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!
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