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.
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