Chapter 46
The red woman turned to me from across the great hall, and I froze.
For a moment it felt as if the room had vanished around me. The smiling king and the old man at the stake disappeared. The murmur of the lords and ladies gone. All there was left was the woman in front of me, her red eyes glowing in the torchlight like the ruby around her throat.
Melisandre. It could only be her, and she was stunning.
Pale and slender and taller than most men I'd ever met. Her long hair, the color of burnished copper, fell down to a narrow waist that only emphasized the fullness of her breasts and the curve of her hips even beneath the crimson robes. Her face was heart-shaped and delicate, so beautiful even a goddess would weep with envy.
She was fire turned female. As alluring as the warmth of a hearth on a wintry night. And I could see how a man as cold as the future Stannis Baratheon could so easily fall into those flames.
Harsh clangs broke through to me and I blinked out of my haze. The gold cloaks ringing the pyre and the throne banged their spear butts on the ground in unison. The sound echoed in the cavernous room, reverberating off stone walls. All the whispers from the crowd ceased at once, cut off like a candle snuffed.
Behind the pyre, above the dais that loomed over the great hall, Aerys Targaryen rose from the Iron Throne.
From a distance, standing there with a crown on his head and that monument of swords beneath him—blades springing out of the stone like the cutting spine of some slumbering beast—he looked every inch the Targaryen king the stories spoke about. Regal. Terrible. Powerful.
"Ser Galladon Tarth."
His voice was raspy, still worn from months of screaming and raging beneath the Dun Fort. But it was not weak. And it was not completely mad. A dangerous combination.
"Come," he said, gesturing with one pale hand. "Come closer before your king."
I swallowed, my eyes flicking back to the woman by the pyre. Melisandre did not seem to mind the attention. A smile curved her pouty lips, and I felt a spike of desire lance through me, hot as molten iron.
Her smile widened, showing white teeth.
This fucking bitch. My jaw ground so hard it hurt.
It took some effort to look away from her, but then I was walking across the room. My boots struck the marble with a confidence I didn't feel. I should have been shaking right now, trembling like a leaf. But the good thing about desire was that it felt much like anger sometimes, a rush of emotion that got your body moving like nothing else.
I tried to hold onto that as I went around the pyre and approached the throne. Showing my back to Melisandre made me feel like a hare parading before a hungry fox.
A damn sexy fox, to be fair. But for all I knew she could be a decrepit old lady hiding behind an illusion. Not the kind of thing you wanted to risk for your first time.
Here, closer to the throne, the Kingsguard formed a line before the king. All seven of them stood in their white cloaks, the fabric draping like shrouds above their shoulders. Ser Barristan Selmy, who must've gotten past me in my daze, stepped forward to take my sword from my belt. His fingers were gentle but firm as he unbuckled it, his face carefully blank. Then he rejoined his brothers, and I was left unarmed before the king.
To one side of the throne, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen watched me with a blank face. He stood beside his mother, Queen Rhaella holding a sleeping Viserys against her shoulder. Her eyes met mine for just a moment. Dark purple and filled with something I couldn't name. Then she looked away.
On the other side of the throne, the Small Council members shuffled in place. Pycelle with his ridiculous beard. Velaryon standing tall and proud. Chelsted and Staunton looking uncomfortable. The whole lot of them.
Lord Tywin too stood stiff as an oak tree, arms crossed behind his back. His expression was carved from stone, giving nothing away. Beside him, Lord Steffon Baratheon did not look pleased to see me. His face was stormy, heavy brows tight and furrowed.
I tried not to show the confusion on my face. Did he think I wanted this somehow? That I'd met with King Aerys to ask for this spectacle?
With all those eyes on me, I did the only sensible thing I could think. I went down to my one knee right in front of the Kingsguard, the marble cold beneath me.
"Your Grace," I said, loud enough to carry. "I am yours to command."
That seemed to be the right thing to do. Aerys smiled.
"Well?" he asked, leaning forward in his seat. Eager. Almost childlike in his excitement. "What do you think of my surprise, ser? The man responsible for taking your mother hostage. For maiming her. For scheming to lay your family low."
His voice grew louder as he spoke, projecting so that all in the hall could hear him clearly.
"I present him to you as my gift, young Galladon, for inspiring Ser Barristan in my own rescue!"
His smile widened, lighting up his face. In the torchlight, his teeth looked yellow like a dog's fangs.
"I... I do not know what to say, my king." I kept my voice steady with effort. "I had thought Lord Elmar would be at Castle Black by now. Or at least halfway there."
"The wandering crows always stop in King's Landing on their way back north." Aerys waved a dismissive hand. "The Starks may boast of manning the Wall for thousands of years, but it's the poor fools from the Black Cells that truly guard the realms of men now. I had a chest full of gold and half a hundred men sent in Elmar Whitehead's place as a show of my generosity to the Watch." He chuckled. "The black brother was quite pleased, if you must know."
"Your Grace is kind."
"Yes, yes, but you must not think me so unselfish. Oh no." His expression darkened, purple eyes going hard. "This is the fate that should have befallen those who dared touch the dragon. Those that so cravenly imprisoned their king. But I was cautioned against it by my so-called... advisors."
He practically spat the word.
"Darklyn and his ilk were beheaded or faced the noose. And his wife, that witch Serala of Myr..." His hands clenched on the arms of the throne. "Her I intended to burn alive, as she had no noble blood of note. But she escaped my grasp, and these same advisors have been unable to find her. I was denied my justice."
I held back the urge to look at Tywin. I could almost hear the veins in his forehead struggling to contain themselves.
"How foolish I was to listen." Aerys shook his head. "They mean only to soften the fury of the dragon for their own avaricious ends."
He paused, and in that silence I could hear the crackle of torches. The breathing of the assembled lords and ladies. My own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
"No more. I have seen the light in the fires! I shall follow the tradition of the Targaryens of old. Of Aegon the Conqueror. Fire and Blood!"
His voice rose to a shout that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
"From this day hence, all enemies of the crown shall burn at the stake! And Elmar Whitehead has broken the King's Peace by taking hostage Ser Galladon's lady mother. His fate can be no other!"
Still on my knees, I looked back at the pyre and the man atop it.
Elmar Whitehead lifted his head from where it had been resting on his chest. He looked dazed, half his face swollen and bruised purple. Blood crusted at his nose and the corner of his mouth. I couldn't even tell if he knew what was happening. If he understood where he was or what was about to occur.
I had no love for the man. If young Adam Whitehead had not stopped me in that tower hallway, I would have likely ended Elmar myself. Even if his wife had been the true architect of their plan, he still bore responsibility for it. As a lord and a husband and a man. A knight.
But this? This was not my idea of justice.
I would feel no pleasure in seeing him burned.
"Your Grace, perhaps—" I started, but Aerys Targaryen was not in the mood to listen.
"Light the pyre, Lady Melisandre!" he called out, his voice ringing with glee. "And let this be a warning to all those who turn against the house of the dragon!"
Stunned, I watched as Melisandre stepped forward. Her movements were graceful, almost floating. She raised her hands from beneath the long sleeves of her robes.
Flames licked at her fingers.
Gasps sounded throughout the great hall. I heard someone cry out in shock. Another voice raised in what might have been prayer or curse.
With a flick of Melisandre's wrist, a tongue of fire jumped from her hand like a whip and struck the kindling at the base of the pyre.
Orange light flashed across the hall as the entire pyre burst into flames all at once. The heat washed over me even from several feet away, making me squint. The fire spread with unnatural speed, growing, consuming the dry wood with a hungry roar.
Despite his injuries, Elmar seemed to wake now that the fire licked at his ankles. He thrashed weakly against his bonds, arms pulling at the rope. His head jerked up, eyes going wide with terror and confusion.
He opened his mouth to scream.
But in that pit of his mouth, I saw only the stump of a tongue.
They'd cut it out. Of course they had. Couldn't have him cursing the king, could they? Couldn't have him pleading for mercy in words everyone could understand.
What came from the man's throat after that was a terrible sound. A moaning scream, ragged and raspy and wet. Like an animal caught in a trap, but worse. So much worse because I could hear the human desperation beneath it.
Despite my heartbeat thundering in my chest, I felt paralyzed, frozen on my knees. All around there was chaos. Women screamed in the crowd. Men cursed. Children turned away, hiding in their mothers' skirts.
But no one moved. No one protested.
All the lords and ladies of the court, knights and guards and men-at-arms—they all watched as a man was burned alive. As Elmar Whitehead tried to scream and plead for his life in terrible, inarticulate moans.
The flames climbed higher, engulfing his legs. His clothes caught fire, the fabric blackening and curling. The smell hit me then, burning cloth and wood and something else. Something sickly sweet and wrong.
Flesh.
I looked around as if waiting for someone to intervene. For someone to stop it.
But all I saw was faces turning. Hands covering eyes. Heads bowing. It struck me then. Of course no one would help. I couldn't blame them. Who would be so foolish when such an action would see them in the man's place instead?
It was what happened with Lord Rickard Stark, I imagined. In another future, another time, hundreds of men and women would watch as a great lord of the realm was cooked inside his armor in a farcical trial by combat where wildfire served as the crown's champion.
And here I was now on my knees doing the same as all those people. Watching.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Queen Rhaella fleeing the hall with her child clutched tight against her. Her maids followed, their faces pale.
Something inside me twisted at that, and then I was no longer thinking of Rickard Stark and the people who watched him die. Or even of Elmar Whitehead and the crimes that led him to this barbarous end.
All I could think about was what that woman would suffer once this sick farce was done. When Aerys got his fill of Elmar's wet screams and sought their marriage bed to hear hers.
With that in mind, the decision came easy to me.
I lunged.
Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, the man who'd knighted me, was staring wide-eyed at the burning pyre. He reacted too late when I pulled his sword from its scabbard.
The blade came free with a metallic rasp. Another brother in white screamed a warning, but I was already moving. Faster than any of them. Running on pure instinct.
I dashed back the way I'd come, shouldering past a trembling gold cloak. The heat from the pyre was intense now, searingly hot. The flames roared like a living thing.
With Elmar's back turned to me and the flames raging beneath his feet, I jumped onto the lower edge of the pyre. The wood was already hot beneath my boots, but I shut the rational part of my brain down and thrust the sword forward with all my strength, driving it into his back and through, all the way into his heart.
The resistance of flesh parting. The scrape of metal on bone. The final push as the blade found its mark. Perhaps I only imagined it for my own sake. But I would swear I heard a gasp. A sigh of relief.
Then the screaming stopped, and I would have fallen down the backside of the pyre if hands were not immediately pulling me down harshly.
Pain exploded in my shoulders as they were yanked behind my back. My hands were forced together, someone's knee pressing between my shoulder blades. The marble floor rushed up to meet me as I was slammed down face-first. I tasted blood on my tongue.
Above me, Ser Gerold Hightower, Arthur Dayne, and Barristan Selmy worked to immobilize me, pinning me to the ground with the efficiency of long practice. The marble was hot here from the proximity to the fire. I could feel it burning through my shirt.
Gasps and screams erupted all around the great hall. Chaos. The sound of boots running. Shouted orders.
I heard Melisandre's voice close by, sharp with anger. "You fool!"
More screaming. Shouts. The clatter of weapons being drawn. But above it all came the voice of Aerys, high and screeching like a banshee.
"Bring him to me! Bring him to me NOW!"
They hauled me up, hands still behind my back. Someone's grip was crushing my wrists. I felt something pop in my shoulder, a sharp lance of agony.
Someone called out to me amidst the noise. I caught a glimpse of Gerion in the crowd, his one good eye wide with horror. He was shaking his head at me as if telling me not to do anything else foolish.
Then a hand came down on the back of my head and pushed it down so I was staring at the floor. I grunted at the shove.
They dragged me before the throne. Rough hands shoved me down. My knees struck the marble mercilessly, the impact sending shockwaves up my thighs. They'd bruise for sure. Probably wouldn't be able to walk without pain for a few days.
Ser Gerold grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head backward so I had to look up at the king.
Aerys was red-faced, purple eyes bulging. "What is the meaning of this?" Spittle flew as he shouted. "How dare you interrupt the king's justice?"
I racked my brain and the answer came quicker than I'd hoped. Years of improvisation and bullshitting my way through life finally paying off.
"Your Grace!" I shouted loud enough for all to hear, my voice ringing across the hall. "I am humbled before you. You are wiser than I could ever hope to imagine!"
Aerys was taken aback. Still raging mad, but confused now. "What do you mean? Speak plainly!"
"You offered me a boon, Your Grace." I bowed my head as much as Ser Gerold's grip would allow. "And somehow, despite never asking it of you, you have delivered."
Aerys's eyes narrowed. "How?"
"Elmar Whitehead's life." I let each word fall like a stone. "That was the boon I wished for, Your Grace. The one I hungered for. The justice I myself was denied when the man who stole my mother was sentenced to the Wall and not to be killed by mine own hands."
I bowed further even as I knelt, feeling the strain in my neck and back.
"I do not know how I can ever repay such debt, my king. But for as long as I live, know that I shall endeavor to do so. You are, indeed, a most gracious liege."
Silence filled the hall.
For a moment I thought he wouldn't buy it. That I'd miscalculated. That the next sound I'd hear would be the order for my execution.
Then Aerys sat back down on the throne, his expression shifting from rage to something else. Thoughtful. Almost pleased.
"Yes. Yes, of course." He waved a hand airily. "It seems that, in my haste to seek justice, I did not stop to consider this would be your boon. The man's very life." He looked down at me. "Unhand him, Ser Gerold."
The grip on my hair released. The hands binding my wrists let go. I stayed kneeling, not daring to move yet.
Ser Gerold Hightower glared at me as he stepped back. It had made him look bad that I'd managed to take his sword. The embarrassment was written all over his weathered face.
"Thank you, Your Grace," I said, straightening up slowly. I could feel a hundred eyes burning at my back. Feel the weight of their judgment, their shock, their fear.
"Still, that was a foolish thing you did, ser." Aerys's voice had turned almost paternal. "It could be tantamount to treason were I not this understanding. But I can excuse the brashness of youth this once."
I bowed again, lower this time. "Of course, Your Grace. It shall not happen again. I can only thank you for your mercy."
Aerys stood, and the court rose with him. "Let it be known that this is how justice shall be served from this day forward. All enemies of the crown shall face the flames. And I expect the lords and ladies of my court to attend these executions. To witness what becomes of those who dare raise their hands against House Targaryen."
His gaze swept across the assembled nobles. Many of them looked away, unable to meet those mad purple eyes.
"This audience is concluded."
He descended from the throne and swept out through the door behind it, his Kingsguard falling into formation around him. Prince Rhaegar followed, his face carefully neutral. The Small Council members filed out after them, Tywin moving with rigid precision, not looking at anyone.
The doors of the great hall were thrown open and people began streaming out. Desperate to escape, to get away from the smell of burning flesh that still hung heavy in the air.
I stood there, unable to move for a bit. My legs felt like water. My hands shook. I saw a flash of red in the direction the king had gone. Melisandre, her crimson robes swirling. Then she was gone, disappeared through a side door.
Finally, I forced myself to turn and leave. Each step felt like walking through mud, and I did not dare look back to see Elmar tied to the pyre with the sword still sticking through his back.
Lord Steffon Baratheon was waiting for me near the doors. And it was no longer anger that showed on his face. Something else had replaced it.
"I'm sorry for doubting you, lad," he said quietly.
"And I'm sorry for speaking out of turn, my lord." My voice came out hoarse. "Denouncing Lord Elmar's sentence to the Wall, your sentence, will reflect badly on your rule."
"No. Do not apologize." Steffon gripped my shoulder. "That was quick thinking, that. You did the right thing. The noble thing, Galladon. Truly."
We walked in silence through the corridors. He looked at me as if he wanted to say more, but he was no fool. He knew what King's Landing was as much or more than I did. Every word could be overheard. Every gesture noted.
"You should rest for now, son," he said finally. "I imagine it has not been an easy day for you."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
We separated at a junction. He went one way toward his chambers. I went the other toward mine.
My rooms felt like a sanctuary when I finally reached them. I closed and locked the door, checking it twice to make sure the bolt was set. Then I sat on the bed, somewhat stunned at what had happened.
At what I'd done and what could have gone wrong.
Fuck. Stupid and reckless. Honorable, perhaps. But I should know better what honor does to people in this city. Should have learned from Ned Stark's fate, from all the good men who'd died because they tried to do the right thing in a place where right and wrong were just words people used to justify their ambitions.
Then a thought came to my mind and I let out an audible curse.
"Fuck," I drew the word out. My hands went up to my head.
My boon. The favor the king had promised me.
I'd planned to use it for something practical. Expanding the trading venture. Getting crown backing for improvements to Dawnrest. Perhaps even securing a city charter that would let us establish a proper port with all the legal protections that came with it.
And I'd just thrown it away. Used it as an excuse to cover my impulsive act of mercy. All for a man who, by all accounts, deserved his death, if not one so quite as cruel as burning at the stake.
I was lamenting this turn of events, running through all the lost opportunities in my head, when a knock came at the door.
My hand went to my side, only to realize I'd not gotten my sword back in the confusion after the throne room. It was probably still with the Kingsguard, who I'd likely have to seek out to see it returned. Another awkward meeting I had to look forward to.
But I was not completely weaponless. I quickly went to my bed and grabbed the knife I kept beneath the pillow. Not much of a weapon, but I'd bet on myself against anyone even with a reach advantage.
I approached the door cautiously. Listened. Heard nothing on the other side except the knock repeated. Patient and unhurried.
Taking a breath, I unlocked the door and pulled it open, only to find myself face to face not with a dozen Targaryen knights ready to drag me to the black cells. Not with assassins sent by someone I'd offended.
But something much worse. Much more dangerous.
Melisandre in all her red glory stood outside my room, that same small smile playing at her full lips.
"Ser Galladon," she said, her voice like warm honey. "May I come in? We have much to discuss."
I stuttered for a moment, unable to provide a coherent answer. My brain had simply stopped working.
She wasn't wearing the same robes as in the great hall. Those had been modest by comparison, if tight crimson robes could ever be called modest. Now she wore a silk gown red as blood, the neckline plunging to accent her best assets—a pale cleavage that could make a man forget his own name, and the glimmering ruby at her neck that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.
"Well?" she asked, one eyebrow arched. "Will you leave me standing in the corridor like some common tradesman? I assure you, Ser Galladon, people will talk."
"My lady," I managed. My voice came out rougher than intended. I cleared my throat. "It would be inappropriate for me to host you alone in my rooms."
"Oh." Her smile widened, wicked as sin. "I'm flattered you think me a maiden in need of such care. But you need not worry in that regard, ser. Unless you think yourself unable to control your own desires?"
I stared back at her. Forced myself to focus on her eyes this time, not the frankly unfair curves that silk was doing absolutely nothing to hide. Red eyes. Not natural. Nothing about this woman was natural.
Those eyes danced with amusement, like she could read every thought racing through my head.
"I can control them plenty," I said.
"Good."
She strode into the room without waiting for further invitation, silk skirts swaying with each step and showing hints of long, pale legs beneath. The fabric whispered against the floor, against her skin. Her movements were fluid, graceful, like a cat or a dancer.
Damn this woman.
I closed the door—keeping it slightly ajar, because I wasn't a complete idiot—and turned to face her. Kept a healthy distance between us. The bed was right there, and I was very aware of it. Very aware of her. Very aware that if anyone saw her leaving my chambers, my reputation would be in tatters.
Not that it wasn't already after today's performance.
"What is it you want from me, my lady?"
"Melisandre," she said, still examining my rooms. Her gaze moved across the sparse furnishings, the traveling chest, the window with its view of the city below. "I am no more a lady than you are."
"Lady Melisandre, then," I said after a second.
A second where I fought myself not to call her Melony, from Lot Seven. That would have thrown her for a loop, no doubt. But it would also paint an even bigger target on my back than I'd already managed with my foolishness in the throne room.
She turned to face me fully, and the amusement had gone from her eyes. What replaced it was something harder. Colder, despite the fire imagery.
"You did something reckless today, Ser Galladon."
"On that we are in agreement," I said.
She moved closer. I held my ground, refusing to step back even as every instinct screamed at me to maintain distance. She smelled like smoke and cinnamon and something else I couldn't identify. Something that made my head swim slightly.
Magic. Had to be magic. Or pheromones. Or both.
"Why?" she asked simply.
"Why I killed him?"
"And why a sword through the heart? Why that method specifically?"
I frowned, confused by the question. "I'm a knight. It's the easiest way I could think of in the moment. Quick. Clean. Merciful."
Her eyes bored into me, red as a blood moon. Whatever she saw there made her let out a long, slow sigh. Not quite disappointment, but close.
"You have no idea what you did, do you?" she asked. Her voice had gone soft, almost pitying. "What you stopped? What you stole?"
The words hit me like cold water. My mouth went suddenly dry as I realized what she meant.
She'd prepared some kind of ritual. Some kind of offering to the Lord of Light. Death by fire, sacrificial burning, the whole theatrical setup. It hadn't just been Aerys's madness. Or not only that. Melisandre had been planning something, and I'd interrupted it.
Unwittingly, yes. But I'd done it either way.
Somehow, I found my courage. "You should leave now, Lady Melisandre."
I moved toward the door, intending to open it wider. Make it clear this conversation was over. That she needed to go before—before what? Before she cursed me? Burned me alive? Seduced me into doing something monumentally stupid?
All of the above seemed possible.
She looked at me for a second longer, those red eyes searching. Then she nodded, surprisingly acquiescent.
"As you wish."
She glided past me toward the door, and I relaxed slightly. This had gone better than expected. No threats. No magical fire. Just a weird conversation and enough fantasy material for my teenage hormones to run rampant.
Then she stopped at the threshold, turning suddenly toward me.
"You should look into the flames tonight, ser."
My blood went cold.
"There is power in life, even in one so meager as Elmar Whitehead's." Her eyes flickered to the side, just for a moment. Toward my storage chest at the foot of the bed. "It might help you come to the light."
Then she was gone, red silk disappearing down the corridor like a flame guttering out.
I stood frozen, staring at the empty doorway.
She knew.
She fucking knew about the glass candle.
My hands shook as I closed and locked the door, shoving the bolt home hard enough to hurt my palm. Then I scrambled to the chest, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste.
I threw open the lid. Dug through the clothes and spare boots and all the mundane things I'd packed. Found the false bottom I'd installed and fumbled with it until the panel came up. And there it was.
The glass candle, still wrapped in cloth, exactly where I'd hidden it.
I pulled it out with shaking hands, unwrapping the fabric. The obsidian surface gleamed in the lamplight, black as night and smooth and—
Warm.
It was warm in my hands.
Unlike all the other times I'd touched it, when it had been cool as regular glass, now it felt alive. Like holding something with a heartbeat. With a pulse.
I stared at it, transfixed. Look into the flames, she'd said. Her words seemed to echo in my mind over and over, and I had to shake my head to break away from them. This was stupid. This was dangerous. This was exactly the kind of thing I should not do after acting so reckless earlier.
Look into the flames.
I swallowed. I could not deny the warm curiosity I felt flaring up from my chest, spreading like a fire throughout my body. Or the envy of my sister I held deep inside of me, when she could so easily light up the candle and use its wondrous powers to see across time and space when I could not.
Even though the candle was given to me. Not her.
And why should I not do it? Why shouldn't I be able to have the same power? Here and now I could do it with only a flicker of my will. I could feel it coursing through me. I could look into its flames now. I could travel across the world, could see into the past and the future like the sorcerers of old.
Thinking of all the possibilities the candle could show me, I sat back down on my bed, the glass candle feeling alive in my hand, warm, pulsing.
I leaned closer, drawn in despite myself, and willed it to life. The flame flared above it bright and white.
And so I saw it.