[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 136 - 140

Chapter 136 - Gold Blood on the Figurehead

The "God's Grace" launching ceremony proceeded as scheduled on Sunday.

Armor lined in formation proclaimed its nobility.

Lances stood arrayed, blessing its might.

Horns blared in harmony, celebrating its birth.

The vast, sprawling docks of King's Landing teemed with people who had come to witness the ceremony.

Besides the dignitaries who had received advance notice and permission to leave the city, smallfolk dwelling beyond the walls gathered at the docks, abandoning their daily labors.

None who gazed upon it could remain unmoved. None could bear to look away.

The people were genuinely awed by the sight before them.

"Blessed by the gods."

"What a magnificent miracle this is!"

"Is this truly a warship that can float upon water? Who could stand against such might?"

"The grace of the gods knows no bounds!"

"Nothing lies beyond reach; the power of the gods is far greater than mortal minds can fathom."

Exclamations of wonder and astonishment filled the air without cease.

People repeated their praises endlessly. Even after half a day of such adulation, they could not help but voice their admiration, hoping to release some measure of the surging emotions that threatened to overwhelm them.

From the previous night until this morning, some fortunate souls had witnessed the astonishingly swift construction of "God's Grace."

These privileged few described the process vividly to those around them, faces alight with pride and excitement, seeming almost afraid others might fail to notice them, as if they themselves had crafted this divine creation.

The not-so-secret construction process of "God's Grace" spread quickly among the crowd gathered at the docks.

Again and again, people recounted the miracles they had seen, until every ear had heard every description, every heart had committed the tale to memory, and many lips could recite it verbatim.

Everyone knew the story.

An endless procession of wagons had brought countless crates and chests, piling them into small mountains beside the docks as evening fell.

Sailors and captains claimed it was more than the total cargo the port typically handled in a full day.

Subsequently, the golden waters of the river were shrouded by shadow. Logs floated downstream from the upper reaches of the Blackwater Rush—solid, thick trunks, freshly cut, some still crowned with lush greenery.

At least an entire forest had been felled, enough land to feed hundreds had it been used for farming.

All the timber flowed downstream but was halted near the mountains of cargo downriver from the docks, almost transforming that section of the river into solid ground.

Then came the miracle.

The men wearing white cloaks emblazoned with golden six-pointed stars wielded divine grace, and the cold, damp wood moved of its own accord, as if imbued with life, crawling onto the shore.

Upon reaching land, the wood seemed to transform into a silken liquid, the pieces drawing together and melting into a single mass.

The timber at this stage was as pliant as clay.

Invisible hands kneaded and shaped this wooden mass, forming it as a child might build a castle from mud.

The shipwrights pointed to the wooden frame beneath "God's Grace" and declared, "That is it."

Something never before seen—a dock shaped by divine grace, a dock carrying divine grace.

This dock comprised closely arranged concave wooden frames. Each frame measured four or five feet in width and five or six fathoms in length, and their combined shape resembled nothing so much as the bottom of a ship.

Upon recognizing the shape of the ship's hull, all the captains, sailors, shipwrights, and anyone who had ever lived by water immediately gaped in shock and disbelief.

Such an immense vessel?!

What followed was even more staggering and utterly beyond imagination.

The men in six-pointed star cloaks approached the cargo crates, and the wood used to construct these containers flowed outward, leaving only pieces of steel and countless blades, guns, axes, and spears in place.

Immediately thereafter, all the steel melted—not into hot, molten metal, but still emanating a cold, white light.

The steel climbed onto the wooden frames like liquid flowing upward, like vines ascending trees, like the tentacles and suckers of some great sea monster.

Never before had people witnessed such quantities of steel so closely joined together.

The steel pieces must have been joyful, for they cheered and climbed to the highest point. Where no path existed, they stepped upon one another and continued upward, gradually forming a skeleton of mutual support, taking on the slender shape of a warship.

The steel hull lay majestically upon the dock.

Afterward, the men in six-pointed star cloaks remained at the dock for long hours, until dawn broke once more, until all surrounding steel and wood had vanished.

People knew only that all materials had become part of the warship.

As for how many thrilling transformations had occurred, how many exquisite structures, solid chambers, and terrifying weapons lay concealed within the hull, none could see, and imagination alone must suffice.

Yet what people had witnessed with their own eyes was enough to be told as myth and epic for generations to come.

An invincible warship forged of steel.

Who could breach its broadside? Who could withstand its ram? Who could set flame to its deck? Who could overturn its massive form?

It would surely become the absolute sovereign of the seas.

The Redwyne fleet? The Iron Fleet? These were no longer worthy of comparison. Only the vast armada of Braavos might qualify as a rival.

As for the outcome of such a contest...

All eyes remained fixed upon "God's Grace" as it stood upon the dock. If it could be successfully launched, and if a dozen or more companions were added to its number, then no matter how many warships Braavos might possess, they would seem as children not yet grown to maturity.

Everyone was captivated by this magnificent and majestic creation, as if they already envisioned the day when the Westeros fleet would reign invincible.

"God's Grace" stood proudly upon the dock, silently exulting in its might.

The auspicious hour had arrived.

Tyrion walked behind King Joffrey, bearing a bottle of Arbor Gold from the Reach. "Your Grace, it is time."

Tyrion's reaction to this formidable warship differed little from that of most gathered at the docks.

This "God's Grace" had not been constructed by the pyromancers of the Alchemists' Guild. Tyrion had first laid eyes upon it only that morning.

He now realized that Hanna's Logistics Department also maintained a cadre of pyromancers, and the tasks for which they bore responsibility were far more significant and illustrious than merely building houses and repairing sewers.

Thinking of the weapons and equipment dedicated to the Holy Warriors that Hanna had mentioned in the "Throne Room" report, Tyrion's curiosity only deepened.

But now, the sole focus belonged to the King and this "God's Grace" about to be launched.

Tyrion respectfully presented the tribute he carried.

Joffrey took the crystal-clear Arbor Gold and turned to look at Sansa beside him.

"Sansa, my queen, your kindness shall bless its fate, your beauty shall soothe its loneliness, your nobility shall honor its journey. Let us witness its birth together."

Sansa nodded happily, took Joffrey's right arm, and walked to the bow of the vessel.

The two stood before the figurehead, gazing upon the ten-foot tall carving of the "Maiden," her arms crossed before her breast.

Everyone on the deck fell silent, paying homage with their eyes to the king, the lady, and the warship, witnessing the ceremony's culmination.

Following tradition, Joffrey, acting as "priest," stroked the figurehead seven times, offering seven prayers.

Then Sansa forcefully cast the bottle from her hand.

Pa~

The bottle shattered, and the golden liquid flowed and dripped wantonly upon the figurehead.

Like blood of gold.

Chapter 137 - Battleship Charge!

The drums beat with thunderous force.

The soaring horns blared with even greater passion and resonance.

The maiden figurehead adorning the prow of "God's Grace" cradled her arms before her, a dazzling golden light emanating from her breast, bestowing her blessing upon all who stood upon the pier below.

Bathed in golden radiance, the people gazed upward at the invincible warship.

Suddenly, the towering wooden dockyard came alive. Each wooden frame began to lower itself, with those nearest the river crouching lowest, the angle gradually steepening until they formed perfect slides.

The front half of "God's Grace" now hung suspended in the air, slowly descending.

The sound of drums and horns reverberated through the heavens.

Yet as they watched the ironclad warship lower its massive form and charge toward the Blackwater Rush upon the wooden frames, the gathered throng felt that all sounds had become the battle cry of "God's Grace" itself.

Like a knight charging down a hillside toward a crowd of foes.

The sharp, knife-like prow of "God's Grace" cleaved the calm river surface with clean precision. Two white, foaming waves surged outward immediately, as though they were flesh and blood split in twain by a knight's blade.

The river could not overcome it.

Its gleaming iron body swayed slightly as it moved slowly to the center of the current, cutting across the main channel of the Blackwater Rush, calm and steady.

One breath, two breaths...

It showed no sign of sinking! It even turned in place, its bow gradually swinging to point toward the estuary downstream!

The crowd erupted in jubilation, leaping and shouting, embracing one another with joyous smiles, clenching their fists and waving them ceaselessly, venting the unstoppable heat and strength that surged through their bodies.

"God's Grace" was no mere toy upon the shore, but a true floating fortress!

Woo~~

"God's Grace" sounded its long whistle, drowning out the horns and the crowd, smothering all other sounds.

Joffrey stood upon the prow, looking back toward the riverbank.

The dockyard built specifically for "God's Grace" neared destruction.

On the unscathed high platform behind the dockyard stood a cluster of small, dark figures—the highborn guests who had been evacuated from the warship in advance.

These people had disembarked early not from fear that the launch might fail, but because word of the Bronzegate City war council had been presented to Joffrey and his ministers the previous day.

Renly had declared, "Advance west along the line of the Rainwood and Greenstone."

The Rainwood and Greenstone both lay south of Bronzegate.

First south, then west—this was not Renly's original planned route.

The former Renly had proudly intended to travel north in comfort along the Kingsroad, displaying his might throughout the Crownlands before crossing the Kingswood and heading west on the Roseroad.

Renly's original plan would certainly have failed.

The Holy War Army of King's Landing would have utterly extinguished Renly's ambition in the Kingswood, with not a single rebel escaping into the Reach.

But now...

Merely because of a few rumors extolling the strength of King's Landing, Renly had actually set aside his arrogance? Intentionally avoiding the Kingswood?

Joffrey knew not whether to feel pleased or dismayed.

Recently, he had loosened some of the control over King's Landing, both because it was no longer necessary to seal the city so tightly, and because he wished to intimidate the southern lords and undermine the unity and morale of the rebels before the war began in earnest.

Who would have thought the effect would prove too potent, directly causing Renly to alter his marching route?

Just that morning, concurrent with the launching ceremony of the flagship "God's Grace," the 20,000 troops of Haystack Hall and Bronzegate City had already begun their journey southward.

Their marching pace was not sluggish.

They were expected to reach the Rainwood in three days, Greenstone two weeks later, and Bitterbridge by early September.

The entire route would take them to the southernmost tip of the Kingswood.

Tyrion had therefore strenuously counseled against implementing the previously drafted counterattack plan.

If they pursued the main force of the Stormlands rebels according to the original strategy, the most likely battlefield for the two armies to clash would lie between the Rainwood and Greenstone, in the borderlands where the Kingswood met the Red Mountains.

Far and remote.

Logistics would prove difficult to replenish, the field of vision would be narrow and cramped, the roads winding or simply nonexistent.

Should they become entangled, or should the enemy avoid battle and delay, when the army from Bitterbridge attacked from the west, flanking them from left and right, the situation would inevitably grow more troublesome, introducing unwelcome variables and casualties.

Tyrion dared not suggest the Holy War Army might face defeat.

Duke Tywin also advocated for caution, and Grand Maester Pycelle naturally concurred.

Duke Eddard expressed no opinion on the matter.

The Kingslayer and the Hound both hungered to lead the army and seize the initiative, while Alyn, Hanna, and "The Bold" Barristan served in silence, offering counsel only within the bounds of their duties.

After consideration, Joffrey decided to make certain adjustments to the scheduled battle plan.

The decisive engagement would be postponed by several days.

This was why he still stood upon the deck of "God's Grace."

Pa~ Pa~

The Hound approached, his boots striking the receding watermarks on the deck. "The warlocks have completed their inspection and stand ready to set sail at your command."

Joffrey placed one hand upon the railing, instantly comprehending the entire structure and composition of the vessel.

This warship was a thoroughly magical creation.

Shaping runes had combined thousands of tons of steel and other materials into a cohesive whole.

Thus, the warlocks could sense the shape, structure, and damage of the entire warship from anywhere aboard, allowing them to improve or remedy any issue immediately and maintain the vessel's combat effectiveness.

Its structure was not scientifically sound.

The scholars at the Research Institute had never imagined steel could be used to build warships, and their designs could not allow the properties of ordinary steel to support such a massive vessel.

Fortunately, there was magic.

Solid runes had been hammered into the hull, and abundant solid magic energy offset the destructive forces of gravity and stress, allowing this warship—which by all rights should have been impossible—to float steadily upon the water.

Its power system was likewise riddled with imperfections.

Joffrey could determine only a basic feasible principle—boiling water.

What system converts energy into power most efficiently? What structure creates the most effective engine? Where should the propeller be placed? What is the optimal blade shape and number? What materials can support power transmission?

Each question alone could have halted the construction and use of the warship, preventing the designs from becoming reality, or destroying that fragile reality once achieved.

However, "God's Grace" was a magical creation that spared no expense.

Solid magic energy and recovery magic energy formed a perfect combination. Before the magic was exhausted, any deficiencies in structure or materials could be regarded as nonexistent.

Fire magic energy proved equally excellent.

It could transfer heat evenly throughout the entire small lake, or instantly transform a single drop of water into vapor of hundreds or thousands of degrees.

The perfect energy source.

Paired with indestructible boilers, steam turbines, turbine blades, gear linkages, propellers, and other devices.

All problems found their solution.

Magic had birthed "God's Grace," enabling this steam-powered warship with an empty weight of 2,000 tons and a maximum load of 6,000 tons to come successfully into being.

In the future, more and mightier warships would be summoned to demonstrate the power of magic to the world.

For now, "God's Grace" would suffice.

Joffrey withdrew his palm from the railing. "What of the Kingsguard? Are our supplies prepared?"

The Hound's scarred face shone with excitement and anticipation. "All the Kingsguard have boarded the fleet, with none absent. Weapons and supplies are in place, sufficient for the entire army for two months."

"Good."

Joffrey gazed out to sea.

"Then let us depart. Full speed to Storm's End. Clear the coast."

"Yes, Your Grace!"

"God's Grace" stirred up waves, and a long whistle resounded along both banks.

Immediately thereafter, sails billowed, flags fluttered, and the entire Royal Fleet docked at King's Landing set out as one.

Sailing toward the open sea.

Chapter 138 - Night Voyage

Stars twinkled in the night sky.

Yet a vast swath of light moved steadily along the northern coast of Blackwater Bay.

Reflections danced upon the sea, beams of light shot straight into the heavens, and crisscrossing rays pointed in all directions, rousing the slumbering residents along the shore.

Those sleeping upon their fishing boats or in seaside huts groggily opened their eyes, enduring discomfort as they strained to peer at the unusual radiance upon the waters, lest they be swallowed by some sudden calamity without warning.

Fortunately, the shipping lane where the lights traveled was not near enough to pose an immediate threat to the coast, yet not so distant that people could not discern the rough outline of the spectacle.

A continuous line of ships.

Sails swelled full, flags gleamed bright, and majestic black stags stood proudly upon golden banners, their gaze fixed ahead.

The source of the light beams and orbs illuminating the dark night came from the masts that rose above the stags' heads—lookout posts.

This was the King's Landing fleet. The fleet of the king blessed by the gods. Many now understood what they witnessed. The king's fleet had set forth! Against whom?

Some attempted to count the passing ships with the naked eye.

Though they concentrated their minds fully, and though each vessel shone with dazzling brilliance, they invariably missed a few in their counting. Eventually, the specific number blurred, leaving them staring blankly as the fleet gradually sailed beyond sight.

There must be hundreds, the people guessed, unwillingly yet excitedly, as they lay back in their beds or at the bottom of their cabins.

The shocking scene had long since banished all sleepiness, so they could only gaze up at the stars in the night sky, hoping the twinkling celestial light might restore their fatigue and grant them pleasant dreams.

May the gods protect us.

...

The exact number was three hundred and one.

Three hundred wooden ships, one ship of steel.

Wooden vessels were easily constructed. Ship blueprints were complete and abundant, and with so many ready-made models in the Royal Fleet to emulate, the sorcerers' work was undoubtedly straightforward.

Given sufficient timber, the original Royal Fleet could be multiplied several times over without even incorporating magical runes.

But wood was not the sole limitation; sailors and supplies proved scarcer than lumber.

After comprehensive consideration, the King's Landing fleet had been rebuilt and expanded to three hundred ships, with a total tonnage of 100,000 and a fixed crew of 16,000 souls.

In addition to the 10,000 guards who would soon land upon the coast, along with personnel in logistics, intelligence, medical care, production, and construction, the total number aboard the fleet approached 30,000.

This massive armada represented the maximum that King's Landing could presently support.

Recruiting skilled sailors and reliable captains, preparing supplies, weapons, and specialized tools, conducting intelligence preparations, arranging personnel, bolstering morale, and guiding propaganda.

That these tasks could be accomplished successfully within a single day was owing entirely to the institutional reforms enacted in King's Landing during this period.

Other factions would not dare even contemplate such feats.

In one day, the 200 ships of various sizes in King's Landing Port had transformed into 300 excellent warships, equipped with sufficient sailors and soldiers, and set sail together for the open sea.

Joffrey dearly wished to witness Renly's expression upon receiving this news.

It would surely be wondrous to behold.

Moreover, there was also this unique flagship, the massive steel-forged "God's Grace," driven not by sail but by magic and steam.

This warship would inspire more awe than flames and healing powers ever could.

One must understand that not only is the terrain of Westeros long and narrow, with rivers and seas intertwined, but life and trade are also intimately bound to the sea.

The Free Cities across the Narrow Sea depend even more heavily upon sea transport and naval power.

When news of the steel warship spread, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, the magisters and princes of the Free Cities, and the Sealord of Braavos would certainly not remain untroubled.

Cannons and giant ships.

Joffrey overflowed with confidence that he could conquer the Seven Kingdoms—nay, the entire world—with cannons and giant ships alone!

"God's Grace" was both beginning and harbinger, an experimental vessel for accumulating experience and data. Future warships would stand upon its shoulders and ascend to greater heights.

Joffrey looked at Qyburn beside him. The old man was engrossed in murmuring calculations while studying a data sheet.

After these few hours of sailing, the performance data of "God's Grace" and the consumption rates of various devices had been initially compiled.

As of now, the average speed of the entire fleet was eleven knots, approximately twenty kilometers per hour.

The speed of "God's Grace" matched this exactly.

To maintain this pace, it consumed an average of 20 units of fire magic energy and 50 units of solid magic energy per hour.

Without question, if the speed were doubled, the consumption of both types of magic energy would increase dramatically, far more than twofold.

This consumption was not excessive for Joffrey at present.

The rune energy paid to create hundreds of Holy Warriors could guarantee the warship's self-sufficiency, and the new rune energy accrued in a single day could create ten such vessels.

But.

Compared to hundreds of living Holy Warriors who could be harvested continually, was a steel warship truly the more valuable choice at this juncture?

Fortunately, a more perfect solution existed.

Transform the crew of the warship into Holy Warriors, allowing them to continuously inject magic energy into the vessel each day, thus achieving two purposes at once.

Of course, this was ultimately but a temporary measure during the transition period. To obtain safer and more stable combat power, runes devoid of thoughts and feelings were undoubtedly more suitable.

Qyburn's murmuring grew increasingly frenzied and obsessive.

Joffrey knew the old man pursued a more perfect warship structure.

The energy contained within 20 units of fire magic energy vastly exceeded the actual energy consumed by the warship, indicating that useless loss within the power system was alarmingly high.

The 50 units of solid magic energy revealed an even graver problem: the warship could not exist independently.

Each point of solid magic energy signified a flaw or weakness, representing that it had prevented a breakage, disintegration, or even explosion.

As an initial model, such issues were perhaps unavoidable.

Qyburn's task was to collect data on the warship and its magic energy consumption, analyze and study the problems, and devise better solutions.

The abilities of the sorcerers afforded Qyburn considerable latitude for trial, error, and improvement.

Even while seated in his cabin, Joffrey could clearly perceive the changes wrought upon the warship by Qyburn and his sorcerers.

From the fleet's departure until now, Qyburn had altered the structure of the boiler seventeen times, reshaped the turbine blades of the steam turbine twelve times, modified the transmission system eight times, and redesigned the propeller fifteen times.

Every position on the hull that consumed solid magic energy had likewise undergone multiple adjustments.

It was almost a completely exhaustive method of trial and error.

Yet overall, the consumption of magic energy diminished slowly but steadily.

Optimistically, by the time the fleet reached Storm's End, the magic energy consumption of "God's Grace" might be reduced by half.

Four days.

Qyburn's burden was indeed heavy.

"Your Grace."

Joffrey turned toward the door.

The red-robed woman Melisandre swayed as she approached, her movements fluid and graceful. "The Lord of Light has commanded me to come and serve."

Qyburn withdrew from the chamber.

Before accepting the gift of the Lord of Light, Joffrey dispatched instructions to Beric Dondarrion at Massey's Hook and to the red priest Thoros.

"Arrive at Stone Dance City before sunset tomorrow and join the fleet."

Chapter 139 - Red Priest Thoros

"Ser Rolland Storm, have you not yet awakened? Do not be so stubborn. Persuade your men—enough blood has been shed."

Lord Beric Dondarrion sighed and shook his head, his thick golden-red hair swaying gently.

"Tell them to cease their flight."

"There is nowhere to flee beneath the grace of God."

"Indeed, consider the battle two days past, that scene..."

Lord Dondarrion's eleven-year-old squire, Edric Dayne, heir to Starfall, echoed his master's words, his face somewhat pale, as though he still could not banish the terrifying images of the battle from his mind.

The red priest Thoros silently appraised the stubborn prisoner.

Though bound hand and foot and covered in blood, Rolland Storm stood straight-backed, his pockmarked face filled with resentment and defiance, not deigning to speak a word.

A brave and determined warrior, or a stupid and obstinate prisoner.

To witness such power and yet maintain this stance—regardless, Thoros admired the man's persistence and piety.

"Bastard of Nightsong."

Thoros approached the prisoner, raging flames burning within his voluminous red robe.

Real flames.

Not drawn from blood, prayer, or sacrifice, but bestowed by King Joffrey himself.

Melisandre, a colleague from Asshai and favorite counselor to the king, was certain: this was the power of the Lord of Light, spread throughout the world through God's chosen emissary.

Thoros knew he should accept this proclamation without question.

But he knew better than most that his faith had never been sufficiently devout—neither as a child, nor in the temple, nor during his years in King's Landing.

Born in the Free City of Myr, Thoros had not willingly dedicated himself to the Lord of Light, but had instead been sold to the temple by his parents to prevent his seven older siblings from starving to death.

Thereafter, though Thoros donned the red robe, it was not solely for faith, but rather for combat, wine, and women.

Perhaps for this reason, he had never mastered the higher fire spells, nor could he discern prophecies within the sacred flames.

He had been dispatched to King's Landing across the Narrow Sea with a difficult and vital task: to convert the mad king Aerys II, who was obsessed with fire, to the worship of the Lord of Light.

Thoros had always been bewildered by the temple's decision.

Am I truly the best candidate?

As expected, he had failed in this endeavor.

Wildfire proved more alluring to the Mad King than the meager power granted by the Lord of Light. Until Aerys II's death in the throne room, R'hllor's reputation remained obscure throughout Westeros.

So Thoros ceased to regard himself as a priest of the Lord of Light, focusing instead on maintaining his position at court and enjoying life in the Seven Kingdoms.

He even employed the pyromancers' wildfire to set his longsword ablaze, rather than calling upon the divine power of the Lord of Light.

This trick worked most effectively against "The Hound" Sandor Clegane.

The emerald green flames of wildfire had also ensured his survival during the Greyjoy Rebellion; he had been the first to scale the walls of Pyke, earning the admiration of many.

Court life thereafter proved stable and lively.

King Robert often shared wine with him, and tournaments offered opportunities to win the laurels of the melee several times with his flaming sword, bringing wealth and acclaim.

Wine, martial prowess, women—what joyous days those had been.

Thoros no longer thought of Myr or the temple that had faded into memory, nor did he light the sacred fire to seek guidance from the Lord of Light.

However.

King Robert's death had changed everything.

The Seven Kingdoms of Westeros were no longer peaceful, and the turmoil in King's Landing and the Red Keep grew ever more violent.

King Joffrey demonstrated undeniable miracles and vast power. The power of flame and light was both strange and familiar, and his declarations immediately recalled to Thoros the teachings of the temple.

Melisandre, likewise clad in red robes, had sought him out. Since then, Thoros had become a member of the Gospel Department, working alongside the septons and septas of the Faith of the Seven.

The Seven Gods and the Lord of Light coexisting peacefully?

Not only did Thoros struggle to adapt to this notion, but the holy men and women of the Faith reacted with even greater vehemence.

Fortunately, the Seven had not granted them power sufficient to resist, and they could not stand against the divine might of King Joffrey.

The Rainbow Guard sent by Renly to assassinate him at the Great Sept had, ironically, succeeded only in transforming the Faith into the Gospel Department.

Even so.

Each time he walked through the Great Sept of Baelor in his conspicuous red robes, each time he prayed to the Lord of Light before the statues of the Seven, Thoros could not help but fear for his life.

The occasional glances from many septons still sent cold shivers down his spine.

How did the Faith of the Seven punish heretics?

Thoros knew little of this, and had no desire to learn more terrible details.

But he understood that the surest path forward was to prevent the Faith from ever being resurrected, and to work tirelessly to maintain the long-term harmony of the Gospel Department.

The Lord of Light and the Seven—who claimed they could not peacefully coexist?

In the dark and dilapidated stone house, the flames encircling Thoros' body burned more fiercely. The orange-red firelight illuminated the nighttime ruins, and its rich heat dispelled the cold brought by darkness.

Fire. Rolland Storm could not help but recall their previous encounter.

The red priest glanced at him.

"The night is dark and full of terrors, and the end approaches."

Indeed, the end draws near. King Joffrey, chosen by the true God, had proclaimed it himself, and it could not be false.

Melisandre had been first to add this prayer, and Thoros naturally followed close behind.

"Fortunately, the Hero King has already descended."

Thoros made a solemn gesture of prayer.

"Praise the light and flame, praise King Joffrey, praise the one true God, the Lord of Light."

Rolland Storm struggled to banish the painful memories, and regained his expression of indifference, dismissing the red priest's words with a contemptuous spit.

Thoros smiled slightly and shook his gleaming bald head.

"You hold fast to your faith, fighting for the so-called Warrior among the Seven, boasting of courage and unyielding spirit."

"But do you know that the Seven Gods you so faithfully worship—the Father, Mother, Warrior, and the rest, with seven faces in one—are merely different aspects of the one true God, the Lord of Light."

Rolland Storm glared instantly.

Thoros dared not fabricate such claims. Melisandre had spoken first, and presumably it was also King Joffrey's will.

Indeed, once the Seven and R'hllor were united, what cause remained for conflict?

The Seven were His names, the Lord of Light was also His title, and even false gods and foreign deities were the same. There existed only two gods in the world: He who represented light and flame, and the evil god who carried darkness and cold!

Thoros continued patiently, "His Grace has received the will and power of the true God, and the only ones in the world who can stand against him are the Cold God and the coming end of the world."

"Justice and victory do not belong to the usurper Renly."

"Ser Rolland, surrender yourself, and release the warriors who have entrusted their lives to you."

Rolland Storm remained silent.

"So be it." Beric Dondarrion reclined on his straw bed. "Let us rest early. We must deal with the remaining fugitives tomorrow, before sunset."

Thoros extinguished his flames. "Very well, then. Just fewer prisoners for us."

In the darkness, Edric Dayne's voice sounded clearly. "Lord Beric, I beg you, let me lead the vanguard. I wish to try a gentler approach."

"As you wish."

Rolland Storm could not help but shift his gaze, his eyes betraying a fleeting uncertainty.

Chapter 140 - Night Raid

"Have we escaped?"

The knight, his voice hoarse from thirst, leaned against the jagged cliff face, gazing vacantly at the western sea as he murmured the question to his companion.

The west coast of Cape Massey's Hook had been ravaged into desolation by the two thousand cavalrymen under their command.

Not merely the seaside villages and towns, but even the fishermen who plied their trade upon the waters had long since fled northward to safer harbors. The sea lay empty, not so much as half a boat visible upon its surface.

For a fleeing, defeated army, such a beach seemed the most promising route.

The deserted shore offered concealment enough to keep them apart from the few remaining souls on the Hook, preventing any sound that might alert the "hunters" to their presence.

Moreover, they had lost all their supplies.

If they wished to avoid spending precious time hunting and gathering fruit or scavenging through ruins for sustenance—thereby giving the "hunters" opportunity to overtake them—only one answer presented itself: the beach.

The tide would bring many shells and small fish, and for men who had marched ceaselessly, even such meager seafood might fill their empty bellies.

The only true concern was fresh water.

Small pools gathered behind rocks and within mudflats, but for hundreds of parched throats, these proved merely a drop upon a bonfire, vanishing with a sizzle, the flames of thirst burning no less fiercely than before.

Without sufficient fresh water, they would perish of thirst long before they could escape Cape Massey's Hook.

Every man among them understood this truth.

Yet who among them would risk venturing inland toward small rivers and lakes?

Any man of sound mind recognized that the guards of Sharp Point and Stone Dance, the hundreds of monsters that had appeared so suddenly—these "hunters" would surely watch every water source, waiting patiently for them to stumble into the trap.

Thankfully, this marked but the third day of their flight southward, and conditions had not yet grown desperate enough to spark disputes, looting, or even the killing of brothers-in-arms.

Fortune had smiled upon them yesterday, when heavy rain had fallen.

Powerful droplets had struck every inch of exposed skin, and all had turned their faces skyward, moistening chapped lips, letting the rain fall directly into open mouths.

At last, they had filled every vessel capable of holding water, rare smiles breaking across their weathered faces.

With luck, the gods might grant them several more such downpours, enough to replenish their water supplies—though preferably not so fierce as to raise the sea level or birth a storm.

Even so, the rain had not proven wholly beneficent.

More than twenty companions had already fallen along the way. Some suffered from infected wounds, others from high fevers, and some had simply collapsed mid-stride.

The rain had bestowed hope, yes, but had also imposed a test of endurance.

Only those with the strongest will and hardiest constitutions could hope to journey southward through Cape Massey's Hook, cross the border of the royal territory, and return to their homeland in the Stormlands.

Such a journey would require at least half a moon's turn.

Their defeat had been too complete. They carried only their armor and weapons, with no horses to ride and no provisions to sustain them.

It was no exaggeration to say their present circumstances were more dire even than those of refugees whose villages and towns had been destroyed.

When sending refugees to King's Landing to burden the city, they had provided each with two weeks' rations and other basic necessities.

Yet the monsters who had obliterated their entire camp had given no thought to what the survivors might need for their escape.

For three days, they had endured hunger and thirst, scorching sun and freezing nights, wind and rain, pursued by monsters, witnessing the continuous deaths of their companions.

How far had they traveled?

Had they at last escaped the hunting range of those terrible beings?

The knight lowered his gaze, staring blankly at the black sleeping lion emblazoned upon his breastplate.

"Let sleeping lions lie." The Grandison family of Grandview had always taken this as their motto, expressing both the peaceful nature of the sleeping lion and warning foreign enemies who might dare to rouse it.

If the sleeping lion was already so powerful, who would dare wake it from its slumber?

Yet three nights past, the flame monsters that had appeared so suddenly had launched their attack, waking the sleeping lion.

What had been the result?

Amidst raging fire, clashing steel, and inhuman roars and howls, Norbert Grandison had awakened suddenly from his bed, only to confirm the terrible reality—they were under attack!

From whence had these attackers come?

How had the sentries given no warning?

Norbert Grandison had immediately roused his servants and, while hastily donning his armor, pondered these mysteries with a face contorted by disbelief.

By order of the earls, their two thousand cavalry had been dispatched northward toward Sharp Point City at the northernmost tip of Cape Massey's Hook, destroying all villages and towns along their path, ensuring the populace would have nowhere to turn but King's Landing.

The mission had proceeded smoothly.

They had not wasted effort on well-defended castles, focusing instead on vulnerable villages and towns.

The scattered knights and guards of various lords could only cower behind city walls and watch helplessly. Those few who dared emerge to resist met only with capture or beheading.

By nightfall, they had cleared most of Cape Massey's Hook, leaving only a small area surrounding Sharp Point City in the north. The land there was even more barren, the population likely numbering only a few thousand.

Their mission neared successful completion, with the guards of Stone Dance and Sharp Point still cowering behind their walls, too frightened to venture forth.

Even so, they had maintained caution.

Norbert himself, Ser Bruce Buckler of Bronzegate, Ser Hart Fell of Fellwood, and Ser Rolland Storm of Nightsong each led separate contingents.

Yet since entering the territory of Cape Massey's Hook, their four groups had always gathered together when making camp.

This occasion had been no different.

A full two thousand mounted warriors had established camp in the nameless town between Sharp Point City and Stone Dance. Scouts dispatched in all directions had returned safely, reporting that all was well, and sentries and patrol teams had been arranged in shifts throughout the night.

With such careful and thorough preparations, how could they possibly have been attacked unaware?

Norbert could not comprehend it.

But when he had emerged from his quarters, everything before him seemed drawn from nightmare.

Endless flames roared, danced, and leapt skyward.

Men burned. Horses burned.

Weapons, houses, even the very ground itself lay covered in sheets of fire.

The air felt hot as a baker's oven, the world as bright as midday beneath a scorching sun—yet all bathed in crimson.

How could the flames burn so thick?

Surely this must be a nightmare?

A gust of wind swirled past, hot yet somehow humid air rushing against Norbert's face, strengthening his conviction that he dreamed.

How could real flames feel so damp?

Yet the shouts and scenes of battle from every direction quickened his pulse nonetheless, and he tightened his grip on his longsword.

"Drop your weapons and surrender, and you shall not be harmed!"

Norbert turned abruptly. The speaker shouted in another direction.

An opportunity! Norbert approached swiftly and quietly.

But he soon halted. The silver-white cloak behind that figure was embroidered with a golden six-pointed star, yet remained unblemished, as though freshly washed.

Indeed, this must be a dream!

Norbert hesitated, unsure whether to continue his approach.

The man withdrew a small sphere from the pouch at his waist and hurled it into the distance.

Boom!

The ball shattered. Flesh and blood sprayed outward, and a layer of white mist slowly spread through the air.

Then the man turned around.

He saw Norbert.