Randall Tarly murmured, "An apprentice paladin only has one zero-level divine spell slot. A first-level paladin gains one specialty-type divine spell.
After that, each additional divine spell raises one's rank by half a level. Each full level grants another specialty-type divine spell.
I have six divine spells, three of which are specialty-type spells. Therefore, I am a third-level great knight."
"How are class levels determined?" Jon asked curiously.
Hearing this question, Randall Tarly immediately found the answer within his mind.
"Piety, understanding of doctrine, practice of doctrine, and the merits one establishes for the world," he murmured.
It seemed that the Mother had sealed a portion of memories that did not originally belong to him in a remote corner of his mind, requiring him to search for them gradually or have them triggered by external information.
Just like when the Mother Daenerys once imparted supernatural knowledge all at once to the High Sparrow and Saint Matthew, the knowledge about paladins had also been stored in Randall Tarly's mind.
Because she feared that too much additional information might confuse believers' memories, she had recorded them on the "blank edges of the hard drive."
Yes, far away from the normal memory area.
This would not affect his original memories, but it also meant he could not immediately notice those pieces of information.
After digesting the memories in his mind, Randall continued, "One must devoutly believe in the Seven Gods, or one of them. For example, I believe in the Warrior.
It is not enough to understand the doctrine; one must sincerely accept it and use it as a guideline for behavior.
To establish merits for the world means doing things beneficial to the people, society, and the world.
Taken together, these are the standards by which the Mother grants divine grace."
"Uh… beneficial to the people, society, and the world…" Jon said awkwardly, scratching his head. "I thought it meant contributions to the Church."
"The essence of the Faith of the Seven is to guide humanity toward a more perfect evolution in both thought and soul, making the world better," Randall Tarly repeated what Saint Matthew had taught him.
"Killing the Others is also beneficial to the world," he added.
"That does make sense." Jon nodded thoughtfully.
"I only know about Holy Light and Holy Healing. I've never heard of the others. Lord Tarly, could you tell me about them? For example, that Holy Flame spell," Bronze Yohn asked curiously.
Randall Tarly frowned slightly, somewhat reluctant.
But when he turned and saw the newly promoted paladins around him staring eagerly, he found it hard to refuse.
"Holy Flame is the fire of the Smith. It can attach to weapons and deal powerful damage to evil creatures," he said.
"Is it like Melisandre's flaming weapons?" Bronze Yohn immediately asked.
"It should be somewhat stronger than the Red Woman's sorcery. Holy Flame can burn through an enemy's weapons and armor," Randall Tarly said.
"Ah!" The crowd gasped in shock.
Jon was highly skeptical, Bronze Yohn half-believed, and even Randall himself looked uncertain.
"Why don't you demonstrate it for us, my lord?" Yohn urged.
Randall felt an itch in his heart, his hands almost trembling with anticipation, yet he still put on a stern face and refused. "How can one casually display divine spells in public?"
"Only by understanding every bit of your strength can you use it well. That's basic knowledge in knightly training," Bronze Yohn argued confidently.
"You do have a point. But not here. Let's go to the training grounds of the sept," Randall Tarly said after some hesitation.
Thus, the group left the grand square together.
At the spacious training grounds, Randall Tarly held an iron sword in each hand.
"Smith, grant me your blessing!" he chanted. A golden flame rune flashed on his forehead, then—
Boom!
A circle of blazing platinum-white flame erupted around the iron sword in his left hand.
Then everyone was stunned. The iron sword rapidly turned red. Before Randall could swing it, the tip melted, dripping dark red molten iron.
Hissing sounds rose as the ground released strands of steam from the heat.
The complete depletion of divine power also snapped the knights out of their daze.
"Sorry, I didn't control it well." Randall dispersed the holy flame and threw away the broken sword, its hilt scorching hot. His excitement outweighed his embarrassment. "By the Smith, the holy flame is this powerful! It seems I'll need much more practice, or I might destroy my own weapon before harming the enemy."
"By the Smith, it truly can melt metal," Bronze Yohn said in awe.
"As for specialty-type spells like Strength, Endurance, and Warrior's Sword, I can't demonstrate them. My divine power has been completely exhausted," Randall said with a frown.
"Does the Smith's holy flame consume that much power?" Jon asked.
"I failed to control it. All my divine power was released at once and burned the sword," Randall Tarly replied.
"Strength enhances power, Endurance enhances stamina. What about Warrior's Sword?" Jon asked curiously.
"Warrior's Sword provides a large amount of swordsmanship experience, helping me improve my skill level."
At this point, even Randall, who had maintained a serious expression, showed a hint of regret. "If I had obtained this specialty during my youth, I might already have reached the level of Arthur Dayne."
Soon, Randall Tarly took his leave. He intended to go to the sept to pray to the Mother in gratitude. As he departed, the crowd quickly dispersed as well.
"Lord Yohn, have you noticed that the Faith of the Seven has changed so much in the past year or two that it feels like an entirely different church?" Jon said hesitantly as they walked back.
"There were no miracles before, but now they appear every day. It's said to be because of the Great Protector of Light.
Dragons are conduits of magic, connecting the mortal world with that of the gods," Bronze Yohn relayed what he had heard from the clergy.
"It's not just miracles. The doctrine and system have also changed greatly. There were no priests, wyvern paladins, or demon-hunting paladins before." Jon's eyes flickered as he lowered his voice. "It's almost as if the Seven themselves have changed."
Bronze Yohn reacted like a dragon whose tail had been stepped on, roaring in anger, "Blasphemy, Jon Stark! That is heresy. I will report you to the Church."
The people of King's Landing on both sides of the street looked over coldly.
Jon felt both embarrassed and irritated. He growled in a low voice, "My lord, don't forget you are currently wearing the skin of the Flaming Heart."
Bronze Yohn instinctively looked himself over. Seeing no Flaming Heart insignia on his body, he let out a sigh of relief. Regaining his composure, he no longer shouted angrily.
"Sigh, you're striking at my heart," he lamented. "I do not wish to serve Stannis either. If the soldiers of the Vale can safely return home, I would follow Randall Tarly's example, pass my title to my son, don the rainbow cloak, and dedicate the rest of my life to the Seven."
"The Iron Throne! We've found the Iron Throne!"
Just as Jon was about to offer a few words of comfort, a loud-voiced knight shouted excitedly from ahead.
A true Flaming Heart knight.
Wait, no—
As Jon stepped forward and saw his face clearly, he realized it was Richard, the pockmarked knight.
"Your Majesty Stannis, we've found the Iron Throne! It turns out it flew to Flea Bottom!"
Sir Richard ran out from the burned slums, jumped onto his horse, and galloped toward the city gates, shouting Stannis's name as he went.
Jon stopped and looked around. The streets were in ruins, filled with charred debris and foul black water. The shops on both sides were reduced to blackened remnants.
Poor people with numb expressions and tattered clothes rummaged through the ruins for anything valuable.
This was Flea Bottom, the most densely populated slum in King's Landing.
"Your Majesty!" Stannis approached with a group of men. Jon and Yohn immediately saluted him.
Stannis was visibly excited. His usually pale, corpse-like face now glowed with the color of life.
He only nodded casually at the two of them and said, "Richard has found the missing Iron Throne. Come and take a look."
Jon responded indifferently and joined the group.
After the Red Keep was blown apart by hundreds of tons of wildfire, the Flaming Heart knights had searched the ruins. They found the throne room where the king once held court, but among the shattered remains, they did not find the Iron Throne, the symbol of supreme authority over the Seven Kingdoms.
When Aegon conquered Westeros, he demanded that every noble who surrendered hand over their swords.
More than a thousand swords in total.
They were melted by the dragonfire of Balerion the Black Dread, then painstakingly forged by smiths over fifty-nine days.
The Iron Throne weighed three tons and stood five meters tall. It was covered with spikes, jagged edges, and twisted blades. Even the backrest was lined with spikes. Sitting on it was uncomfortable, and even shifting slightly could cut one's body.
Aegon had designed it this way deliberately.
He believed a king should not sit too comfortably, but remain as wary of the throne as he was of his own rule.
To Westeros, the Iron Throne was like the Heirloom Jade Seal of China.
Stannis could forgo the Red Keep, but if he still wished to be the legitimate king of the Seven Kingdoms, he had to sit upon that throne.
"By the Seven, from the Red Keep to Flea Bottom is at least five kilometers. That throne is incredibly heavy. How could it have flown?" Sir Justin exclaimed.
The short and stout knight Song scoffed, "Last night, while I was defending against wights at the western Gate of the Gods, I saw a twisted dragon skull on the road.
It was one of the Targaryen dragon skulls. It flew out of the Red Keep and traveled over ten kilometers."
"The explosion last night was terrifying. The very foundation of the Red Keep was lifted. No matter how heavy the Iron Throne is, can it be heavier than the castle itself?" Richard said, still shaken.
"Hey, Your Majesty, care for some brown stew?" A rough voice suddenly called out mockingly as they turned into a narrow alley filled with foul water.
Stannis turned his head and saw a makeshift straw canopy set up at an unpaved intersection. Beneath it was a massive iron pot two meters wide, from which white steam and a strange sweet meaty aroma rose.
Two burly men stood by a wooden table near the pot, holding shovels as they stirred the contents, grinning at the group.
One of them, the tall, thin man with a square face, was someone the Dragon Queen knew—Stryker.
Around the intersection, houses were packed tightly together like sardines, now all burned and ruined. Filthy, disheveled people huddled in the broken remains of collapsed courtyards, leaning together for warmth as they waited for the stew to finish cooking.
Hearing the voices outside, they turned their eyes toward the group.
Their gazes were filled with equal parts hatred and fear.
Hundreds of eyes stared, densely packed, like they belonged to a single monstrous creature.
Jon felt his scalp tingle, cold sweat forming in his palms, and had the urge to turn and leave immediately.
"Thanks to Your Majesty's blessings, food has been especially plentiful these past few days. Why not come and enjoy it with the people?" Stryker said with a grin.
(End of Chapter)
Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon
https://patreon.com/Glimmer09