The Vision in the Flames

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The news that Clay had defeated Jaime Lannister's army of twelve thousand men, broken the siege of Riverrun, and even captured Jaime himself, spread across the Seven Kingdoms in a remarkably short amount of time. Those with ears in high places ensured the message reached every corner of the realm, including the ears of the two kings bearing the crowned stag.

Although these two brothers who became kings at the same time had not yet drawn swords against each other, each loathed the glittering crown upon the other's head with an intensity that burned deep within their hearts.

Stannis Baratheon, having declared himself king on Dragonstone, had originally planned to raise his banners and march upon Storm's End, the ancestral seat of House Baratheon. However, he was stopped by the counsel of Melisandre, the red priestess from Essos who had long supported his claim.

A month ago, this red-robed woman had undergone a strange transformation. Her behavior changed abruptly, and she no longer spent her time using charm and allure to entangle Stannis's will. Instead, she stood alone before the flames, murmuring in a low, trance-like voice.

At times, her face would grow pale with distress, her entire body trembling as if overtaken by fear. Though Stannis himself could see nothing within the fire, he understood perfectly that something grave had occurred. This mysterious advisor, this servant of divine power, had undoubtedly witnessed something troubling.

After repeated questioning, Melisandre finally responded to him, though her words were veiled in cryptic and elusive language.

Stannis Baratheon remembered the scene with piercing clarity. It had been a stormy evening, and they were gathered in the Painted Table Hall, the great chamber on Dragonstone that housed the enormous carved map of the entire terrain of Westeros. Melisandre stood by the blazing hearth, her face pale and grim, her gaze fixed upon the flickering fire.

"Melisandre," he had asked in a stern voice, "tell your king what it is you have seen in the flames."

That had been his first question, spoken with weight and command. Yet after a long silence, the woman who had once been eloquent and persuasive remained utterly unresponsive, as if she had not even heard him. In recent days, such behavior had become common.

He recalled that he had consumed quite a bit of wine that day. In the past, when Melisandre refused to speak, he would let the matter rest. But on this night, the wine stirred his blood, and the fire's glow painted his usually stone-like face with a flush of crimson rage.

No man likes to be ignored by a woman, even if that woman is no ordinary woman in the usual sense.

And besides, he was the one true and rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. What right did she have to defy him and withhold her answers?

Fury rising within him, Stannis Baratheon roared at her, his voice echoing through the hall.

"Answer me! I am your king! If you remain silent, I will extinguish your precious fire and drive you out from this place, you arrogant woman!"

His voice boomed so loudly that even through the thick wooden doors, it reached the ears of the guards outside, who exchanged uneasy glances.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, Melisandre stirred. Her eyes, as luminous as rubies, remained locked on the crackling flames. After a long pause, she finally spoke, her voice low and slow.

"I will answer you," she said, "for you and I are both servants of my Lord. And between those who share faith, there must be truth, Your Grace."

She bit down hard on the words "Your Grace," as though reminding him that his crown held little sway over her. She did not speak out of fear or duty. She did so because the flames had revealed something so terrifying that she no longer cared how the king might feel.

One day, during her daily vigil before the fire, she suddenly saw a face she did not recognize. It was a face that had never appeared in the flames before, and she was certain of that.

It was a youthful face, still in the prime of its youth. That a stranger should appear in the fire did not trouble Melisandre. She believed all visions shown by the flames were messages from her Lord. But what the owner of this young face did next shocked her deeply.

Within the fire, the unknown young man seemed to be locked in fierce battle with a number of soldiers. Judging by the armor they wore, Melisandre deduced they were men of House Frey from the Twins.

The young warrior moved with peerless strength and skill, cutting down foes like a storm tearing through reeds. Alone, he pierced enemy lines as though walking through an open field. Yet even this remarkable feat did not truly surprise her.

What came next did!

Suddenly, the young man raised his left hand, and from the center of his palm, a stream of brilliant flame burst forth.

At that very moment, the fire before her roared and flickered violently, the vision turning hazy and indistinct. But within her stunned mind, that image repeated itself over and over.

The power of flame had been seized by one who did not serve R'hllor!

Her Lord, the god of light and flame, held dominion over all fire and heat in the world. Yet this young man, this stranger, wielded the flame with ease, without prayer or ritual, without even invoking the Lord's name.

Even Melisandre, a priestess of great power, could not command the flames so directly and fiercely. She could not do what he had done. Which meant this mysterious warrior had a stronger grasp over the flame than she herself possessed.

That was no small matter!

To Melisandre, it was a sacred truth that all warmth and light belonged to the great R'hllor. That belief had never wavered. It was the cornerstone of her faith. Yet now, the reality before her shattered that truth.

"Who is he?"

Again and again, she asked the question, both of herself and of the fire. But aside from broken, scattered visions, she received no answer. The flames offered no name, no voice, no history.

Piece by piece, she gathered fragments of insight. The young warrior seemed to be of noble birth, likely a scion of one of the great houses of the North. His bearing, his garments, his command over men all pointed to high status.

She had also glimpsed a vision of him commanding cavalry, forming ranks, and charging through the Lannister host to rout their forces. In some sense, she had learned of Jaime Lannister's defeat even before Stannis himself, though she had yet to reveal this knowledge to him.

The will of the Lord of Light was not something she could fully comprehend. All she truly understood was that this young man was exceedingly dangerous. He was one who had stolen the flame—a usurper of fire's sacred power.

Thus, Melisandre abandoned her previous efforts to persuade Stannis to march on Storm's End. That battle no longer mattered.

She had to uncover this young man's identity first.

As a wielder of magic, she knew better than most what the sudden appearance of a new magical force in the world could mean. It could spell doom for all who practiced the arcane arts.

Before ordinary men, she and her kind were as mighty as gods. But before the unknown powers that had begun to stir, they might be as fragile as withered grass in autumn, crumbling into ash at the slightest touch.

To Melisandre, the continent of Westeros had suddenly become a land fraught with peril. She did not know whether this noble youth was aware of her presence, nor could she determine what attitude he might hold toward the followers of the Lord of Light.

"Your Grace, there is someone on this continent whose nature eludes me. I cannot gauge the extent of his power. Perhaps he might become an ally, but far more likely, he is a threat. He frightens me, my king."

Melisandre leaned wearily against the side of the hearth, her voice slow and hesitant, her tone drifting and uncertain.

"I advised you not to throw yourself into the contest for the Iron Throne so hastily because of this very presence. In the Neck, the old gods blocked my power. Without their leave, my abilities will be gravely diminished in that land."

There was a long silence before Stannis clenched his jaw and asked the same question that had plagued Melisandre's mind.

"Tell me. Who is he?"

Melisandre longed to know the answer as well. But the Lord of Light was not omniscient. His power, vast though it might be, could not grant her everything. She could only shake her head bitterly and answer with resignation.

"I fear I cannot answer that question, Your Grace. I do not know who he is."

"Your flames gave you no name?"

Stannis raised his ashen brows high. If his eyes did not deceive him, the usually serene and unnervingly composed woman before him seemed troubled, even perplexed, as she spoke. That was a rare sight indeed.

Melisandre understood. For Stannis Baratheon to ask her this meant that in his eyes, his identity as king took precedence over being a devout follower of R'hllor. Not that he had ever been particularly pious.

"You know well the power of the Lord of Light, Your Grace. But the figure I saw in the flames possessed a strange and unsettling magical power. We must tread carefully, my king."

Stannis pressed his lips together and let the word "unsettling" roll through his mind. Coming from the mouth of a witch, it could only be trusted halfway. Perhaps the man did have power. But it was unlikely to change the course of the realm.

"As long as he doesn't fall in with my dear brother Renly or that Lannister bastard squatting on the Iron Throne, I care not."

Stannis muttered the words. He had never been averse to powerful men serving beneath him. His acceptance of Melisandre was proof enough of that.

"He is neither in service to your brother Renly nor does he kneel to the boy who sits upon the throne. In the fire, I saw him standing beside the banner of the direwolf."

"He bears the name Stark?"

Stannis's brows furrowed deeply. Melisandre had told him before that the North was cloaked in the power of the old gods. The ancient bloodlines, like that of House Stark, shared a deep and abiding bond with that power.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I cannot say. But the flames showed me that his power is not of the old gods."

Melisandre's gemlike eyes narrowed slightly, reflecting the flickering flames dancing in the hearth.

Stannis gave a slight nod and said nothing more. His gaze drifted from the red priestess's curvaceous figure and returned to the vast map of Westeros.

He was the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms, the true king under the law. And if the high priestess of the Lord of Light believed him to be the reincarnation of Azor Ahai, then he would not hesitate to claim this new power for his cause. Stannis harbored no love for the Seven. Not the slightest trace of it.

Rubbing the wiry bristles on his chin, sharp and stiff like tiny steel needles, he fell into a moment of quiet contemplation before speaking again.

"I'll send Davos to the mainland to investigate. Can you give me anything useful about this man?"

"What I can offer, Your Grace, all comes from the flames. Rather than hearing it from me, it would be better for you to see it yourself. I shall assist you in recreating what I have just witnessed. You may judge with your own eyes."

Melisandre had regained that unnerving serenity and extended her invitation to her king.

Stannis Baratheon did not refuse. In the days past, this woman in red had shown him enough visions in the fire to convince him that there were indeed gods in this world, and they could reach out and shape the affairs of men.

He stepped before the hearth, now blazing with crimson light, and under Melisandre's guidance, beheld once more the vision she had seen moments before—the young man leading a charge down from the mountain valley, his cavalry like a tide sweeping across the field.

When the image faded from the fire, Stannis stood silent. Unlike Melisandre, who was a stranger to this land, he was one of the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms. It did not take him long to discern who the two armies were.

"If I am not mistaken, the proud son of Lord Tywin, the Kingslayer himself, along with his host, has been utterly routed. The usurper's strength has suffered a grievous blow."

He pondered for a while, then inhaled deeply and gave his conclusion aloud.

Melisandre was slightly surprised, but only for a moment. She swiftly grasped the implications. As the Lord of Light's servant, she held little concern for the wars unfolding across the Seven Kingdoms. After all, none of them were followers of R'hllor. Let them perish, then. Why should she care?

"It seems the North has won the first move," Stannis said, his voice calm yet thoughtful. "We shall need their support. Our current forces are still far too few. Eddard Stark once stood in the throne room and publicly declared me his king. I trust his son will make the same choice."

Calculations began to form in Stannis's mind, cold and precise. The meager resources of Dragonstone were far from sufficient to raise a host capable of unifying the Seven Kingdoms under his banner. Thus, the support of others was essential. Looking across the realm, he saw that beyond the Vale of Arryn and Dorne, who had yet to take a stance, every other great house had already chosen their side.

The Westerlands and the Iron Throne were firmly his enemies. In the Reach, his own brother Renly was feasting and getting marriage. He had crowned himself with that ridiculous circlet of a false king and now stood against him.

Therefore, it was imperative to secure the support of the North before they nurtured ambitions of their own.

…

Cheers and cries of joy echoed along the road from Highgarden to King's Landing. At the heart of an army nearly one hundred thousand strong, a grand tourney was underway, ablaze with heat and excitement.

The cause of the exuberance among the knights and nobles from the Reach and Stormlands was singular: their shared king, Renly Baratheon, had just secured another resounding victory in the lists.

His opponent, Dickon Tarly of Horn Hill, heir to Lord Randyll Tarly, was at that moment climbing back to his feet while clutching his head. Still young and lacking the seasoned skill required for tourney combat, Dickon had lasted only a few passes before being unseated by his king.

But this was no disgrace. King Renly was so perfect, in every sense, that to be bested by him could hardly be considered a stain on one's honor.

Renly Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, extended a hand to the knight seated upon the grass and pulled him up with a warm smile across his face. He spoke kindly to the embarrassed young man:

"Well fought. That reverse thrust of yours was excellent, quite promising indeed. But you must train harder. Learn more from your lord father, Lord Randyll. You have the blood of House Tarly in your veins, young Dickon."

His voice was gentle, his tone encouraging, and his hand rested firmly on Dickon's shoulder, easing the boy's self-consciousness. This gesture, simple yet gracious, earned many nods of approval from the surrounding lords and knights.

Soon, chants of "King Renly" surged across the tourney grounds. The soldiers nearby showed no surprise at the spectacle. Scenes like this had played out almost daily since Renly Baratheon had proclaimed himself king in Highgarden.

Removing his helmet, Renly Baratheon made his way to the side, where his Rainbow Guard awaited. The tilts were over, the cheers had been received. Now, it was time to see what matters this title of king had brought him.

Holding a freshly washed peach in his hand, Renly took a bite as he casually asked:

"So, tell me, what's the news from the North? Anything interesting?"

The guards exchanged glances before one of them stepped forward and relayed the information that should have come through his bannermen:

"Your Grace, news from the North says that the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister's host, has suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of the Northerners. He himself, along with many Western lords, has been captured."

"And one more thing. Though the truth of it remains uncertain, it seems the Ironborn pirates have sacked Lannisport, setting fire to the lion's tail from behind."

As they watched their king rise suddenly to his feet, the Rainbow Guard fell silent. No one spoke a word. It was plain to all that the king's face was shifting through many expressions.

Yet, was this not good news for their king?

Was it not a stroke of fortune?

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