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.
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