Night lay deep over King's Landing, and the city's situation was growing worse by the day. The shadow of the mob never went away. Storm was coming with sword and fire, and he was a troublesome enemy.
Tyrion had sent out some of his pets and ordered the pyromancers to increase the production of wildfire.
"This is a bloody disaster!" Tyrion had to work late into the night until his eyes ached. He studied Varys's reports and the ledgers Littlefinger had left behind. The small Small Council seemed weaker than ever now, reduced to himself, Varys, and Pycelle.
In the depths of night, Tyrion would occasionally slip away to meet Shae. She was his only comfort.
Shae's tenderness helped Tyrion relax a little: a woman's embrace, the warmth of a woman's body. Unfortunately, they could not linger for long. Varys had disguised Shae as a maid in Lady Tanda's household.
"Why can't I have a better place? My hands shouldn't be washing pots and scrubbing plates every day, and my legs shouldn't have to stand for hours, or they'll never be this soft again. Though serving Lady Tanda isn't that awful. Thank you, Lord, for making me a maid instead of a kitchen girl," Shae complained.
"I did it for your safety. Sellswords love my gold, but they won't die for me. The walls I gave you could be climbed by one man standing on another's shoulders." Tyrion stroked Shae's smooth back. "During the last riot, a mansion much like yours was burned. The owner was a goldsmith, and the mob hacked him apart simply because he had stored grain. They tore the High Septon to pieces, raped Lollys dozens of times, and smashed Ser Aron's head flat. Think about it. If they caught the Hand of the King's lover, what would they do?"
"I'm not your lover. I'm only the Hand of the King's whore, the Hand of the King's slut." Shae looked into Tyrion's eyes. "If I were the Hand of the King's lover, I could come and go freely at court…"
Tyrion looked into Shae's eyes, those beautiful eyes filled with fearlessness. She had already said as much when she left the mansion.
Shae wants too much, Tyrion thought. She wants to wear all the pretty clothes I gave her, the silk, the brocade, the gold thread… to wear the jewels I gave her, hold my hand, and sit beside me at feasts. She could bear me sons… She thinks she would never shame me.
"That is only a sweet dream," Tyrion told Shae. His love for a whore was shameful enough. How could he bring her openly into high society? Shae was too young and wanted too much. She ought to learn contentment.
"How are things with Lady Tanda?" Tyrion asked.
"How else could they be?" Shae said unhappily. "No silk, no velvet, no pretty jewels. The Lady is boring and hysterical, and Lollys is as slow as an ox. Ever since the mob took her maidenhead, she barely leaves her room."
"That's not true." Tyrion cupped Shae's breast. "You still have a few jewels. A lady's maid dresses a thousand times better than a kitchen girl, and can even wear one or two pieces of jewelry."
"But only one or two…"
"Has my Lord grown tired of me?" Shae asked, reaching for Tyrion below.
"Stop that. Now isn't the time to enjoy ourselves in bed." Tyrion stopped her mischief.
"Can't I stay here tonight?" Shae asked.
"No. A maid shouldn't be wandering out late every night. I have things to worry about," Tyrion said.
"Why can't you keep me in your tower? Half the lords at court have mistresses to warm their beds."
"I have been expressly forbidden to bring you into the palace."
"Are you afraid of Lord Tywin, the Queen Dowager, or Gendry, Stannis Baratheon, and Robb Stark?" Shae asked. "Your foolish old father meddles too much. You're a grown man now. How many whores a grown man wants is his own business. You're not some little boy waiting to be spanked."
"Don't mock me, Shae. That is not a joke." Tyrion gently pinched Shae's backside.
"I worry about all of them. But Cersei is still my family. Thank the gods, my wits are enough to handle anyone in the Seven Kingdoms, but against Jaime with a sword in hand, I can do nothing," Tyrion said. He had to be enemies with Gendry and Stannis because he was a Lannister. But he could not go to war with Cersei, because they were both Lannisters. Without the Lannister name and Lannister gold, he was only a misshapen, stunted dwarf.
"Please, Shae, don't mention the Tower of the Hand again. I can give you a larger house, more jewels," Tyrion said solemnly.
"I will obey, my Lord."
Tyrion gave her a sweet kiss. "Good night."
"Good night, my Lord." With tears in her eyes, Shae left Tyrion's bed.
"I'm sorry," Tyrion thought heavily. Loving this girl too much was not his first mistake, and tomorrow there would be still more matters to face.
In the Alchemists' Guild, the underground tunnels were cold and quiet. All the pyromancers were working through the night, Wisdoms and assistants alike. That substance could only be transported at night, and it was best made at night as well.
"Production has increased this much? Almost ten thousand?" Hallyne asked.
"Yes," said an apprentice pyromancer of the guild. "Faster than ever before."
Hallyne wiped his pale forehead with the sleeve of his black-and-red striped robe. "Why is it so fast now?"
The process of making wildfire was extremely complicated and secretive, yet now they were working faster and faster, and production had risen sharply.
"Could the old Wisdom's guess have been right?" Hallyne thought.
Back when Hallyne was still an assistant, he had asked Pollitor why many of the guild's spells no longer worked as well as the scrolls claimed. The old Wisdom had said it was because the dragons had died, and magic had left the world with them.
"Perhaps the dragons have returned?" Hallyne wondered.
"Store it carefully. I must take this good news to the Hand of the King." Hallyne carefully held a jar of wildfire. "At the same time, we need to search King's Landing and see whether Lord Rossart's old stores still remain."
"Yes, Lord."
Elsewhere in King's Landing, the Dragonpit atop Rhaenys's Hill had been abandoned for a century and a half, left in utter ruin. Only the most desperate prostitutes would take customers in a place like this.
In the darkness of night, one customer accidentally stepped on a rotting floorboard and fell into a deep cellar. Inside were more than three hundred jars that looked like fruit preserves.
"What's this? Wine?" the drunken customer said. He broke the seal and took a sip.
"Lord, are you all right?" asked the plump prostitute. Then green flames rose up, blooming like a green flower.
"Aaaaah!" the customer screamed horribly, then turned to ash in the green flames. The air filled with the scorched stench of cooked human flesh.
...
The Red Temple of Volantis was vast and magnificent, three times the size of the Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing. Before it lay a great square lit by torches.
The pillars, steps, piers, bridges, domes, and towers of the Red Temple were all astonishingly huge, as if carved from a single boulder fallen from beyond the sky. The whole Temple of the Lord of Light looked almost like Aegon's High Hill.
When night fell, at sunset, great nightfires were lit beside the temple steps, and the High Priest often stood among the flames to preach.
A line of soldiers in splendid armor and orange cloaks stood on the steps, guarding every entrance to the temple with spears in hand. The spearheads were shaped like burning flames. These were the Fiery Hand, holy warriors of the Lord of Light, guardians of the Red Temple. One thousand fire knights, no more and no less. When one died, an apprentice would take his place.
"The night is dark and full of terrors."
"The night is dark and full of terrors."
"Praise the Lord of Light!"
"Praise the Lord of Light!"
The followers of R'hllor were powerful and could be found everywhere in Volantis. The Red Temple bought children and trained them as priests, or as temple prostitutes and warriors.
"Whoosh! Whoosh!"
The torches swayed in the wind. Tonight the square was much quieter, for the High Priest Benerro had not allowed the people to enter and hear his sermon. Anxious crowds waited outside the square. Most followers of the Lord of Light wore a piece of red cloth pinned to their sleeves or wrapped red cloth around their heads.
The walls of the Red Temple were marked with hundreds of red, yellow, gold, and orange lines. The colors were like flames, layered atop one another like clouds at sunset. The slender towers of the temple twisted and curled into the sky, shaped like frozen fire.
High Priest Benerro stood atop a red pillar, where a brazier burned. A narrow stone bridge connected the pillar to a high platform, where lower-ranking priests and acolytes stood.
Benerro was tall and thin, with sharply defined features and skin as white as milk. His cheeks, chin, and bald head were covered in flame tattoos. Flames surrounded his lipless mouth, leaving only his eyes visible within that bright red mask.
"Greetings to the Fire of Truth, the Light of Wisdom, the First Servant of the Lord of Light, the Slave of R'hllor, High Priest Benerro." The red priest Moqorro crossed the stone bridge and came to Benerro's side. The acolytes wore pale yellow or bright orange robes, while the full priests and priestesses wore red.
"You have come," Benerro said.
The red priest Moqorro's skin was black as pitch, and he stood nearly seven feet tall. His round belly was like a great pebble, bone-white hair and beard curled from his face like a lion's mane, and flame tattoos covered his cheeks and forehead.
Benerro's high voice was unforgettable. "The hour of final battle is near, Moqorro. Two gods, two powers. Light and dark, fire and ice, life and death, good and evil."
Benerro pointed one finger at the moon, then closed his hand into a fist and spread his arms. As his voice rose to its peak, there came a hiss, and tongues of fire sprang from his fingers. He wrote in the air with flame. "The Blood-Weeping Sword, the day of destruction. The chosen one shall defeat the darkness."
"Storm is in danger. The Eye of Darkness has fixed upon him, and the servants of the Long Night conspire to overthrow him. They worship false gods in temples of lies. Nyessos and Malaquo have turned from the light, their minds corrupted by the lust goddess of Lys and the yellow harpy of the east… and they plot the vilest betrayal with godless foreigners," Benerro said.
"My Lord of Light shines upon all. What should I do, High Priest?" Moqorro asked.
"Go to Storm's side. Protect him. Offer him aid and guidance," Benerro said.
"As you command!" Moqorro nodded.
"In the flames, I saw many dragons dancing, old dragons and young dragons, true dragons and false dragons. Around them were many beasts, and little lions made noise in the darkness. In the end, they all submitted to the golden stag." Moqorro's gaze swept over the brazier. Tending the fire was part of the daily life of the Lord of Light's faithful, seeking truth in the sacred flames.
"It is Storm," Benerro said.
"But Malaquo has already set out," Moqorro said softly. "It seems they have borrowed the wind as well."
"There are heretics and traitors with them. The Lord of Light possesses countless powers, and not everyone can understand His prophecies. Mere mortals who cannot see the truth often make false prophecies," Benerro said. "But I have sensed it in the flames. Storm's fortune continues to rise. Malaquo will not win."
"The Lord of Light guides our path. Praise the Lord of Light." Moqorro nodded. His Westerosi speech carried almost no accent, which was why he had been chosen to go to Gendry and Daenerys Targaryen.
"How shall I depart?"
"By ship!" Benerro said. "The Widow of the Waterfront will help us. The flat-bottomed merchant ship Selaesori Qhoran will set sail for Qarth. Halfway through, you will turn and sail for Westeros and King's Landing. The ship carries iron, tin, bales of wool and lace, fifty hides from Slaver's Bay, a corpse soaked in brine, twenty jars of fire-lizard peppers, and adding one red priest will do no harm."
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