Chapter 14: A Dance of Two Fires

Chapter 14: A Dance of Two Fires

The arrival of Stannis Baratheon's fleet was a study in grim efficiency. There were no triumphant banners snapping in the wind, no celebratory horns, only the rhythmic groan of oars and the sharp, barked commands of officers. His ships were grey and black, functional war vessels, and the men who disembarked were as disciplined and dour as their lord. They marched into the city not as returning heroes, but as an occupying force taking up its station. King's Landing, just beginning to embrace the gaudy spectacle of Robert's reign, fell momentarily silent at this stark reminder of the iron in the Baratheon blood.

Kaelen was part of the official delegation from the Small Council sent to greet the King's brother. He observed Stannis with a profound, analytical interest. The man was as the stories told: tall, broad-shouldered, with a jaw set in a permanent clench of grinding resentment. His eyes were deep-set and unforgiving. Kaelen saw a man forged from pure, unbending duty, a creature of rigid lines and brittle honor. He was the antithesis of his brother Robert. Kaelen found the man's inflexibility to be a contemptible weakness, yet he couldn't help but admire the sheer, disciplined force of his will.

As Master of Laws, Kaelen stepped forward. "Lord Stannis. On behalf of King Robert, I welcome you to King's Landing. Your swift victory at Dragonstone does honor to our cause."

Stannis's gaze was like a physical blow. "I did my duty," he said, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. "As others did not." The barb was aimed at the lords who had feasted while he had laid siege.

But it was not Stannis who held Kaelen's true attention. His magically-attuned senses, sharpened at the Tower of Joy and ignited by the pyromancer's essence, detected a source of immense power within Stannis's retinue. It was a steady, radiating heat, a disciplined and purposeful flame that stood in stark contrast to the chaotic, volatile energy of the Alchemists' Guild.

He saw her then. Standing just behind Stannis, a woman who was clearly not of Westeros. She was of middling years, gaunt and tall, with skin the color of pale parchment. Her hair was the color of polished copper, braided with obsidian beads. Her robes were the color of embers, a deep, dark red. But it was her eyes that were captivating: they burned with a zealot's light, seeming to look past the physical world and into the souls of men. Tattoos in a script Kaelen recognized as a variant of High Valyrian snaked down her exposed forearms. This was a Red Priestess.

"This is the Lady Myra," Stannis said, without a trace of introduction in his tone. "From Myr. Her counsel proved… useful… in rooting out the last of the Targaryen loyalists on Dragonstone."

Lady Myra's burning eyes fell upon Kaelen, and for the first time since he had begun his hunt, Kaelen felt himself being truly seen. A jolt, like ice and fire meeting, passed between them. He could feel her power wash over him, a wave of heat and faith. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that she could feel him. She couldn't see his soul, couldn't know his origins, but she could sense the wrongness of him. She could feel the cold, predatory void where his humanity should be, the patchwork of stolen lives and perverted magic that made up his being.

Her lips, thin and severe, pressed together. "My lord," she said, her voice possessing a strange, musical accent. Her eyes did not blink. "The Lord of Light casts a brilliant flame, but it is in the greatest light that the deepest shadows are revealed."

Kaelen offered a slight, chilling smile. "Indeed, my lady. But one must be careful. Stare too long into the fire, and you may find your own reflection looking back."

The silent challenge was issued. The dance had begun.

Kaelen knew this hunt would be unlike any other. Myra was not a reclusive craftsman or a panicked courtier. She was an agent of a powerful, organized religion with branches across the known world. She was under the direct protection of the King's own brother. A simple assassination was not only difficult, but politically suicidal. He needed to understand her first, to probe her defenses.

He tasked Captain Rennifer's network with observing her, but it was a fool's errand. The mundane spies came back with nothing but reports of her spending her days in prayer or in quiet consultation with Lord Stannis. Kaelen knew he had to rely on his own, more esoteric skills.

He began to shadow her himself. Using the ghost-like stealth of the Basilisk Isle assassin, he became an unseen presence in her life. He followed her to a disused solar in the Red Keep that Stannis had secured for her. Peering through a crack in the stone, Kaelen watched her ritual.

The room was bare save for a simple iron brazier. Myra stood before it, her eyes closed, her hands outstretched. She began to chant in flawless High Valyrian, her voice rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm. As she chanted, the flames in the brazier began to dance, to twist into shapes that were not born of draft or fuel. They coalesced, forming fleeting images in the fire: a kraken swallowing a stag, a lion weeping tears of gold, a wolf howling in a snowstorm. Prophecies. Visions. She was not just speaking to her god; she was communing with the fire itself, using it as a lens to peer into the stream of time.

Then, with a final, resonant word, she opened her eyes and stared directly at the crack in the wall where Kaelen was hidden. "The shadows have ears," she whispered to the empty room. "But the fire has eyes."

Kaelen retreated, a cold thrill running down his spine. She was powerful. Her magic was not the volatile, chemical-based art of the pyromancers; it was a disciplined, faith-driven power that gave her senses far beyond the norm. Stalking her like a common spy would not work. He needed to confront her, to test her will against his own.

He arranged a "chance" encounter two days later in the quiet solitude of the godswood. He found her standing before the ancient heart tree, her red robes a bloody slash against the pale bark.

"A strange place to find a priestess of the Lord of Light," Kaelen began, his voice calm. "There is no fire here. Only earth, and wood, and old gods who have been silent for a thousand years."

Myra turned to face him, her expression severe. "The Great Other has many faces, my lord. Darkness. Cold. Silence. This place is a monument to his power."

"Or it is simply a garden," Kaelen countered, stepping closer. "You see the world as a battlefield between two gods. I see it as a collection of resources, waiting to be utilized."

"You are honest, at least," Myra said, her eyes narrowing. "I have seen you in the flames, Lord Vyrwel. I do not know what you are, but I know what you are not. You are no man. You are a vessel, hollowed out and filled with the stolen lives of others. A thief of souls. You wear the strength of dead warriors and the cunning of dead schemers like a cloak. You are an abomination in the eyes of R'hllor."

Kaelen felt a flicker of genuine surprise, quickly suppressed. Her visions were more potent than he had anticipated. She could not see the truth, but she could sense the shape of it.

"And what I see," Kaelen replied, his own will pushing back against hers, a wave of cold, predatory focus, "is a woman who has bound her soul to a capricious deity. Your power is not your own. It is borrowed. A gift that can be rescinded. Tell me, priestess, what happens when the fire goes out?"

The air between them grew thick, charged with an unseen energy. The leaves on the heart tree rustled, though there was no wind. Kaelen focused the icy, disciplined will of the Kingsguard he had consumed, a wall of pure, protective intent. Myra met it with the blazing conviction of her faith, a furnace of unwavering belief. For a moment, two opposing forces of nature were locked in a silent, invisible struggle. He felt the heat of her power, a pressure against his mind. She, in turn, must have felt the profound, soul-crushing coldness of his void.

It was a stalemate. He could not overwhelm her faith with his will alone. And she could not burn away the darkness within him. They were, in their own ways, equally powerful.

"The Lord's fire is eternal," she finally said, her voice strained. "It is you who will be extinguished, shadow-thing. You will be scoured from this world."

"A fascinating prophecy," Kaelen said, his composure absolute. "We shall have to see if it comes to pass."

He turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the godswood. The confrontation had taught him a valuable lesson. He could not simply kill her. Her power was intrinsically tied to her belief, her faith a shield he could not yet pierce. To harvest her, he couldn't just break her body; he had to break her spirit. Or, failing that, he had to strip away her protection.

His opportunity came, as it so often did, from the mouth of Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger approached him a few days later, his face a mask of conspiratorial concern.

"Our unsmiling Lord Stannis has become… pious," Littlefinger said, his voice a low murmur. "It is a most unsettling development. A man of reason can be negotiated with. A zealot cannot. His red woman fills his head with visions of destiny. An unpredictable Stannis is a danger to the stability of the realm, and to the profitability of our shared ventures."

"She is a formidable woman," Kaelen acknowledged.

"Formidable? Perhaps. Incorruptible? I think not," Littlefinger smirked. "My little birds have been watching your little bird. It seems the Lady Myra, for all her piety, has been accepting 'gifts' to the Lord of Light from certain wealthy merchants. In return, the Lord of Light has been 'gifting' them with remarkably accurate prophecies about which of their shipping ventures will be successful. She is using her visions to play the market."

Kaelen saw the path forward instantly. It was a minor sin, a petty corruption, but in the eyes of a man like Stannis Baratheon, a man whose honor was as rigid and brittle as pig iron, it would be an unforgivable betrayal.

"A priestess using her god's gifts for material gain," Kaelen mused. "Lord Stannis would find that… distasteful."

"He would find it to be heresy," Littlefinger corrected him. "All we need is to present him with undeniable proof. A task for our esteemed Master of Laws and his brutally efficient City Watch, I should think. A raid on the right merchant, the discovery of the right ledger, a confession from the right man…"

The plan was laid. Littlefinger, the master of coin, would provide the target. Kaelen, the master of laws, would provide the justice. They would work together to orchestrate the political downfall of the Red Priestess.

Littlefinger's goal was to remove a disruptive political influence.

Kaelen's goal was far simpler. He would help Littlefinger strip away the priestess's protection, to have her cast out by the one man sworn to protect her. And once she was alone, disgraced and vulnerable, the serpent would be free to strike, to see just how brightly her fire burned when there was no one left to hear her scream. The dance was about to enter its final, fatal sequence.