296 AC
In the crimson dawn, Aeroquo Drennyr bellowed orders as the Sea Strider glided into the harbor of Myr. The ship's carved swan prow caught the early light like molten silver. The air was thick with the scent of spice, tar, and the faint, sour stench of fish.
Forty men and ten knights stood ready behind Ser Artys Arryn—among them Ser Shaddrich, Ser Steffon Storm, and the ever-drunken red priest Thoros of Myr, who swayed slightly as he crossed himself before the fires of his birthplace.
"Slaver scum. City full of them," Shaddrich muttered as they docked.
Thoros smiled lazily. "To Westerosi eyes, maybe. But to a Myrman, this is the smell of profit, sin, and prayer."
Artys said nothing. His mind was fixed on their purpose—to purchase the slaves of the former Archon's son, men who knew the secrets of glassmaking. Knowledge that could change the Vale forever.
The deal, oddly enough, was being brokered by the Red Temple itself. Strange, Artys thought, for a religious order to sully its hands in trade. But Thoros had explained that the priests of R'hllor were not as pious as septons—they bought slaves for their temples, for soldiers, laborers, and prostitutes alike.
Artys turned to Shaddrich. "Keep the men aboard," he ordered. "Armed, ready to sail at a moment's notice. I don't want them wandering off to whore or drink."
Shaddrich nodded. "I'll make sure they remember they could end up chained to oars of some slave ship if they get lost."
"Good," Artys said. "Do what you must, but keep discipline."
Thoros sauntered off the ship first, his red robes billowing as if they belonged to a man half his size. Ser Steffon followed, armored and alert, with ten men at his back.
Artys leapt from the deck to the pier, landing with a clatter of steel. The dockhands gave him a wary glance but said nothing. Thoros paid the customs officials with a few well-placed coins, his robe and flaming sigil earning him deference. The guards, recognizing a red priest, seemed eager to look the other way.
The Westerosi column—ten men in mail, led by a red priest—drew few eyes among the chaos of the docks. Barrels of spice, salted fish, and wine changed hands in every direction. Merchants haggled in half a dozen tongues; slaves unloaded cargo under the whip.
Artys glanced sideways at Thoros. "You do know where we're going, priest?"
Thoros grinned, teeth flashing through his beard. "Aye, lad. I could find the Red Temple blindfolded and half-dead from drink. Follow me."
The streets of Myr wound like veins through the city's heart—narrow, slick with brine, and crowded with life. Women with dyed veils hawked perfume; sellswords leaned in tavern doorways; beggars called out prayers in broken Valyrian.
Artys's hand rested on the haft of his polearm as they passed. More than once, eyes lingered on his armor, its Westerosi style standing out. Armed and armored, well over six feet tall, Artys looked far more formidable than his years would suggest.
Thoros led them confidently through the maze of alleys, humming what sounded like a hymn but with words no Westerosi septon would ever dare sing. "It's been years since I walked these streets," he said. "Myr hasn't changed—still stinks of oil, smoke, and sweat. A proper home for R'hllor's faithful."
Steffon spat. "I hear your priests burn babes alive."
Thoros chuckled. "Aye, and bastards too." Steffon scowled.
At last, they reached the temple district. The Red Temple rose above the surrounding houses like a fortress—a great mass of black basalt veined with red crystal, crowned with twin towers. At their peaks, braziers burned with flames so bright they made the morning seem dull.
Even from the courtyard below, Artys could feel the heat radiating from within. Slaves in red sashes knelt along the steps, chanting softly in High Valyrian.
"The priests of R'hllor rule parts of this city," Thoros said as they climbed the steps.
At the top, they were greeted by a priest in darker red robes, tall and shaven-headed, with eyes like hot coals. "Welcome home, Brother Thoros," he said in Myrish-accented Common. "You bring Westerosi gold to feed the flames?"
Thoros grinned. "Aye, and Westerosi temper to match. This is Steffon Storm. He wishes to buy your glassmakers." Artys had commanded Thoros to keep his name out of any transactions. Should the son of the Hand of the King be involved in this, then the free cities might think the Iron Throne was condoning this visit. Artys could not have that.
The priest's gaze shifted to Steffon and then to Artys. "Then may the Lord of Light bless your trade. The artisans are prepared. The mistress of the flame will oversee the exchange."
"The mistress?" Artys repeated.
The man bowed. "Melisandre of Asshai."
At that name, Thoros froze—just for a heartbeat, but Artys saw it.
"An old friend?" Artys asked quietly.
Thoros's grin returned, thinner this time. "I know of her. She's an old woman, a shadow binder from Asshai. Her name was spoken with reverence when I was a green boy of eight."
Artys did not like it. They were in the middle of some Indiana Jones Temple surrounded by some fire-worshipping cult members all dressed in crimson cloaks. There were warrior priests practicing with blunted arrakhs and stilettos. Priestesses dressed in red silks that would have made a whore blush. Novices chanting over a flame that roared and changed colors. Maybe I could learn some fire magic, Artys thought. There was magic in this world; his very life was proof of it. Every book he read, however, denounced and disproved it, but Artys suspected it was because the maesters who wrote them despised magic and all who practiced it. Get the slaves and get out! Artys thought, snapping his own wandering thoughts. Artys had commanded Shaddrick and Captain Drennyr to have the provisions restocked and the ship ready for sail by the end of the day.
A woman approached, moving through the smoke as if born of it. Melisandre of Asshai—pale skin unmarred by blemishes, she was six feet tall at the least, with a beautiful heart-shaped face and copper-red hair that brushed to a fine sheen. She wore a red silk gown that plunged down to near her navel, her pale breasts firm and tantalizing, partially covered. Artys stiffened at the sight of her she is definitely not an old woman Artys thought . Three weeks at sea had made him horny. What drew him, though, was not just her beauty but those red eyes that seemed to glow with power like hot coals. She wore a choker with a ruby the size of a chicken's egg on her throat. It seemed to pulse with energy.
"Welcome," she said. "Thoros of Myr, son of this city. And you, Ser Steffon Storm of Westeros. The Lord of Light saw your coming."
Steffon bowed slightly. "My lady, we come to settle the purchase of six glassmakers once owned by the house of Nararo and the twenty novices."
"The artisans are prepared," Melisandre said. "The temple holds them for transfer once the gold is weighed."
Steffon nodded to Artys, as planned, and began the negotiations with the poise of a man accustomed to markets and courts alike. The priests fetched the ledgers, counting and signing. It took the better part of the day. Artys inspected all the slaves, who seemed scared to know they were being taken out of Myr. But Artys could not assuage their fears now, not with eyes watching. Contracts were sealed, and the gold was paid. Artys would not let his guard down until he was back safely on board the ship.
When it was done, Melisandre turned to Artys—who had said nothing the entire time. "My lord," she said. "I would like words with you."
Steffon gave a nervous laugh. "My companion is no lord, my lady. He's here to guard the gold."
Her gaze lingered on Artys a moment longer, then she smiled faintly. "Unlike you, Ser Steffon, the flames do not lie. I have searched for him my whole life," she said, her voice melodic and full of confidence.
"You must be mistaken, milady. I am just a sellsword," Artys said in his best low-born accent. Melisandre simply looked at him and smiled, slipping her arm through his and pulling it to her chest. Even through the armor, he could feel the softness of her breasts and the warmth of her skin.
Hot wax was poured, and seals were stamped, concluding the deal. It was midnight by then, and accommodations were given in the Red Temple. They were quite comfortable, but the smell of incense and spices filled the air.
Artys had been given the most spacious apartments, no doubt the work of the red priestess. She had been looking at him with a fanatical gleam in her eyes that made him uncomfortable. Usually, Artys would be ecstatic with a beauty like her and taken her to his bedchambers, but never stick your dick in crazy. Armed and armored was very confident in his near invincibility, but magic was a whole different can of worms. He did not know what she could do; a shadow binder could control shadows and bend them to their wills, creating illusions and all other manner of eldritch things. He would be a fool not to be cautious. The library of the Red Keep was purged of most sorcery by Baelor the Blessed—that pious fool.
There was a knock on the door. Artys opened to find Melisandre and another woman equally beautiful and exotic , She had silver blonde hair and had lilac eyes that twinkled with innocence and curiosity . She a head shorter than Melisandre but just as voluptuous wearing a black silk gown sashed with red and plunging neckline and a slash below her waist that revealed her porcelain white legs. Artys gripped placed a palm on the pommel of his dagger. "How can i be of assistance miladies " He said keeping up the sellsword act that convinced no one . This is Vaera of Lys from the Melisandre said in her Melodic voice she is from the great fire temple of Lys here visiting us Myr.
"We would like to take you to the great hearth my lord there are things we must discuss" Vaera spoke in high Valyrian with sultry accents of Lys. Artys "I am sorry miladies i understand you not". "I have seen you in my flames Ser Artys Arryn" Melisandre said with that mystic smile of hers. "More like your spies or that fat priest let it slip in his cups" grumbled Artys. Melisandre got close to his ear and whispered in his ear " you are Azhor Ahai reborn Aoi Kobayashi"... Artys took out his dirk pressed it against Melisandre face and grabbed her neck pushed her against the wall . "How ?Where ?Who ? ??" Artys felt like he had been stabbed in the gut . " The night that never end is almost upon us my lord , you are Azor Ahai " she said with absloute conviction despite having a dirk in her face .
Artys's grip on the dagger wavered. He stared into Melisandre's eyes—calm, unflinching, burning with something more dangerous than madness. Faith.
"You speak that name again," he said softly, "and I'll open your throat."
Melisandre only smiled. "Then you would slay the one who was sent to serve you. The fire told me your name the name no tongue in this world should know. That alone should tell you the truth of what you are."
Vaera watched silently, her lilac eyes wide, half-fearful, half-entranced she put her soft small hand on his chest "We both saw the same vision in the flames, my lord," she said in her lilting Valyrian accent. "A falcon crowned in fire, soaring above a field of corpses."