"Old Septon," Solomon said slowly. "I am releasing them not for the Seven, but for you."
Solomon liked this old man.
In the future, when war would turn the Riverlands into a graveyard, this man would walk through hell to bring a flicker of hope to the common people.
He hadn't seen the worst yet, but Solomon remembered his quote from another life: "The real danger is being a commoner when others play the Game of Thrones."
Solomon had no time. He needed fame—any kind—to join the game.
Meribald sighed. "The fire of hatred consumes the enemy, but it can also consume oneself."
He was referring to Solomon's soldiers. He saw their eyes. Before Solomon intervened, they were ready to kill him and put his head on the pile.
To kill a shepherd of the gods... even bandits rarely stooped so low.
"Septon, in Westeros, if you don't burn others, you get burned," Solomon replied, his voice flat.
"Besides, isn't this better? I promised them revenge. I gave them hope. Otherwise, they would have given up on life."
"The Seven forbid suicide, do they not?"
"I do this because I respect you, Meribald. Not your gods."
Solomon stepped closer. "The Seven sit high above. Have they ever pitied the world? Where were they when the wildlings butchered families? Where were they when the prayers were screamed?"
"I don't need the protection of invisible gods or the 'sacred blood' of nobles."
"I am going to climb. To the very top."
"If that makes me a lost lamb to you, then I would rather be lost forever."
Solomon turned to face Meribald directly. "When you draw a sword to take a life, you must be prepared to have yours taken. I am ready."
"Only by climbing can we change anything! Instead of watching people die, watching them suffer, watching them break every law of the gods just to survive!"
"If the Seven truly exist, who will they punish?"
Solomon actually admired the High Sparrow from the stories. At least he tried to flip the board.
Meribald listened to the blasphemy silently. Finally, his expression softened.
"I have heard people speak of you, child."
"They say you are different."
"You are kind to your subjects. Your soldiers pay for what they take. You even paid peasants after burning their fields for strategy."
"Perhaps... you are different."
"Walk your path, child."
"The church and the nobles of Westeros... perhaps they do need to wake up."
"I only hope that when you reach the summit, you remember why you started."
The old septon bowed deeply. He turned and walked away, leading his donkey and dog into the darkness, fading like a ghost.
Solomon turned back to the pile of heads. The wood was stacked.
"Light it!" he ordered.
Soldiers threw torches.
The dry wood caught instantly. Flames roared up, consuming the rotting heads.
Crack. Pop. Hiss.
The heat washed over Solomon. He squinted at the towering inferno.
The flames danced, twisted, and warped in his vision.
His heart began to hammer against his ribs.
He turned to Lauchlan. "Lauchlan!! What is in the fire!! What do you see??"
"See what, Lord Solomon?" Lauchlan looked confused. He squinted at the fire. "Just... a big fire, my Lord. It's burning well."
Solomon felt a shiver run down his spine. Not fear, but something ancient. A vibration in his blood.
He took a step back.
"Do... do none of you see it?" His voice was dry, trembling.
The soldiers looked at each other, bewildered.
"See what, my Lord?"
"It's just fire, sir. Burning the trash."
They saw nothing. Just wood and bone burning.
Solomon walked toward the fire. The heat was unbearable, singing his hair, smelling of char.
But the closer he got, the clearer it became.
He saw it.
A Dragon.
The flames weren't just burning; they were coalescing.
A massive,猙獰 silhouette formed in the heart of the inferno.
A dragon, hundreds of meters long, made entirely of living fire, coiled around the pyre of skulls.
Its scales were popping sparks. Its wings were rolling waves of heat. Its mouth opened, breathing smoke.
And its eyes—two orbs of the purest, brightest white fire—stared directly at Solomon.
ROARRRRRRRRRR!!!!
A low, majestic roar exploded in his mind. It wasn't a sound; it was a pressure.
It was speaking to him. But the language was lost, ancient, incomprehensible.
Solomon's soul vibrated. He couldn't hear anything else. The world fell away.
He walked forward, step by step, into the fire. Sparks landed on his skin, burning him, smelling of cooked meat.
He didn't care. He had to hear it. It was so beautiful.
He reached out.
Suddenly, hands grabbed him. Soldiers tackled him, dragging him back from the edge of the inferno.
"My Lord! Stop!!"
Solomon struggled, eyes wide, screaming at the fire dragon only he could see.
"FIRE!!!"
"FLAME!!!"
"THE BLAZE!!!!!"