Chapter 110: The Red-Robed Woman's Prophecy, the Third Daughter's Storm
Night enveloped Tyrosh, just as the followers of the Lord of Light said, "The night is long and full of terrors," but the Temple of the Lord of Light in Tyrosh remained brightly lit, with a hundred candles and a hundred braziers burning simultaneously in the magnificent hall.
In the thirty-foot-high temple, a giant statue of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, held a torch high, its gaze sharp. The statue's eyes, carved from red garnets, shone brightly, and its eyebrows and long beard were silver. The Red God R'hllor wore a pure gold crown and a scarlet robe adorned with freshwater pearls and sapphires. At his waist hung a longsword—the legendary Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes.
The braziers and candlelight illuminated Red Priestess Helen, making her radiant, a sweet smile on her face.
"Prince Daemon, your arrival makes the entire Temple of the Lord of Light even warmer and more dazzling."
Daemon stared at the statue of R'hllor.
"Is this your god? I've read many accounts of the Lord of Light in books, but this is the first time I've seen his statue. I know R'hllor is the sworn enemy of the Great Other."
These words, like frost, wiped away all of Helen's smiles. She shivered, becoming fearful.
"Prince Daemon, do not speak the name of the Lord of Light's opponent. His name cannot be spoken by mortals. Even in the Lord of Light's temple, speaking the name of an evil god is a very dangerous thing."
Daemon revealed a faint smile.
"In Westeros, when people pray to weirwood heart trees, the Drowned God, or the statues of the Seven, there aren't so many taboos."
Helen said sternly,
"In this world, apart from R'hllor and his opponent, there are no other gods. Whether it's the Seven worshipped by anointed knights, the weirwood trees revered by the northern First Men, or the Drowned God believed in by the Ironborn, they are all false gods and do not exist."
Daemon had personally experienced the power of the Old Gods, so the Red Priestess's statement was clearly wrong. However, he had no intention of arguing theology inside the Temple of the Lord of Light. As long as R'hllor's followers were useful to his rule and conquests, their beliefs mattered little.
Daemon rubbed his sword belt.
"I didn't come here tonight to debate the existence of gods. Helen, you claim you can see distant and future events in the flames. Tell me—when will I conquer the Three Daughters?"
Helen's eyes blazed with fire.
"Soon. But you must beware other enemies. Three weeping daughters embrace and mourn, brewing vengeance between barren mountains and swamps. In a city veiled in mist, faceless crows and men with iron keys whisper together, weaving conspiracies. The tiger defeats the elephant, then becomes a storm, sweeping in from land and sea. The cheesemonger sows golden grass, and the centaurs of the Great Grass Sea trample bones until the land is left desolate."
Daemon understood the meaning behind the prophecy but feigned ignorance.
"I have no patience for riddles. Speak plainly."
Helen smiled.
"In time, all prophecies reveal themselves. For now, know this—the Triarchy's army has already gathered in the Disputed Lands, among the mountains north of the Rainbow Marshes."
Daemon nodded slightly.
"Useful intelligence. I'll send a dragonrider—or go myself—to confirm it."
A dragon's roar echoed across the night sky.
"I must go," Daemon said. "I still need to sharpen my sword."
Helen's gaze lingered on the Valyrian steel blade at his waist.
"Prince Daemon, that sword is cursed. You should abandon it."
Daemon drew Dark Sister, the blade greedily drinking in firelight and candlelight. He smiled coldly.
"You're right—it is cursed. But it curses my enemies. I've slain many with Dark Sister, including Craghas Drahar, the Crabfeeder."
Helen said anxiously,
"Dark Sister has cursed its previous wielders. Before the holy fire of R'hllor, even weapons reveal their secrets. This blade tells me it brought ruin, lovelessness, and infamy to those who carried it."
Dark Sister's first wielder was Queen Visenya Targaryen, rider of Vhagar. She and Queen Rhaenys Targaryen aided Aegon the Conqueror in the Conquest of Westeros. Visenya founded the Kingsguard, yet was never loved as Rhaenys was, nor favored as deeply by Aegon.
When her son Maegor Targaryen came of age, Visenya gifted him Dark Sister. Maegor later became known as Maegor the Cruel. After Visenya's death, many in Westeros reviled her, calling her a witch. Even Queen Alysanne Targaryen believed Visenya among the most dangerous figures in history.
The second wielder was King Maegor I Targaryen, who also bore Blackfyre, the sword of kings. His reign was remembered in blood and terror. He married six wives, sired no trueborn heirs, and died impaled upon the Iron Throne.
The third wielder was King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, who lost many of his sons late in life.
Daemon was the fourth.
Yet Daemon felt no fear. Since taking up Dark Sister, his house had prospered, dragons multiplied, and his dominion expanded. He suspected exaggeration rather than truth.
Daemon smiled.
"Then perhaps you can help lift this curse. I'm too fond of seeing this blade wet with blood. Tell me—have you seen Vhagar in the flames?"
Helen's lips curved slyly.
"Vhagar will be yours in time. I see you riding her. Prince Daemon, your skill at arms is already famed—even here in Tyrosh. I can help you, but first, you must pray with me in the Temple of the Lord of Light."
A few days later, Daemon convened a war council at the Great Lord's Palace in Tyrosh. Present were Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake; Lord Roderick Dustin, known as the Tomb Wolf; Princess Rhaenys Targaryen; Princess Gael Targaryen; and others.
They gathered around a map of the Three Daughters.
Daemon rested his hand upon Tyrosh, his shadow stretching across the Disputed Lands, Lys, and Myr.
Drawing Dark Sister, he pointed to the Rainbow Marshes.
"The Triarchy's army is already massed here."
Daemon had personally ridden Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, to confirm the report. The Red Priestess's information was accurate.
Lord Roderick Dustin growled eagerly.
"Then let us take the Disputed Lands. The Winter Wolves grow restless."
Lord Corlys frowned.
"Braavos, Pentos, and Volantis may intervene. An aggressive move could unite the Free Cities against us."
The argument continued—unchanged in substance—until Daemon finally spoke.
"Dorne will fall in time," he said. "But first, the Triarchy. Gael, you and Dreamfyre remain in Tyrosh. Princess Rhaenys, ride Meleys the Red Queen with me."
Silence followed.
Daemon smiled easily.
"Two dragons are enough."
And somewhere far away, unseen forces began to move—
faceless men, merchant princes, horse lords, and red priests—
just as the flames had foretold.
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