Chapter 167 — The Sword That Shattered Fate
Volantis
On a dark red hill, a figure in flowing crimson robes knelt upon the cold stone.
Before her, tongues of fire swayed inside a bronze brazier.
Her face was hidden, but beneath the glow of the flames one could make out the slender curves beneath the loose robes — a woman. The hood shadowed most of her features, leaving only a pale, smooth chin visible.
Long, bloodless fingers were clasped at her chest. A necklace set with a ruby the size of an egg rose and fell between her breasts.
Across the water below stood a vast structure woven from a hundred hues — pillars, terraces, walls, domes, towers, and skybridges joining tower to tower — as if the entire temple had been carved from a single mountain of stone.
The Temple of the Lord of Light.
In Volantis, most people belonged to Him.
"Night without end, only fire brings dawn."
Her voice echoed through the hollowed hillside, the ancient words flowing in rhythms close to High Valyrian.
"Holy flame be my eyes, burn away falsehood."
"The heart-star dims. The oracle fades."
Her prayer ended in a sigh.
For more than a century now — ever since the Lord had granted her this prison of unending life — His voice had not pierced the curtain of flame.
Today, it seemed, was no different.
She rose gracefully, faint disappointment in her heart. Perhaps it was time to leave this holy city once more. She had lingered here ten years already.
Across her long, wandering life, she roamed the world — yet always returned to Volantis, like a traveler destined for home.
Then—
A violent roar erupted behind her.
Melisandre spun around, crimson pupils shrinking.
The flame in the brazier exploded without warning — like a volcano bursting after ages of pressure. A pillar of fire shot skyward.
At the same time, the ruby at her throat turned searing hot, throbbing for the first time in over a century, as if it would tear through her flesh and burrow into bone.
Her vision blurred. In her ears echoed the roar of some colossal beast and the cracking of glaciers.
The flames no longer burned — they twisted, shaped by an unseen hand into shattered visions.
— A dagger piercing the heart of a silver-haired prince. Hot blood pouring over four dragon eggs of different colors.
— A withered king, dying, clutching the arm of a knight in white armor, whispering.
— Two shrill cries, young yet filled with savage majesty, cutting through smoke-choked caverns.
The images shifted—
An endless ice field. Beneath the Wall.
A towering knight standing atop a roaring dragon's head, wielding black and white twin blades, facing a tide of "men" like an ocean.
His sword fell.
Gods.
That strike.
BOOM—
Melisandre snapped back to reality, heart clenching violently.
Her slender fingers touched the burning ruby at her chest, as if brushing the fading vision.
Born nearly twenty years too soon.
The prince of prophecy — slain in the cradle.
And more importantly—
That sword.
That single blow had torn through fate itself, shattered the Lord of Light's prophecy.
The future had been rewritten.
The only comfort was this: the swordsman did not appear to be the King's enemy. Because where that blade had fallen… was—
---
An hour later, Melisandre walked barefoot onto the docks. The salty wind carried the stench of fish and sweating laborers. Her expression did not change.
"My lady…"
A Lyseni captain forced a flattering smile, worry in his eyes. "Storms are frequent this season, and Westeros has not been… peaceful."
"I know."
She smiled faintly and drew a coin from within her robes — marked with a unique sigil.
The captain's pupils shrank. "That is—!"
"Let us go. The flames will guide our course."
"Yes, my lady!"
His tone turned instantly reverent as he accepted the coin with both hands.
He turned without hesitation and bellowed toward the deck,
"Cast off, you useless, lazy bastards!"
---
Dragonstone
Heat rolled out of the cave mouth in blistering waves, hot enough to scorch the air itself. The broken sword in Gerold Hightower's hand clanged to the ground.
His gaze locked onto the shriveled, blackened wrist hanging limply from beneath the ash-stained royal cloak in Lance's arms.
"Your Grace…"
"Silence."
Lance's voice was ice. He held the still-warm body tighter.
Blind loyalty. Foolishness.
Had he not known what kind of man the Hightower knight was, Lance would have cut him down the moment he reached the cave entrance.
Feeling the body in his arms grow cold, he gently laid the king upon the white cloak.
The once-proud monarch was barely recognizable — blackened flesh and dark red ruin marred his face. Yet the corners of his lips seemed frozen in the faintest upward curve, violet eyes angled toward the cave.
"Skreeee—gah—"
A thin, piercing cry again echoed.
Before the stunned Kingsguard, the smoke inside the cavern twisted as if stirred by some unseen force. Then two tiny shapes crawled out from the furnace-glow of heat and ash.
Dragons.
The first was no bigger than a plump hen, thin limbs wobbling on the scorched stone. Tight scales gleamed with a muted bronze sheen. Pale golden slit-pupiled eyes blinked curiously at the strange world, skimming over the three white knights before settling on Lance.
Something about the tall knight drew it — instinctive, fearful, yet yearning.
The green hatchling crept toward him, tail sweeping the ground nervously.
The other—
Slightly larger. Its scales bore a strange ash-gray hue — not dull, but like something burned to its purest essence in the hottest forge. Rough textures patterned its hide like cooled lava scars. Short black horns jutted like a crown in the making.
Its eyes were savage — dark brown almost black, rimmed in dried-blood red.
The moment it saw Lance, it charged.
Tiny wings beat wildly as it barreled forward, slamming the green hatchling aside without a glance and headbutting Lance's greaves.
Clang.
It bounced back, toppled—then scrambled up, excited, claws scraping screechingly against steel as it clung to his leg.
Like a hatchling tumbling into its mother's embrace.
Its coarse gray scales matched the burn-scars on Lance's armor almost perfectly.
Lance looked down, grief-flooded blue eyes stalling.
Almost unconsciously, he reached out.
His warm fingertip touched cold, rough scales. The ash dragon didn't flinch — it closed its eyes and pressed its head into his palm, purring softly.
A broken laugh left him.
Whether it was the power of the Dragonrider's gift or something deeper, he felt a strange, familiar resonance with this ash-colored newborn.
He lifted it into his arms without thinking.
The three Kingsguard stared, shaken.
Only Targaryen blood could—
Barristan's clear blue eyes flickered with understanding.
So it was true…
He lowered his head.
Thud.
Kneeling on one knee, sword planted.
The others followed.
"In the name of the Seven, and by the honor of the white cloak," Barristan declared, voice trembling yet firm, "we witness the last command of King Aerys Targaryen the Second…"
"Lance Lot is named Regent of the Realm, to guide Prince Viserys—"
"We shall serve your sword, until death."
"Until death."
"Until death."
Three vows. Three knights swearing to the Regent.
Even Gerold accepted it.
At that very moment, the ash hatchling leapt to Lance's shoulder, inhaled—
"Raaaah—!"
A piercing, horn-like cry rang out with impossible authority.
The green dragon chirped timidly—
Only to be silenced by a savage glare. It lowered its head.
Lance rose slowly.
In that moment, he ceased to be the broken smith in chains… ceased to be merely a Kingsguard commander.
Something heavier now rested on his shoulders.
"Up," he said calmly, lifting the king's body once more. "Take us back to King's Landing."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Armor rang as they moved.
The ash dragon perched on his shoulder like a sovereign surveying its realm. The green one trailed behind, cowed.
---
Cold dawn light washed Dragonstone's shore.
Lance waded into the freezing sea, carrying the king aboard.
Later, as the ship pulled away, waves crashing—
The ash dragon rubbed its head against his cheek.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"You're asking where we're going?"
He stroked its head.
"We're going home."
"Ilyon…"