The miraculous radiance, the divine descending sweet rain.
The new High Septon of the Faith of the Seven, Melisandre, stood beside that small hill covered in silk cloth, her gaze complex as she looked at everything before her.
No, it should be said that she was no longer called Melisandre. From the moment she stood here, wearing upon her head a tall crystal crown reflecting seven-colored radiance, she had already lost her name.
Because according to the rules of the Faith, its clergy had to abandon their family surnames, while a newly appointed High Septon had to abandon their worldly name.
This was because people believed that whoever held the office of High Septon was no longer a person, but the earthly voice of the gods above.
Yet though she no longer had a name, people would still use certain descriptions to refer to a High Septon.
For example, "that mason septon," or "that fat septon," or "the septon before the fat one."
And the present Melisandre was now called "that white-haired girl septon."
As for why Melisandre had become the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven, that was simple enough.
Traditionally, the Faith's High Septon was elected by the Most Devout, and past Targaryen kings had sometimes influenced the election with their own will. This had been most common during the reign of Baelor the Blessed.
He had once chosen a stonemason and an eight-year-old boy to serve as High Septon.
And for His Majesty Kal-El, a king suspected of being the Seven Gods incarnate in the mortal world, making Melisandre become the High Septon of the Faith was clearly no difficult thing.
In the Seven Kingdoms of today, no one could refuse Kal's will.
The green radiance continued to spray outward until the divine rain's dew had touched every person present, and only then did this miraculous ceremony come to an end.
If one was ill, the illness was cured. If one was wounded, the wound was healed.
And if one had nothing wrong at all, then one would simply feel incomparable delight in both body and spirit, with the heart lifted in joy.
Looking at the king ahead, ringed by the Royal Guard and the Kingsguard, the first person bent his knees and bowed low, both hands pressed to his chest, devoutly kneeling toward Kal in prayer.
He was like the first falling domino, stirring ripples through the sea of people.
Inside a carriage, Sansa Stark quietly lifted the curtain, and what she saw was this scene.
She lightly covered her mouth. As she was shaken by the sight before her, the same sight also carved itself deeply into her heart.
"Sansa, it is time to come down."
At that moment, a gentle call pulled her back from her shock.
Kal helped Sansa down from the carriage, and Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, who had long been waiting at the side, came forward with his wife, Catelyn Tully.
Both looked at the young man before them with complicated eyes, their hearts surging with emotion, yet not knowing how to express it, and so they could only remain silent.
They respectfully received Sansa's hand from Kal, then quietly walked to one side and took their places in the viewing seats.
Today was the coronation ceremony of Kal-El. He was the absolute master here.
The Royal Guard stepped forward and quickly led away the horses and the carriage.
And then, just as hundreds of thousands of people were bowing like waves and praying toward Kal, a deep and heavy roar suddenly sounded from the sky, like rolling thunder.
Everyone instinctively looked up, only to see a tiny dot, not particularly conspicuous, slowly flying in from afar across the clear sky.
It came closer and closer, and grew larger and larger.
And when it flew to a distance of just over a hundred meters above everyone's heads, a mountain-like shadow covered the people below.
It was a golden dragon—a giant dragon whose body alone was as enormous as a castle.
Its wings spread wide, blotting out the sky like dark clouds, bringing not only crushing pressure, but also boundless shock and the trembling fear that rose from blood and bone.
The dragon—Robert!
Everyone recognized this golden dragon, and those fortunate enough to have seen it hatch in person at the funeral of King Robert Baratheon I, more than half a year ago, were even more astonished.
That little creature which had only just broken from its shell and spread its wings from within the flames had now become a terrifying behemoth.
Just like its master, their king.
It was a dragon of miracles, a young dragon.
The Black Dread, Balerion, might once have been as large as Robert was now—but it had taken two hundred years for him to reach such a size.
He had died of old age during the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, when his rider was Viserys Targaryen the First, the fifth Targaryen king to sit the Iron Throne.
In the end, Balerion's skull, together with those of eighteen other dragons, had been displayed along the high wall behind the throne hall of the Red Keep, all of them the pride of House Targaryen.
But after the new king, Robert Baratheon the First, ascended the throne, he had gathered those dragon skulls from behind the throne and thrown them all into the damp and lightless deep cells, and that became their resting place.
And now, a new dragon—a colossal one, representing absolute force—Robert, would also lay the foundation for the glory of the El dynasty.
"Roar!"
Soaring across the sky, Robert let out another deep roar, and wave after wave of sound spread outward.
Then he suddenly folded his wings, and his vast body plunged toward the crowd on the ground like a falling meteor.
The terrifying giant descending from the heavens amid shrieking winds frightened many people witless.
But in the end, Robert displayed an agility wholly out of proportion with his immense size. When he was only a dozen meters above the people's heads, he suddenly spread his wings again, made a sweeping pull, and circled over them.
The magnificent movement drew cries of alarm everywhere—and then cheers.
People realized what Robert was doing.
He was performing in celebration for his master, for the coronation of the new king of the Seven Kingdoms.
Those who had just been scared pale were now shouting with fervor, more excited than anyone else, clapping and roaring in delight, exhilarated beyond measure to feel the breath of a dragon at such close range.
But Robert's performance did not end there.
At times he soared high across the sky, and at times he swooped back down.
His immense body carried out all manner of nimble maneuvers in a way that defied physical intuition—at times rolling with the agility of a bird, at times spitting blue-green dragonfire, then diving straight through it.
And so, after tirelessly changing tricks and performing for some seven or eight minutes—
He once more beat his wings and flew above the people, spiraling inward from the farthest edge of the plain toward its very center at a height of just over ten meters.
That was where his master stood—His Majesty Kal-El.
Every person who had come to witness the ceremony could clearly feel what it was like to have a dragon pass over them, and could clearly make out every detail of Robert's body.
Huge as a monument, sharp as blades were his fangs and claws; his leathery wings, vast enough to cover sky and sun, spread over the town like storm clouds.
His neck and tail were beautiful and slender; his scales glittered like gold under the sunlight; the spines growing along his back only added to his majesty.
And most important of all was the scorching heat that brushed across their faces as his body swept past.
It was said that a dragon's flesh and blood were made of fire, and now the people experienced that for themselves.
At the same time, they felt even more keenly that indescribable sense of awe and invincibility.
The spiraling Robert flew faster and faster, until at the very instant he reached the point above Kal's head, he gave a fierce wrench of his head and shot into the sky like an arrow.
At the same time, after exhaling another blast of dragonfire, Robert plunged into the flames and vanished.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
Just as the people were wondering where Robert had gone, that fireball gathered in midair suddenly exploded, and the dragon curled within it spread his wings and glided out in a beautifully elegant, light movement, tracing a lovely arc.
Then he slowly descended before that small hill which had aroused the curiosity of countless people.
Afterward, Robert folded his wings and lowered his head to glance at the white-haired girl, Melisandre, below.
Seeing what he meant in those intelligent eyes, the High Septon who had lost the name Melisandre tactfully withdrew.
She gave up the open ground where the little hill had been placed.
Satisfied, Robert exhaled scorching breath from his nostrils, a trace of human-like excitement flashing in his eyes, and then lightly blew a gust of searing air at the "small hill" before him.
The exaggerated heat wave carried extreme temperature, and the instant the hot wind brushed across that velvet-silk covering, it ignited it.
Under that terrifying heat, the cloth took only one or two breaths to become brittle, and as it burned, it was blown by the heat into drifting ashes, like magic, revealing the true form of the hill below.
And only then did the people truly see what that small hill in the center—the most eye-catching thing of all—actually was.
It was a mass of iron covered in spikes, jagged horns, and twisted metal: the Iron Throne, pieced together and fused from sword after sword.
Interlocking like fangs, densely layered.
At a single glance, it gave one a sense of danger and majesty.
Spikes wrapped around the throne, and the only path upward was a staircase likewise forged of sharp iron.
After seeing what the silk had concealed, the people gathered across the plain all cried out in astonishment.
Most had guessed that this little hill must be a statue erected in honor of His Majesty Kal-El, while a few fanciful souls had thought it looked like the Iron Throne.
Now, as the answer was revealed, the gasps rolled like surging waves.
No one had imagined that the king had truly moved the Iron Throne out of the palace, only so that they could witness the king's coronation with their own eyes.
Yet just as the people were discussing it in excitement and shock, the one who had personally revealed the truth—Robert—showed obvious delight in his eyes.
And at the same time, upon seeing what it was, Varys, Eddard, and the others were first taken aback, then suddenly realized something.
As expected.
Their worry had only just arisen when blue-green dragonfire burst from Robert's mouth, mercilessly burning the Iron Throne.
Flames of at least three to four thousand degrees appeared out of nowhere from Robert's maw, and in an instant turned the originally cold, black Iron Throne blazing red.
Even though those blades were all forged of fine steel, under such an absurd temperature they simply could not withstand the burning.
In only four or five seconds, the interlocking outer spikes of the Iron Throne began to soften and melt one after another.
Like a block of ice set out upon open ground in the fiercest heat of summer, it melted drop by drop into liquid iron and fell downward.
And when people saw with their own eyes that Kal's dragon was destroying the Iron Throne, they first froze—and in the next instant, an even greater uproar erupted.
But Robert did not care in the least.
Only when the throne's outermost layer had been burned into molten iron, when the sword-forged back and seat had all begun to melt away, did he stop breathing fire.
As the flames died, the throne that had just moments ago looked so imposing and terrifying had become a glowing red mass, barely still maintaining the rough shape of a small hill.
Yet this game of destroying the Iron Throne—a spectacle that left countless people baffled and shocked—still had not ended.
At this moment, an inconspicuous figure who had been standing in attendance beside the king slowly rose into the air out of nowhere and came to a stop above that red-hot iron hill, radiating endless waves of heat.
When they saw a person flying in midair, hundreds of thousands of eyes followed at once.
And in the next second, an even more astonishing sight appeared before them.
That mysteriously dressed figure, whose sex could not be discerned, floated above the ruined Iron Throne and then suddenly swept out a hand.
Gold bricks the size of human heads rained down upon the iron hill whose outer layer had melted.
The gold bricks scattered down like sesame seeds, and the moment they fell into the molten iron, they sank into it.
The difference in temperature made the two fuse together, and also caused the flowing iron to cease running.
But the mysterious figure did not stop.
The gold bricks continued to rain down without pause, until an even greater height had been piled atop the melted throne, and only then did she stop.
And this time, it was no longer Robert's turn to act.
After ceasing her lavish scattering of gold bricks, the floating figure suddenly raised both hands, and flames appeared out of nowhere in the surrounding air.
Then in the next second, those flames moved like nimble hands, closing in on the hill piled with gold bricks.
In another equally breathtaking scene, those great hands wrought of fire melted the gold bricks that had been cast down in chaotic heaps, while at the same time shaping a new throne.
A splendid, majestic one.
A broader, taller golden throne, inlaid with all manner of gemstones.
It did not possess the naked, aggressive edge of the Iron Throne, nor that heart-shaking sense of danger.
What it had was only grandeur, magnificence, and overwhelming majesty.
Only after completing all this did the mysterious figure stop moving her hands. She gave it an overall inspection, confirmed there was no problem, and then slowly descended back to the ground.
As she landed, the golden dragon slowly turned around as well, moved his feet to stand beside this newly forged golden throne, and then slowly lowered himself before the figure still standing ahead, witnessing all of it.
Only now did the performance and ceremony before the coronation truly come to an end.
Watching the performance put on by Robert and Erevi, Kal nodded slightly in satisfaction, smiling.
Tilting his head faintly, Kal looked toward Ser Barristan Selmy.
"You may prepare."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
Barristan, who had also witnessed everything before him and had been stunned to the point of numbness, bowed. His voice carried a tremor so slight it was almost impossible to detect.
Only then did he turn back around, suddenly draw his sword, and hold it upright before the tip of his nose.
"Royal Guard!"
"Take position!"
The old knight's bearing had not diminished in the least from his younger days. His deep and powerful voice echoed across that open space, which had fallen silent of its own accord.
The Royal Guard, likewise clothed in black, red, and gold, stood firm like a wall of steel, producing a unified clang of metal.
This was a ceremonial guard of three hundred men, a unit within the Royal Guard specially reserved for rites and display.
They wore splendid armor, carried splendid swords, and bore black-and-red half-capes over one shoulder, fastened across the chest with golden brooches.
"Present arms!"
Seeing that this ceremonial order of royal knights was ready, Ser Barristan Selmy gave another great shout and issued the command.
At his cry, the guards moved in perfect unison, drawing the swords from their waists with crisp precision.
First they held their blades upright before their eyes, then raised them high with one hand.
In the next moment, they crossed them in pairs with the comrades standing opposite them.
And thus, a solemn and majestic bridge of swords was built before Kal, forming a passage leading to the throne.
Looking along the sword before his nose, Barristan inspected it twice, and only after confirming that all was in readiness did he step aside by one pace, allowing the king to stand in the center.
Seeing this, Kal gave a slight nod.
Then he put away the smile at his lips and, with equal solemnity, slowly moved forward.
Barristan, having stepped aside, only began to move after the king had passed him and gone ahead of him, following behind.
All along the way, he kept his sword upright before his face, moving slowly, one measured step at a time, in cadence with the king's pace.
And Kal, with firm eyes, looked ahead and continued forward.
As he reached each bridge of swords, the guards at his sides lowered their swords and likewise held them upright before their eyes.
And so, amid an atmosphere of solemn majesty, countless eyes watched this grand and unprecedented coronation in breathless silence.
More than ten court painters were stationed at every corner of the ceremony. With unwavering focus on the king, their hands moved rapidly, recording every instant of the rite upon the drawing boards before them.
They needed only wait until the ceremony ended, then return and use the most precious pigments and all their devotion to paint the scene vividly into being.
They could already sense that their work would, without question, become a masterpiece passed down through the ages, enduring with the El dynasty—and perhaps even with dynasties yet to come.
And as the ceremony began, the orchestra of more than five hundred musicians, likewise stationed at the edges of the rite, began to play.
The rhythm was slow and solemn.
The Faith's choir stood nearby, directed by officiating septons, raising grave voices as though the gods themselves had descended among men.
In such an atmosphere and such a scene, Kal walked on with steady steps.
Only when he had passed through the bridge of swords and come beside the throne, guarded by the dragon and the witch, did he pause slightly.
With a faint nod toward Robert and Erevi, Kal then lowered his gaze to the throne before him, which still radiated scorching heat.
The golden throne towered more than ten meters high before him. Forged with melted iron as its foundation and gold as its body, it still emitted a faint red glow, proof that it was still burning hot.
One could even sense that the astonishingly hot gold remained soft and had not yet fully hardened.
But that was exactly what Kal wanted.
The clothes he wore today had all been woven with dragon eggshell mixed into them. He did not fear high heat in the slightest.
As for Kal himself, his gift of the Unburnt was stronger than that of every dragonlord line in history combined.
With a faint smile, Kal stepped forward in solemn dignity.
The still-hot gold truly had not fully solidified.
Molten gold, flowing down along what had originally been the steps, wrapped around the edges and corners of the iron foundation, and only in a few places did it fail to cover them completely, exposing the black iron beneath.
The instant Kal stepped onto the still somewhat soft gold, he left a footprint behind.
And so, beneath the solemn gaze of all, he climbed the steps one footprint at a time until he reached the splendid golden throne.
Extending a finger, Kal lightly touched the throne.
Viewed from up close, it seemed even more exquisite—nothing less than a work of art.
And on the seat of the throne rested a crown cast from the finest black diamonds and rubies.
Taking a deep breath, Kal calmed the emotions in his heart, which only now had stirred slightly, and gently lifted it.
Then Kal turned around and looked toward the people on the plain before him, who were still kneeling upon the ground.
"Rise!"
"I permit you, from this day forth, to stand before the gods without bowing!"
"Before the king, none shall kneel!"