Chapter 144: Divine Revelation
Under the blazing sun, Baelor's Square before the ruined sept was packed with people. A faint breeze swept through, easing some of the oppressive heat.
On any other day, such cool air would have drawn sighs of relief.
But now, the vast, dark mass of the crowd stood in absolute silence.
Every eye was fixed forward—fixed upon the golden figure standing atop the platform.
The figure had emerged beneath the statue of the Seven.
It had appeared amid the High Sparrow's devout prayers.
It had manifested before King Stannis, at the very moment of his coronation.
The figure radiated a soft yet dazzling golden light, silently commanding the attention of all.
Even beneath the full brilliance of the midday sun, that golden radiance did not fade. On the contrary, it seemed to refract the sunlight itself, rendering the hazy silhouette impossibly luminous.
The people below stared blankly at the sudden apparition.
Then, somewhere in the crowd, a voice cried out in fervor:
"Father Above!"
The shout spread like wildfire.
At first scattered and uneven—then unified by sheer collective fervor—
"Father Above!"
"Father Above!"
"Father Above—!!"
The square erupted.
Thousands fell prostrate.
The collective roar merged into a single, thunderous sound that rolled across Baelor's Square, across all of King's Landing, beyond its walls into the wilderness itself. The cry seemed to shake the very heavens.
And as they called out, the golden figure seemed to shine even brighter—so bright it was nearly unbearable to behold.
Stannis, kneeling mere steps away, lowered his head instinctively to shield his eyes from the piercing brilliance.
The High Sparrow, equally close, raised a hand to block the searing light—but he did not avert his gaze. Through stinging tears and burning vision, he forced his eyes open, peering through his fingers at the figure's face.
Gradually, the features became discernible.
Young. Handsome.
A seven-pointed star blazing upon the forehead, strikingly distinct within the golden glow.
In one hand—a wooden scepter, unmistakably familiar.
"It is you… No—It is You…"
Doubt flickered across the old man's face. Shock followed. Then fear. Then trembling awe.
And finally—ecstasy.
The ecstasy of beholding divinity.
"Great Father Above… Your unworthy servant is here…" he wept openly, collapsing to the ground in full prostration, muttering incoherent prayers through tears.
Around him, the other Sparrows fell to their knees, shaking with reverent fervor.
In moments, the entire square—platform and plaza alike—was a sea of kneeling bodies. Dense. Overwhelming. A living ocean bowed in worship.
Even Stannis' bannermen and soldiers—whatever anger or calculation they had moments ago—abandoned all thoughts of politics. Faced with what could only be divine manifestation, they too dropped to their knees.
The figure shimmered. Radiant. Emerging from within the statue of the Seven. Descending during a king's coronation.
In such a moment—under such circumstances—no one doubted what they were witnessing.
A god.
Only the gods above could appear in such splendor. Only the gods could descend in this manner.
No one needed to tell them this.
No one dared to doubt it.
…
Soldiers and subordinates could surrender themselves to awe without resistance.
But Stannis Baratheon could not.
He had faced Charles Cranston before. He had imprisoned him. He had spoken to him as one might to a troublesome provincial sorcerer.
Now that very man stood radiant before him—like a god.
When Stannis glimpsed the golden figure's true face, a strange humiliation rose within him.
Once a prisoner.
Once a rustic wizard.
And now—
Now this man made him kneel?
"He isn't real."
"He isn't real… he isn't real…"
The words echoed in Stannis' mind as he gritted his teeth, preparing to rise.
But—
The crown above his head, momentarily unattended when the High Sparrow had dropped to his knees, did not fall. Instead, it hovered, trembling in midair, bathing him in brilliant seven-colored light.
All around him, the crowd gazed at the luminous figure with fevered devotion—including his own bannermen and soldiers, who moments earlier had bristled in his defense.
In such a moment—
Head lowered to avoid the piercing glow, Stannis stared at the carpet beneath him. His expression shifted darkly as decision after decision raced through his mind.
Yet his knees did not move.
No new voices rose around him—only the relentless chanting of the masses and fervent prayers echoing across the square.
---
Charles stood silently, watching.
Truthfully, he hadn't fully processed what was happening.
He had heard Stannis' apology in the North—but he had never expected this.
The square below was a sea of kneeling bodies. The chained "fanatics" around the platform stared up at him in trembling ecstasy. The bald king knelt at his feet. The Sparrows, led by the High Sparrow, were practically sprawled on the ground in worship.
What exactly was this?
Charles swept his gaze across the scene, then finally focused on the seven-colored crown floating above Stannis' head.
The golden antlered crown shaped like a seven-pointed star shimmered brilliantly, resonating faintly—much like the Scepter of Authority trembling in his own hand.
There was a connection.
So—
Coronation?
Prayer?
Realization dawned on him.
And the High Sparrow's next words confirmed it.
"Stannis the Second of House Baratheon stands ready to be crowned Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Great Father Above, we beseech Your judgment—does he possess the right to rule as the one true and lawful king?"
The old cleric spoke reverently. His earlier hysteria had steadied somewhat, but his voice still trembled—with something like apprehension.
Apprehension of what?
Charles glanced at him.
Afraid I'll refuse?
He looked down at the bald man beneath the shimmering crown.
Should he legitimize Stannis?
Though the earlier imprisonment had not truly harmed him—and had largely been a misunderstanding—Charles had no intention of pretending nothing had happened. He would not stoop to petty vengeance, but neither was he eager to assist Stannis' ascent.
Yet—
He glanced at the High Sparrow's anxious sideways glances.
At the clergy staring at him in worship.
At the endless sea of people filling the ruined square.
If he refused—what then?
Would the High Sparrow's plans collapse?
Would violence erupt here and now?
Would Stannis be forced to retreat in disgrace?
As Charles pondered, he noticed Stannis cautiously peeking up at him through the golden light.
Their eyes met.
Stannis' face stiffened in embarrassment.
Charles smiled faintly.
Then he lifted his head and addressed the square in a clear, resonant voice:
"Stannis Baratheon is the one true and lawful King of the Seven Kingdoms."
Stannis' face froze in disbelief.
Above him, the hovering crown began to tremble violently. The seven-colored radiance intensified as it slowly descended.
At the same time, the Scepter of Authority in Charles' hand shook fiercely—as if the will within it burned with excitement.
"You're thrilled about someone else becoming king?" Charles muttered internally, astonished.
Before he realized it, his arm was pulled upward by the trembling scepter.
Then—
Before the stunned gaze of thousands—
The golden figure raised the scepter high.
Light burst forth.
Radiant golden brilliance poured from the staff, engulfing the platform, flooding the square. The seven-colored light expanded outward—and then exploded upward, surging into the cloudless sky.
Invisible waves rippled across the world.
"Stannis Baratheon is the one true and lawful King of the Seven Kingdoms!"
The declaration thundered across the land.
Not once. Not twice.
Again and again.
Majestic. Sacred. Boundless. Deafening.
At that same instant, the crown settled fully upon Stannis' bald head. Its final shimmer faded, the seven hues receding until only pure gold remained.
Stannis exhaled unconsciously, feeling the cool metal press against his scalp.
Relief washed through him.
He looked up at the fading golden figure—this unexpected benefactor—intending to speak.
But the luminous form was already dissolving.
As the enemy of yesterday vanished, Stannis felt a fleeting sense of release.
Until he met those eyes.
Deep.
Meaningful.
Unfathomable.
The relief vanished.
A dull pain thudded in his chest. His heart felt shackled, as if invisible chains had wrapped around it.
Even after the golden figure disappeared completely, those eyes lingered in his memory.
And within his heart, a voice echoed:
I can crown you with a word—
and strip you of that crown just as easily.
---
When the divine light erupted over Baelor's Square, the sound did not remain confined to King's Landing.
The Riverlands.
The Stormlands.
The Vale.
Even the far reaches of the North.
Across all of Westeros—
Every follower of the Seven—devout or lukewarm, noble or peasant, awake or asleep—heard the same voice in that same instant.
A sacred voice.
A solemn voice.
A voice like that of a god.
No one knew what had happened in King's Landing.
Yet in their hearts, they were certain.
This was the voice of the true God.
In Dorne, at Sunspear, an elderly septon collapsed to his knees in tears.
"The Great Father Above has delivered a divine decree…"
Nearby, two young women who had been embracing in secret stared at him in confusion.
Highgarden. The Westerlands. The Crownlands. Even the North.
Cities and villages alike.
War-torn fields and peaceful coasts.
Everywhere the Seven were worshiped, shock rippled through the land.
In that moment—
Westeros stirred.