The red priestess accepted the order and left. The hall fell bleak and empty, with no one else in sight. Only the lonely Great Lord Stannis Baratheon remained in the Chamber of the Painted Table, listening to the sea and wind howl.
"There has been little joy in my life," Stannis thought. His life had always carried a cold undertone, one that had shaped him into a harsh, twisted man. Stannis was not much to look at, and his temperament was like cold iron. Few loved him.
Worse still was the life he had lived. The Great Lord and Great Lady of Steep had died before his eyes in a shipwreck. Then came the discord between the three brothers. As for his wife and daughter, thinking of them only made his heart ache.
"I have never believed in the gods above. From the day I watched the Windproud run aground and sink at Storm's End, I stopped believing in gods. I swore to the heavens that I would never worship any cruel deity that drowned my parents. Since then, the gods have only grown more cruel to me." Stannis gazed out at the distant sea. "The Seven are like that, and so is the Red God. Yet all I have now is a fleet of ships. Every other claimant has more wealth than I do, and more soldiers besides."
"Cruel gods. They do not exist. And even if they do, they have never shown me mercy. If so, what difference is there between the Seven and the Red God? What I value is the red priestess herself. Her reputation alone is enough to frighten off many soldiers, and she truly does possess certain means." Stannis murmured to himself.
"Am I destined, in this life, not to be a leader, but a follower? It was so before, and it is so today. I never asked for that crown, yet someone must always save this kingdom. I have a duty to the kingdom, to the realm, to my daughter, to Robert. He did not love me, but he was still my elder brother. These monstrous crimes, the Lannisters' crimes, should have been mine to judge. But why, why did Robert make a fool of me? He trusted his own son more than me. He made me obey, just as I did more than ten years ago, made me submit once again to the interests of the house."
Stannis drew the two wills from his breast and read them again, though he had long since memorized every word. One was King Robert's bloodstained will. The other was the envelope from the Smith Gendry. They had moved too quickly, so quickly that before Stannis could announce his discovery, the Lannisters' ugly secret had already begun to come to light.
"If the Smith is the one meant to save the kingdom, and that man is not me, must I still insist on this path? Renly has already committed treason, but does defying my brother's will truly accord with the justice of men?"
"No. Who, in the end, is the one chosen? The red priestess says it is me, but many say it is my nephew.
Perhaps I need to know more. Perhaps I need to wait." Stannis tucked the envelope back into his breast, tormented beyond measure. Different roads. Different choices.
The red priestess walked out of Great Lord Stannis's chamber, leaving the dejected man behind. Today, he looked less like a cold warrior than a woman endlessly airing her grievances.
"Stannis will be fine. In time, he will understand the heavy duty upon him. He is the chosen one of the true god, destined to lead us against the darkness. I witnessed it in the Holy Fire and read it in the prophecies of the ancient books: when the stars bleed and the Long Night descends, Azor Ahai will be reborn amid smoke and salt, and wake the Dragon from stone. Now the stars are bleeding, and Dragonstone is indeed the land of smoke and salt," the red priestess thought.
There was, in fact, a flaw in the red priestess's theory. Stannis was indeed the Great Lord of Dragonstone, but he had not been born there. Like his brothers, he had been born at Storm's End.
"Stannis, you will face your destiny in the end."
The red priestess believed her overall direction was right. She had been the first mage to begin searching for the savior Azor Ahai, and the first red priest to prepare for the Long Night. Besides, a few years ago, Dragonstone had been the only clue she could think of. She had already invested a great deal in Stannis. He was the Azor Ahai she had chosen with care, and there was already a sunk cost.
The red priestess had chosen Stannis partly because his domain was small, which made it easier for him to accept the faith of the Red God than other lords. The Faith of the Seven and the worship of the Old Gods were deeply rooted. Shaking them loose would be far too difficult. Only those who had almost nothing would seize the Red God as a lifeline.
"I foresaw Renly's death in the Holy Fire, yet I never caught even a shadow of that little Smith."
The red priestess descended the stairs. The guards hurriedly bowed to her, their eyes held fast by her presence. Unlike Stannis's ugly wife, the red priestess was entirely different from Selyse: young, full-bodied, possessed of a strange beauty, with a heart-shaped face, copper-red hair, and mysterious red eyes.
The red priestess paid it no mind. Many coveted her beauty, and many others cursed her sorcery. Why would they not believe in what lay at her core, her devotion to the gods?
"The future, the future is ever-changing after all, like fire in the wind," the red priestess murmured inwardly. "As for that Smith, the Holy Fire never foretold him years ago. Perhaps something has changed in the future."
The red priestess returned to her room and quietly watched the fire in the hearth. She took up a handful of silver dust, cast it into the flames, and began chanting a hymn.
"Lord of Light, protect us. For the night is long, and danger lurks everywhere."
The red priestess gazed into the flames and began to murmur slowly. "I did not come to place a conceited king upon the throne. I came for the light, for the final battle."
The air within the hearth suddenly surged. Flecks of ash rose upward. The dust was white, yet it fell like snow. The sparks in the air slowly gathered into a ring, becoming a torch. Within the flames' vision, the red priestess saw more.
She saw a high hill in a forest. Behind the torch, the firewood became men in black. A tall knight stood upon the hill, commanding thousands upon thousands of soldiers as they held back a terrifying darkness. But the red priestess could not make out the knight's face. She could only tell that this was a cold place.
"Turn back. Turn back, good knight," the red priestess prayed. "Let me see your face once more. You are the son of flame, the warrior of light, the Red God's chosen."
But the vision soon scattered, and the red priestess did not see the whole truth within the flames. She glanced at the silver dust, then gave up the desire to keep watching the fire. Only death can pay for life. Only sacrifice can awaken magic. Even she could not abuse such power.
"The Holy Fire reveals the truth, and my interpretation may be flawed, but that does not matter. I am flesh and blood as well. I have seen it before. That man is the Great Lord of Dragonstone. As long as Stannis offers up his strength, everything will be all right. Let him take up the crown. Let him offer his blood and fire."
The red priestess slowly regained her confidence.
"Power comes from faith, and also from Bloodline. The Storm Bloodline already holds a measure of power. If Dragonstone can burn every statue of the gods and offer sacrifice to the Red God, my power will grow stronger still."
...
In King's Landing, Tyrion began paying close attention to the various Smiths. King's Landing's warships were pitifully weak. Most of the Royal Fleet was now at Dragonstone, and the Great Lord of Dragonstone controlled far too many merchant vessels as well. The few small ships King's Landing still had could do little more than lure the enemy into the river.
Tyrion had already given orders to all the smiths. He demanded that every smith on the Street of Steel hurry to forge a type of iron chain, then link them together: three thick steel chains twisted into one. Tyrion had no interest in ornate armor or gleaming swords. What he needed most now was iron chain.
Tyrion not only had to keep King's Landing from starving, he also had to consider how to defend it. Fleeing with the heir would be the worst possible choice.
"They look like they want to eat you," Bronn said quietly after they left the Red Keep, following behind the Imp's litter with a group of mounted Black Ears wildlings. The hatred in the eyes of the starving was not something one forgot easily. When the people went hungry, they hated everything in the city.
Bronn had to admire the Imp's courage. But for the Imp to risk himself just to find his daughter, he must truly care for that woman. Bronn thought about saying something, but held his tongue. There was no benefit in offending a Hand of the King with that much power. He was only a Sellsword.
"I've done everything I can to feed them. But now..." Tyrion replied. Feeding a vast city like King's Landing was indeed far too difficult.
Tyrion had already done all he could. He had pulled hundreds of carpenters away from building trebuchets and set them to making fishing boats instead. He had opened the Kingswood, allowing any hunter brave enough to cross the river to hunt there. Tyrion had also sent garrison soldiers west and south to requisition grain, but the returns had been meager. Only a few small castles, including Rosby, had sent food. Half of the grain in King's Landing had come from Rosby and Stokeworth. Tyrion had to hide inside his litter so he would see fewer of those accusing, furious eyes.
"Food is what matters most now. Even gold can't replace grain. The Riverlands have been smashed to pieces. Around us, Storm's End's army is to the south, Dragonstone's navy to the east, and the Smith's army to the north. As for Crackclaw Point, I'll thank the gods if they don't come and attack our rear," Tyrion said worriedly.
"Maybe you could ask around among the rich families in King's Landing. See if any of them feel like being charitable," Bronn said with a grin.
"The rich? Spare me. Those people won't part with so much as a copper," Tyrion said sourly.
"The richest ones. You might remember them," Bronn replied.
"You mean the High Septon and Littlefinger?" Tyrion caught on at once. "The High Septon can haggle like a merchant. Ask him to spend money helping a few poor devils, and he would never agree. As for Littlefinger, I have a greater use for him, and now is not the time to offend him. Besides, even if we had money and grain, we still couldn't bring it into the city."
"That fat man has let things get this bad, and he still won't bleed a little?" Bronn asked. "He's supposed to be the will and embodiment of the Seven on earth. He can't make even that much of a sacrifice?"
The current High Septon was a tall, obese man, corrupt in his thinking, gluttonous by nature, and forever prattling on. The king had once borrowed a sum of money from the High Septon. Of course, now that the king was gone, that money would be difficult to recover.
"The Seven are always merciful. Our High Septon is not," the Imp snorted, looking with concern at the pitiful people, their frail bodies and resentful eyes.
They believed in the Faith of the Seven, but the gods had not reached out a helping hand. Still, Tyrion hoped the fat High Septon would show some sense. Otherwise, to starving people, a priest too fat to walk was the finest target imaginable.
"You're right. I do need to go see the High Septon, after I meet with the woman," Tyrion said. "The High Septon's prayers may not do much for the faithful, but they will certainly help me defend the city."
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