandre had believed with unwavering conviction that "amidst smoke and salt" could only mean Dragonstone.

Thus had she journeyed from distant Asshai to pledge herself to Stannis Baratheon, expecting to guide the prophesied prince toward fulfillment of R'hllor's divine purpose.

And yet...

Stannis was dead.

Melisandre had been forced to confront a harsh truth: perhaps she had misread the signs.

For a time, she had wandered without direction or purpose.

Then came word that Joffrey Baratheon, heir to the Iron Throne, had claimed the title "Prince of Dragonstone."

Soon after, emissaries from the Iron Throne arrived on the volcanic island bearing dragon eggs.

In that moment, understanding had dawned: she had not been wrong, merely premature in her arrival.

Stannis had been but a herald for the true prince—and that prince now dwelled in King's Landing.

So she had made her way to the capital, spreading the word of the Lord of Light among the ignorant masses. She had even glimpsed the new king's face, yet the sacred flames had remained obstinately silent.

Could it be that she had erred once more?

Without warning, an image appeared within the sacred fire, torn to shreds by the leaping flames almost as swiftly as it had formed.

Melisandre's eyes glistened with tears of exultation.

Though it had manifested for only a heartbeat, every detail of the vision remained seared into her memory with perfect clarity.

Though the face of the figure in the sacred fire had been indistinct, the seven small crystal spires that stood like children's toys beside his feet had offered unmistakable guidance—the Great Sept of Baelor.

Melisandre rose from her place beside the sacred fire.

Today was the seventh day of the seventh moon.

The so-called holy day of the false Seven, and the day King Joffrey I would receive his crown.

The High Septon of the false faith would place the crown upon the king's brow within the Great Sept of Baelor.

She left her chamber, descended the inn's staircase, and joined the dense crowd that flowed through the streets toward the Great Sept.

The mass of humanity moved with ponderous slowness along the wide, muddy avenue.

The fierce summer sun hung high overhead, and the air was heavy with the mingled scents of sweat, unwashed bodies, fresh bread, and costly perfumes.

Highborn and lowly alike spoke only of the king's coronation, and Melisandre listened in silence as she walked among them.

"If you ask me, His Grace is a right proper king," said one man to his companion. "He waited all these days before holding his coronation. The late King Robert would be well pleased."

A woman in a threadbare dress nodded vigorously. "I tell you, His Grace is like Baelor the Blessed come again. Crowned on the seventh day of the seventh moon—how devout! May the Seven bless and keep him!"

A wiry youth spat into the dirt. "Say what you will, I care only for the silver stag the gold cloaks promised to each who comes to witness the ceremony."

"Pah!" his companion scoffed. "His Grace commands the wealth of the Seven Kingdoms. Does he begrudge you one silver stag? If he wished, he could give every soul who attends a golden dragon!"

"There are hundreds of thousands in this city," the youth retorted. "A golden dragon for each? Will you wager on it?"

Laughter rippled through the surrounding crowd.

Melisandre was shrouded from head to toe in her red robes.

Occasionally, some passerby would glance at her with momentary curiosity, only to find nothing of particular note and shift their attention elsewhere.

"I heard," came a voice pitched low with conspiracy, "that King Robert was slain by the curse of the black sorcerer Bloodraven."

"Lord Bloodraven," someone corrected.

"I know of him," another added. "The wicked wizard with a thousand eyes and one. My mother used to frighten me with tales of him when I was a child."

"Truly?"

"Surely he cannot still live? By my count, he would be well over a hundred years of age."

"Who can say for certain?"

"The night the Great Sept's bells tolled for King Robert, Lord Renly fled back to Storm's End with his household knights," a new voice interjected. "Consider that carefully." The man gave a knowing chuckle.

"Careful, now! You dare speak thus of Lord Renly?"

"After all this, do you still harbor suspicions toward His Grace? The king has made no accusation against Lord Renly."

"Just so. Who would suspect their own kin first? Even if Lord Renly did return home, what of it? Would he truly raise his banners in rebellion and contest the Iron Throne?"

The speaker quickly melted into another part of the crowd. A strange silence fell over those nearby, the atmosphere grown suddenly tense.

Melisandre had consulted the flames regarding this matter only days prior.

A powerful force had indeed played some role in King Robert's demise.

Bloodraven. Brynden Rivers. Do you serve the light or the dark?

The shifting crowd grew animated once more.

"I've heard tell that Bloodraven is Greenseer to the Children of the Forest."

"I saw them! Those small creatures His Grace brought back from the Wall—they were surely not human! Their skin was red as rust, and they had but three fingers on each hand!"

"That cannot be right. Bloodraven is human. The Greenseer of the Children could not possibly be him."

"You misunderstand."

"He and the Children must be enemies!"

"Exactly so."

A woman clutched at her companion's arm. "If the Children of the Forest truly exist, might not the Others and those dread prophecies also prove real? The Long Night, the end of the world—all of it?"

"Hush! Speak not of such things!"

"Impossible! Those are merely tales told by the superstitious folk of Asshai!"

Yet the man's voice trembled despite his protestations.

"We have our own legends," another offered quietly. "My grandfather spoke of similar things."

"The Long Night of thousands of years past cannot be entirely false, can it? Too many stories speak of it—the Children of the Forest, the Long Night, and the Last Hero."

Tales passed down through uncounted generations told of a winter that lasted a generation, when kings and thralls alike shivered in the endless darkness, when monsters of ice stalked the land, until at last the Last Hero arose to save the world of men.

"What name did this Last Hero bear?"

"The people of Asshai call him Azor Ahai. They say his return is prophesied, that he will wield Lightbringer to turn back the darkness and the end of days, and usher in an endless summer."

No one spoke to contradict these words.

One voice, small with fear, observed: "This summer has lasted nearly ten years already."

Silence fell deeper still.

As every child was taught, each long summer must inevitably give way to an even longer winter.

Ten years of winter. Perhaps more.

Gods, they all thought. Will there be another spring? Will I live to see it? Will my children?

Melisandre frowned beneath her cowl.

Of late, more and more voices in the city spoke of the Long Night and the end of the world.

She could sense their falseness—these voices were saturated with deceit, clearly not the words of true believers in any god, be it R'hllor or the Seven.

Not all those speaking around her were sincere in their fear.

Who orchestrates this mummery, she wondered, and to what purpose?

The surging crowd ground to a halt.

Melisandre raised her gaze to behold the vast central square before the Great Sept, already thronged with countless figures awaiting the coronation of their new king.

Chapter 78: Silver Stag

The central square stretched a thousand paces in both length and width, yet the press of bodies forced one to turn sideways to pass through the throng. The air itself seemed to thin beneath the weight of so many breaths. Counting the surrounding alleys and side streets, hundreds of thousands must have gathered for the spectacle.

The promise of a silver stag held remarkable power indeed.

The red priestess Melisandre gazed to her left, where countless dwellings grew smaller and smaller as they climbed higher and higher upon the hillside. At the summit of her vision stood the Great Sept of Baelor, perched majestically atop Visenya's Hill.

Two or three thousand more steps would bring her to its doors.

She drew her crimson robes more tightly about her slender form and continued her slow progress toward the Great Sept of Baelor.

Yet the perimeter of the central square was ringed by two ranks of gold-cloaked City Watch, their black armor gleaming in the sunlight, sharp spears angled threateningly toward the crowd.

"His Grace has already granted permission for all to witness the ceremony," came a disgruntled voice from the crowd. "Do these gold cloaks mean to prevent us despite the king's word?"

"Have patience, good folk!"

An officer removed his helm, revealing a young face with unruly dark hair.

"Where are your eyes looking? Can you not see the long tables in the square's center? Those men are giving out your silver stags. Collect your coin and return. Should space open ahead, you will be permitted to pass."

Silver stags. What tempting bait they made.

The crowd ebbed like a retreating tide.

Before turning away, Melisandre caught sight of the officer's cloak. Though the customary gold, it bore upon its back the emblem of a black kraken.

Though the colors were reversed from their proper arrangement, she recognized the sigil of House Greyjoy of the Iron Islands.

"So many silver stags!" came awed whispers from the crowd.

A great table had indeed been erected in the square's center. Dozens of men and women sat behind it, each holding a crystal ball of obsidian blackness. Beside them sat wooden caskets brimming with silver stags, their luster catching the sun.

Her gaze fixed instantly upon those black orbs. Dragonglass. Dragonglass infused with power!

A black-haired guardsman standing nearby offered repeated instructions with the patience of a septa teaching small children. "Form an orderly line. Approach one by one. Answer the recorder's questions, perform the requested actions, and each shall receive a silver stag."

Newcomers regarded the "recorders" seated behind the long table with curiosity.

These officials worked ceaselessly—asking questions, raising their black orbs, distributing silver stags—yet the queue never shortened. Indeed, it seemed to grow longer with each passing moment.

People hastened to join the line.

At last came Melisandre's turn. She seated herself at the table's edge and lifted her hood to reveal her exquisite face. Those nearby could not help but steal glances in her direction.

Yet the young recorder draped in white cloth seated before her might have been blind for all the notice he took of her beauty. His expression remained utterly impassive.

Melisandre sensed a familiar aura emanating from him. This "recorder" was surely someone's devoted acolyte—of that she had no doubt.

The recorder began his questioning, his tone so dispassionate it bordered on sepulchral.

"Name? Family name?"

"Melisandre. I have no family name." She noted how the dragonglass orb seemed to flicker in response to her words.

"Age?"

The corner of her mouth curled slightly. "Eighteen years."

"Place of birth? Where were you raised? Who are your family members?"

"Asshai is my homeland. I have no family."

"Occupation? Wealth? Faith?"

"My only joy is awakening the Lord of Light's lambs to his glory. Worldly riches mean nothing to me."

She stared intently into the recorder's eyes, searching for any reaction. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his features. Strange. If he served another god, why did her devotion to R'hllor not provoke anger? Could it be that he, too, followed the Lord of Light?

"Are you certain there are no omissions or falsehoods in your account? These records shall accompany you throughout your days. In the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, beneath the Iron Throne and the light, you are this person in the record—immutable."

"All I have spoken is truth."

"Straighten your posture. Compose your expression. Remain still." The recorder raised the dragonglass orb.

In that instant, Melisandre felt an invisible, mysterious force wash over her. True magic! Yet it was neither the power of the Lord of Light nor the cold grasp of the Others. What sorcery was this?

"Maintain your position. Shift to the left of your seat."

"Now to the right."

Melisandre understood that the dragonglass orb had somehow "recorded" her. At least three separate impressions had been captured.

Clink. Clink.

A shining silver stag rolled across the wooden tabletop.

"Your silver stag," the recorder said, finally allowing some emotion to creep into his voice. "God bless the world. May the light be eternal!"

Her entire body trembled at those words. "Light... eternal."

King Joffrey follows the Lord of Light?!

She hurried toward the Great Sept of Baelor, desperate to confirm this most unexpected revelation.

Yet the gold-cloaked guards at the square's edge maintained their vigilance. The sole passage left open was guarded by a knight in magnificent armor of gleaming white enamel, adorned with countless flowered engravings. Even his helm bore the likeness of blooming roses.

She recognized him at once.

The Knight of Flowers also held a dragonglass orb. Each person who approached was subjected to its mysterious illumination. Many were turned away, while only a select few received permission to continue onward.

Those denied passage voiced their displeasure loudly. "Why bar our way? What can we possibly see from here?"

A City Watch officer approached the malcontents. "What manner of complaint is this? Can you not see the Great Sept from where you stand?"

Confusion spread through the crowd.

"What nonsense is this? The Great Sept of Baelor stands so vast and high that none could fail to see it!"

The officer merely shrugged. "That will suffice."

He turned and rejoined his men, leaving the bewildered crowd to their puzzlement.

Someone muttered, "I wager it's some scheme devised by the highborn. They wish to keep themselves apart from common folk like us."

Melisandre stepped forward for her own attempt.

The Knight of Flowers regarded her briefly. "Remove your hood. Stand motionless."

She complied without a word.

Ser Loras's expression registered momentary surprise before he mastered himself and raised the dragonglass orb with practiced ease.

"Melisandre, priestess of Asshai, eighteen years of age. You may pass," he announced.

She replaced her hood and proceeded forward, maintaining an outward appearance of serenity. Yet inwardly, she marveled at such profound sorcery. With naught but a dragonglass orb, the Knight of Flowers could identify countless strangers by name and appearance, all without apparent effort.

Melisandre struggled against the temptation to compare the vague portents shown in her sacred flames with the potency of this magic.

BOOM!

A deafening roar erupted behind her, rolling like thunder from the square's distant edge toward its center—a human tidal wave of sound.

She turned at once toward the central square and, together with thousands of others, beheld the approach of the master of King's Landing, the king of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, Joffrey the First of His Name.

The vast sea of humanity parted like the waters of legend, retreating to either side to form a pathway through their midst.

"Long live His Grace!"

"The gods grant him victory in every battle!"

"Long live House Baratheon!"

"I would gladly die for King Joffrey the First!"

Amidst the crescendo of adulation, the prince upon his white steed appeared before her eyes, drawing ever closer.

He raised his right arm in greeting to the masses, his face—still too distant to discern clearly—seeming to wear a smile.

The crowd boiled and surged amidst the deafening acclaim.

Countless hands reached toward him, like drowning souls grasping for purchase at the water's surface.

Bold maidens rushed into the pathway to stroke the powerful white charger, to press fervent kisses upon the prince's fair hands, his ankles, his boots.

The white horse drew nearer still.

She beheld him clothed in crimson and black, his golden armor gleaming beneath a dark silver mantle. At his side hung a sword of terrible aspect.

That blade was like no common steel.

So bright it burned the eye, so radiant it seemed aflame—a weapon of pure light and fire.

Chapter 79: Hero King

The fervent atmosphere kindled ever greater frenzy.

The assembled throng had forgotten all else, desiring only to immerse themselves fully in the momentous spectacle unfolding before them.

Amidst hundreds of thousands of onlookers, His Grace King Joffrey, First of His Name, crossed the central plaza and began his ascent of Visenya's Hill.

Gold cloaks struggled desperately to contain the surging multitudes, while elsewhere their brethren maintained what order they could and called for calm—a futile effort akin to bailing out the Narrow Sea with a teaspoon, yet sufficient to prevent complete chaos from engulfing the city.

The hillside path held far fewer people, allowing Melisandre to secure a position at the very front, where she could accompany the prince's progress.

The prince's black trousers entered her direct line of sight, like a patch of deepest night sky, adorned with silvery-white, twinkling stars.

She could discern several of these celestial emblems: a rose, a falcon, a trout, a hunter with his bow, a flayed man upon his cross.

It seemed the prince had gathered the sigils of all the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms to embellish the firmament he wore upon his legs.

She raised her gaze.

Upon the prince's left breast, a proud stag reared defiantly; upon his right, a golden lion roared its challenge; and across his abdomen, a direwolf bounded in full stride.

What arrogance this prince displays!

She found herself taken aback, her steps faltering momentarily. Yet her attention was swiftly drawn to the prince's back.

The silver cloak that draped from his shoulders bore myriad black and white patterns of exquisite simplicity. Though their specific meaning eluded her, they possessed a strange, compelling beauty.

There were black and white fish embracing one another, some pairs turning clockwise, others widdershins;

There were triangular scythes; crosses of varying lengths and designs; four-cornered windmills; five-pointed stars; six-pointed stars; and the seven-pointed star of the Faith;

There were octagons formed by three lines of varying lengths, some connected, others broken;

There were circles containing three or six rings, some plain while others bore one, two, three, six, or nine tadpole-like figures;

There were perfect swastika patterns and countless other symbols beyond her reckoning.

The priestess could not help but wonder what these enigmatic designs might signify.

Could it be that the prince has already received divine revelation?

Are these the marks bestowed upon him by the Lord of Light?

Yet in that moment, both her thoughts and her physical progress were abruptly halted by a row of spears held horizontally before her.

"Observe the ceremony from here," came the gruff command. "None may proceed beyond this point."

Melisandre glanced about and saw that she was not alone in her frustration. Many figures in sumptuous attire, some bearing the embroidered sigils of ancient houses, found themselves similarly barred from further progress.

But this vantage point was woefully inadequate; they had not even reached the circular plaza that fronted the Great Sept.

She narrowed her eyes and peered upward at a sharp angle.

The Father's Gate of the Great Sept of Baelor had become little more than a shadow, its intricate carvings lost against the darker backdrop of the structure's interior.

Even the marble pulpit that stood closer to their position appeared no larger than her thumb.

The king would receive his crown upon that pulpit, and from this distance, they might barely discern his features.

Yet the circular plaza itself remained conspicuously empty.

She could only watch, along with the multitude, as King Joffrey passed through the Father's Gate to participate in the sacred ceremonies within the inaccessible confines of the Great Sept of Baelor.

More people continued to arrive, and all met the same impassable barrier.

The gold cloak officer who commanded the cordon had but one arm, the other ending in a crude iron prosthesis. His manner of speech proved as rigid and inflexible as the metal that replaced his missing hand.

"Commander's orders," came his monotonous reply to all inquiries and protestations.

The crowd gradually relinquished their hopes.

It became evident that those truly worthy of witnessing the coronation from within the Sept had long since taken their places. This distant vantage was the proper station for the rest.

Many voiced their disappointment.

"We stand too far removed."

"If His Grace did not wish the common folk to behold his crowning, why summon us here at all?"

"How I long to know what splendors might be found within."

Thus, some began to conjure vivid descriptions of the coronation ceremony for those who had never glimpsed the Sept's interior.

"Beyond the Father's Gate lies the 'Hall of Lamps,' where crystal globes of many hues hang suspended, resembling countless stars, visible even in brightest day."

"I would wager the Hall of Lamps teems with dignitaries even now—a column of monks dedicated to the Father on one side, a column of septas devoted to the Mother on the other."

"With each step His Grace takes, the holy brothers and sisters offer prayers to the Seven, listening for divine guidance and beseeching blessings upon the king."

"After traversing that long corridor and passing through two immense doors, one beholds the High Septon's altar. The seven surrounding pedestals rise seven feet high and measure one-and-twenty feet in length and breadth. The statues of the Seven tower fully seven fathoms from foot to crown; one must crane one's neck skyward to meet their gaze."

"At that moment, crystal light from the great dome—fashioned of crystal, glass, and gold—touches their eyes, warm and dazzling and majestic."

The crowd seemed to truly envision this splendid scene.

"Then His Grace and the High Septon conduct sacred rites at the altar's center, paying homage to the Seven Who Are One."

"Septons, monks, septas, and courtiers gather round to bear witness."

"The High Septon offers prayers for His Grace, and His Grace affirms his harmonious bond with the Faith, vowing to remember the Seven's teachings and to shepherd his people in accordance with divine will."

"Next, the High Septon proclaims the Seven's decree and anoints His Grace seven times with holy oil."

"Finally," the speaker concluded, gesturing toward the distant pulpit, "His Grace receives his crown from the High Septon's hands upon that very pulpit, accepting both crown and scepter, thereby becoming one with the Seven."

Melisandre lowered her gaze and held her peace. The rituals of false gods were unwieldy and devoid of true power.

A young man broke through the gold cloaks' defensive line. "Stand aside! I am His Grace's loyal servant, Alyn Lantell—do you not recognize me? Let me pass! My rightful place is at His Grace's side!"

Slowly, the Father's Gate swung open.

No one paid heed to the peculiar "servant" any longer. Melisandre, like all others present, fixed her attention upon the gate.

The High Septon's voice, despite his Seven-Pointed Crown and elevated position upon the pulpit, reached them as the faintest whisper, entirely indistinct. In the end, she could only observe as he produced a gleaming circlet.

The crown.

Melisandre watched intently.

But in that moment, the prince seized the initiative, taking the crown and placing it upon his own head.

Was this customary?

Had the storyteller's account been inaccurate?

The prince's figure advanced, growing steadily larger and more luminous with each passing heartbeat.

What sorcery is this?!

With every step the prince took, his form expanded to twice its previous size and radiance.

After seven steps, the prince had transformed into a colossus of pure light.

The giant stood high upon the hill, overlooking the entire city. King's Landing appeared no larger than a child's toy castle beneath his gaze, while the infinite radiance that poured from his transfigured form illuminated the world itself.

The vast metropolis of King's Landing fell utterly silent.

Melisandre tilted her head back to regard the sky.

Higher than the crystal spires of the Great Sept of Baelor rose the knee of this giant prince, dazzling as the noonday sun.

Just as she had glimpsed in the sacred flames.

It had not been a vague omen after all, but a true vision of what was to come.

The empty circular plaza had not been a meaningless precaution, but had been cleared to accommodate his transformed presence.

Even those gathered in the central plaza could now behold their crowned king with perfect clarity—brilliant, radiant, soul-stirring.

She felt the surging power of light that coursed within the giant's body.

In his right hand, the giant held aloft a long sword that burned with raging flame; in his left, he raised a scepter crowned with a bright and holy wheel of the sun.

The flames consumed the very clouds, warping the fabric of the sky.

The sun wheel emanated flowing auras of many hues, its radiance cleansing every soul within the city walls.

A voice like thunder reverberated through the heavens: "The gods have sent their revelation. The Long Night approaches, and the Great Other, the Ice God of Winter, seeks to unmake the world."

"Fear not, and do not surrender to despair."

"The gods have bestowed their glory, and His great power shall save this world through our hands."

"Hearken, O lambs, to the divine will."

"Death is not the end; He has promised seven holy stars as paradise for mortal souls. We shall overcome the Long Night and the coming of the end, bringing eternal summer to the world and returning to everlasting peace!"

"Light Eternal!"

Melisandre fixed her gaze upon the sword in the giant's hand.

The ancient books of Asshai had prophesied: "After the long summer, the stars shall bleed, and cold darkness shall envelop the world. In this hour of direst need, a warrior shall draw a burning sword from fire. That sword is Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and the one who wields it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and darkness shall flee before him."

The giant's gaze passed over her, exuding a vast, oceanic pressure.

The red priestess trembled without ceasing, the light and heat within her body never before so abundant and turbulent.

Her red robes transformed into living flame.

The fire suffused her entire being—excruciating pain, transcendent joy—filling her, consuming her.

It is him!

Azor Ahai reborn.

The one destined to bring the unending summer.

The Hero King!

Chapter 80: Squire, Come to Me

"Squire, come to my side," Joffrey beckoned with a smile.

Alyn's voice rang with admiration. "Your Grace is truly an angel descended to earth. If such miracles lie within your power, then surely keeping a remnant of the dragon's line as your squire presents no difficulty." He turned, eyes glittering with malice. "Viserys, why do you tarry? Hurry to serve His Grace."

Even now, Alyn could not resist flexing his brand-new left arm with quiet wonder. Yes, truly restored. A miracle beyond comprehension.

Viserys's face flushed crimson, then blanched to alabaster. Yet his legs remained rooted to the floor, refusing to carry him forward even an inch.

He, too, had witnessed the magnificent spectacle of the usurper's son being crowned in light, and despair had taken root in his heart. Could it be that even the gods favor the usurper's get?

Of course, Joffrey understood that what the onlookers had seen was no miracle, but rather a feat of grand sorcery achieved by consuming nearly all his reserves of light magic, sound magic, and fire magic.

A mere projection, nothing more.

The power was genuine enough, but far less impressive than what his subjects now believed.

The construction of a magical empire remains a distant aspiration.

"Viserys, I spared your life. Is this how you show gratitude?" Joffrey's face darkened with displeasure.

"You should know that according to my father's wishes, your skull should have been crushed to crimson mud beneath a warhammer, your head left to rot upon a spear in the summer sun."

"Is that what you desire? I can grant your wish readily enough."

Joffrey called toward the door. "Guards! Take him below and let the dungeon master tend to him properly."

Viserys finally broke. "No! No!"

He collapsed to the floor, strength deserting his limbs.

Daenerys watched her brother's plight with sorrow, yet what more could she ask for in their desperate circumstance? Survival must come first.

"Your Grace," Daenerys managed, her voice strained.

"My brother, Viserys... he is merely overcome with fear. He harbors no disrespect in his heart. I beg Your Grace to forgive his discourtesy."

"Hmph. Be grateful you possess a sister of such quality. For the sake of our shared blood, I shall overlook your transgression."

Joffrey fixed Viserys with a withering stare. "Why do you remain standing idle? Pour the wine."

Viserys struggled to his feet and cast about awkwardly for wine vessels. Only then did he realize, with bitter self-loathing, how desperately he clung to life. How pathetic I have become.

"Be seated, all of you." Joffrey drew Daenerys to his side. "Tell me of your adventures across the Narrow Sea. They must have been most diverting."

Joffrey's curiosity was genuine. Events had unfolded in ways that exceeded his expectations. Alyn's return had been delayed by a full turn of the moon, yet it had yielded unexpected dividends.

Joffrey studied the scholarly figure who stood beside Alyn, noting the respectful smile that graced the man's weathered features.

Alyn recounted his experiences with a storyteller's flair. "...The ship's captain suddenly demanded an exorbitant increase in our agreed-upon price—an impossible sum. Ser Jorah and I had no choice but to contest the matter with steel. As Your Grace can see, we yet draw breath."

"Unfortunately, in the struggle, we slew too many of the crew. The vessel proved difficult to navigate afterward. We drifted from our intended course and were forced to make landfall at the Free City of Tyrosh to recover our strength."

"Later," Alyn continued, his expression still haunted by the memory, "the contemptible Golden Company—truly the most shameless collection of scum and villainy in all the world—set their sights upon us. Ser Jorah fought valiantly to eliminate the threat, though with great difficulty. Your Grace's most loyal servant lost his left arm in the encounter."

Alyn regarded Joffrey with undisguised awe. "Who could have imagined that Your Grace possessed the power to restore a severed limb? The gods have blessed us indeed. The people of the Seven Kingdoms enjoy truly remarkable fortune!"

Joffrey glanced toward Daenerys, who seemed to be reliving the terrifying events in her mind's eye.

Alyn nodded to the scholarly man beside him, an expression of genuine gratitude on his face.

"Of course, I survived to stand before Your Grace today thanks in no small measure to Scholar Qyburn, who tended my wounds with remarkable skill."

"His healing arts have surely reached the pinnacle of what mortal hands might achieve. Though they cannot begin to compare with Your Grace's divine gifts, they proved most efficacious for one such as myself."

Qyburn rose and knelt with practiced humility. "Today, having witnessed Your Grace's godlike power with my own eyes, I understand that all I have learned and witnessed in my life amounts to less than nothing. I beg Your Grace to permit me to remain at court. Qyburn shall devote every fiber of his being to your service."

Joffrey had no intention of refusing. Though the necromancy that Qyburn studied represented merely a dispensable art, the man's scientific temperament and spirit of inquiry were exceedingly rare qualities.

"Scholar Qyburn, what became of your maester's chain?"

Qyburn sighed heavily. "I once committed certain... irredeemable transgressions. The Citadel stripped me of both chain and title. Thus did I find myself wandering the eastern continent, ultimately taking service with the Golden Company."

"In retrospect, I strayed grievously from wisdom's path. If Your Grace does not cast me aside, Qyburn shall surely return to righteous pursuits, using his life's learning to benefit mankind."

Joffrey smiled. "You are acquainted with Archmaester Marwyn, are you not?"

Qyburn nodded, surprise evident in his features.

"I intend to establish a dedicated institution for research, the better to harness the great power the gods have bestowed. Qyburn, you shall serve as one of its directors. Perhaps you might pen a letter inviting Archmaester Marwyn to join our endeavor?"

Qyburn bowed deeply, unable to conceal his excitement. "Your Grace shows me undeserved favor."

Joffrey turned his attention to Alyn and Jorah Mormont. "You have rendered the crown valuable service. Alyn, Ser Jorah—what rewards would you claim?"

Alyn replied with practiced deference. "I place myself entirely at Your Grace's disposal."

Jorah Mormont's voice was gruff with emotion. "I ask only that Your Grace permit me to return to my homeland."

"I am not so miserly in my gratitude." Joffrey smiled as he produced a slender dagger and several dragon crystal shards.

The blade gleamed with cold purpose, causing Alyn to draw back instinctively.

"Be still. This is divine grace."

After the procedure was complete, Alyn, Jorah, and Qyburn stared wide-eyed at the empty air before them. Qyburn's reaction proved the most fervent, his excitement bordering on religious ecstasy.

The blue light panel that had appeared before them could convey limitless knowledge and information—a creation of unsurpassed genius!

How does such a wonder function?

"Bring Varys to me." Joffrey clapped Alyn upon the shoulder. "Alyn, I have witnessed both your loyalty and your capability. Work closely with Varys in the days ahead, and prepare to assume his vital responsibilities without delay."

Alyn prostrated himself, overcome with gratitude. "I shall prove worthy of Your Grace's trust!"

Joffrey approached Jorah Mormont. "By authority of the Iron Throne, Ser Jorah, your honor stands fully restored from this moment forward."

"The newly established Department of the Army seeks men of quality. You shall hold the rank of colonel, charged with recruiting and commanding one thousand soldiers. Do not think the number paltry—these warriors shall become elites, each capable of facing ten common men in battle."

Jorah bowed his acceptance. "I am honored to serve Your Grace."

"Qyburn," Joffrey continued, his gaze encouraging, "your first task shall be to research a more convenient means of accessing this light panel. Consider this a long-term undertaking. Succeed, and the entire world shall benefit from your labors."

"I have faith in your abilities."

Qyburn's face shone with gratitude. "I shall honor Your Grace's will in all things."

The Hound entered, escorting Varys.

Daenerys could not suppress a gasp of shock. Alyn and the others stared in horrified fascination.

Joffrey glanced toward Viserys, who trembled uncontrollably at the sight. "Have no fear. At least he lives still. While breath remains, hope endures. Is that not so?"

He walked to the window. Night had fallen, dark and complete.

Lord Tywin had arrived at the Red Keep that very evening, too late to witness the coronation ceremony.

"Alyn, you shall attend tomorrow's Small Council meeting as well. Apply yourself diligently. Do not disappoint me." His eyes conveyed deeper meaning as they met Alyn's gaze.