Chapter 224: The Miracle of the Lord of Light
Lance couldn't help the slight twitch at the corner of his eye.
This woman…
Her mind might be a little too rigid, but when it came to playing the part of a mystic—of weaving spectacle and faith together—there was probably no one in all of Westeros who could match her.
It wasn't just skill.
It was instinct.
Something carved into her very bones—into every glance, every breath, every subtle movement.
She didn't act like this.
She simply was.
As though she had been born to stand at the edge of shadow and flame.
And judging by the stunned expressions on both the young king and the septon—
it was working perfectly.
Under their gaze, Melisandre walked forward barefoot, her steps soft and measured, stopping directly before Viserys III Targaryen.
She did not bow immediately.
Instead, she lifted her head slightly, her crimson gaze drifting toward the statues of the Seven above.
"The Seven are one, and one is the Seven."
She recited the opening doctrine of the Seven-Pointed Star, each word clear and deliberate.
Yet there was no reverence in her tone.
Only… examination.
As if she were studying something foreign.
"When I traveled through Braavos, I encountered… certain interpretations of this belief."
Her gaze lowered slowly, no longer fixed on the statues—perhaps speaking to the air, or perhaps delivering some revelation to those present.
"They described this so-called 'one-in-seven' not as division, but as fluid unity."
"Seven forms… one essence."
"Not seven separate beings, but seven reflections of a single existence—like one flame casting different lights upon different surfaces."
She paused briefly.
"A notion… not unlike the faith of the Faceless Men of Braavos."
With a few measured words, she had subtly redefined the doctrine—lifting it into something more abstract, more philosophical.
More… impressive.
As Lance would put it—
she was showing off.
The septon's lips trembled.
He wanted to refute her—to denounce this reinterpretation as blasphemy.
But under Lance's suffocating presence…
he didn't dare speak.
"Ahem…"
Lance finally coughed lightly, cutting her off before she could spiral further into mysticism.
This was far too abstract for a child to grasp.
Melisandre glanced at him briefly, then composed herself and lowered into a graceful curtsey.
Elegant.
Perfect.
No trace of submission.
Only a quiet, unshakable sanctity.
"Your Grace."
Viserys, still dazed, blinked rapidly—snapped out of his trance by her voice.
He stared at her, wide-eyed.
"Who… are you? And why are you here, my lady?"
He didn't know her.
But her entrance—
It had been overwhelming.
She was like a living flame.
Not only dispelling the darkness before his eyes, but somehow even pushing back the cold itself, bringing with her an inexplicable warmth.
Something that made him want to draw closer.
"Melisandre."
She answered calmly, each syllable carrying a strange, mesmerizing cadence.
"I am a servant of the Lord of Light, R'hllor."
"I have come… to answer your doubts, King Viserys."
"The Lord of Light?"
The boy frowned slightly.
The name was unfamiliar.
In all his education, he had only been taught of the Seven, the Old Gods, or the Drowned God.
This "Lord of Light" was not among them.
There was no red temple in King's Landing.
In fact, across all of Westeros, temples devoted to R'hllor could be counted on one hand.
In contrast—
across the Narrow Sea, in Essos—
his worship was everywhere.
On merchant ships.
In the halls of free cities.
Among sellswords and wandering priests.
His doctrine spread like wildfire.
But here, in Westeros—
such beliefs had never truly taken root.
The old faiths still held firm.
And so, his influence remained faint… almost negligible.
Melisandre, however—
did not seem surprised at all.
Her tone rose again, filled with absolute conviction.
"The true god, R'hllor—the Lord of Light—is the god of heat and life!"
"He sees the essence of the world, truth surrounds us, all things are laid bare before him. He alone is the one true god!"
"Lies!"
The septon finally broke his silence, cutting her off sharply.
When the others turned toward him, he sneered.
"A few years ago, a red priest just like you came from Myr—Thoros of Myr."
"He shouted the same nonsense about the Lord of Light being the 'one true god'… and yet he never showed a single miracle!"
"I met him myself. He admitted he had never seen any miracle either—and began to doubt that ridiculous faith."
"And now? He's nothing but a drunk in King's Landing!"
"Ha! Hahaha!!"
His cold laughter echoed through the sept, thick with ridicule—both for Melisandre and for her so-called "one true god."
After all—
what could be more laughable than a believer who, never seeing a miracle, abandons faith and drowns himself in wine?
Hearing this, the young king's violet eyes, once filled with awe, wavered into doubt.
Because he had seen Thoros before.
A large, bald man in loose red robes, reeking of wine, with dull, lifeless eyes.
If what the septon said was true—
if they served the same god—
then…
"This servant of the Seven seems to have quite the history with followers of the Lord of Light."
Despite the mockery, Melisandre remained utterly unmoved.
A century of life had long since tempered her emotions into still waters.
And when it came to… persuasion—no, conversion—
she was certain no one in the world surpassed her.
"I speak only the truth," the septon rasped, lips curling in disdain despite the pain wracking his body.
"These so-called servants of the Lord of Light—are nothing but empty talkers!"
"When Thoros first arrived, he wandered through taverns and Flea Bottom, promising miracles to all who would listen."
"He told them—'Wait and see! The Lord of Light will grant you proof!'"
"But what happened?"
"Nothing!"
He nearly screamed, spittle and blood flying from his lips.
"No sacred fire from nothingness! No healing of the sick! No dead rising from their graves!"
"Only empty promises—and endless waiting!"
His eyes burned with fanatic certainty.
"And the Seven… watch over us!"
"Their mercy is everywhere!"
"My king, you are still young—do not be deceived by these lies. Compassion and mercy are the greatest virtues the Mother bestows upon mankind!"
"The Seven will always protect us—protect House Targary—"
He never finished.
Without warning—
a brilliant, blinding flame burst into life in Melisandre's palm.
The fire leapt upward like a resounding slap across the septon's face.
His voice—his certainty—his manipulation—
all strangled mid-sentence by an invisible hand.
Heat.
Real heat.
Even from a distance, the septon could feel it—dry, searing air flooding his lungs, burning as he breathed.
Impossible.
His mind exploded into chaos.
The world twisted, spun—
until all that remained in his vision…
was that flame.
This was… a miracle.
Not just him—
even Viserys stared in stunned silence.
This was no tale.
No song.
No legend.
This was something undeniable—something real.
And yet—
Melisandre said nothing.
She simply stepped forward, raising her burning hand before the septon.
The flames danced vividly—
and yet her pale skin remained untouched, unmarred.
No burns.
No scars.
No illusion.
Words were meaningless now.
Reality spoke louder than any scripture ever could.
"This is fake!"
The septon finally broke, screaming hysterically.
"Trickery! Illusions! Sleight of hand!"
"It proves nothing!"
His voice was raw, filled with venom and desperation.
But Melisandre did not argue.
She merely lifted her chin slightly, gaze drifting upward toward the vaulted ceiling.
Her expression became serene… focused…
as if she were performing a sacred rite.
Then—
she closed her eyes.
In an instant—
the air itself seemed to vanish.
And then—
every brazier, every candle, every flame within the vast sept—
over a hundred in total—
ignited simultaneously.
No delay.
No spark.
Just… ignition.
The entire sept burst into light.
Flames roared to life, illuminating every carved wall, every towering statue of the Seven—
now cast in a harsh, almost mocking glow.
The septon's face froze completely.
This scale—
this precision—
this was no trick.
"Look well," Melisandre whispered, leaning close to his ear.
"The fire of my god reveals itself within your sacred hall."
"Where… are your gods now?"
"You are broken, bleeding—what have they done for you?"
The septon said nothing.
He couldn't.
The light illuminated his face—
but his faith seemed dimmer than ever.
Satisfied, Melisandre straightened slowly.
A quiet certainty settled in her heart—
from this day forward, the Lord of Light would spread across Westeros.
"This… is my lord's power, Your Grace."
"He is omnipotent."
"The night is dark and full of terrors… but the day burns bright with life."
She began preaching again, as she always did—
just like in Volantis.
But she forgot something.
This was not Essos.
And she was not addressing peasants.
"Enough."
Lance's voice cut through everything.
Calm.
Absolute.
He stepped forward, placing himself before the stunned young king, his white cloak shielding him.
He knew—
she was getting carried away.
Melisandre paused, her expression flickering for the first time.
"Kneel."
A single word.
Light.
But unmistakably an order.
She hesitated.
Then shot him an annoyed glance—as if asking, Really?
Lance only raised an eyebrow.
The meaning was clear.
Kneel.
Behind him, Viserys' eyes widened.
This woman—
who wielded miracles—
was being told to kneel?
And then—
before his eyes—
she did.
She knelt before Lance.
Why?
Why?!
The boy's mind reeled.
Nothing made sense anymore.
Lance turned slightly, looking at the child's stunned expression.
Satisfied.
"Your task is done. Leave."
Another command.
No room for negotiation.
Melisandre trembled slightly, glaring at him with silent frustration.
Used… and dismissed.
Like a tool.
But she said nothing.
Rising without ceremony, she turned and left.
After all—
even the Lord of Light had not objected.
What choice did she have?
Fine.
Endure for now.
One day, you will come to me, Lance.
With her departure—
the flames extinguished all at once.
Darkness returned.
But Viserys no longer feared it.
He was… confused.
Deeply confused.
"She… why did she kneel to you, Uncle?"
His small voice trembled.
Lance crouched down to meet his gaze.
"Because I have power, Viserys."
His hand rested gently on the boy's head.
"When you possess enough power… everything in this world will bow to you."
"When your sword can cut through anything—even gods—then even they must yield."
He leaned closer, voice dropping.
"But if you lose that power…"
"Everything that once bowed to you will turn against you—and take everything you have."
"Even your life."
The boy shivered.
Lance softened slightly.
"I want you to understand this, Viserys."
"Understand where your strength comes from… and how to use it to protect your house, your family, your kingdom."
"Because…"
"I will be leaving soon."
Viserys' head snapped up.
"Leaving? Where are you going?"
Lance turned.
Moonlight poured through the broken dome, draping him in silver.
"To war."
His white cloak billowed softly.
"This one… may last longer than any before it."
He stepped toward the exit—
then paused.
"Mercy is not weakness, Viserys."
"But no one can decide what kind of king you will become."
"That choice… is yours."
And then—
he was gone.
The white figure dissolved into darkness beyond the door.
Silence returned.
Time passed.
Then—
the boy slowly raised his head.
"Rhaego…!"
Outside, Lance stood beneath the statue of Baelor I Targaryen, listening quietly.
Then—
a faint voice echoed from within.
"Dracarys."
A flash of fire.
A scream.
Lance smiled faintly in the moonlight, patting the statue beside him.
"At least…"
"He's not like you."