Chapter Text
It was never really cold in Thoros' chambers.
The wind tore at the walls without ceasing and howled around the corners of the small house on the edge of Flea Bottom where he had been living for several months now. King's Landing, though close to the Stormlands, rarely experienced violent storms, but when they came, they struck with such force and ferocity as if they wanted to tear the entire city from the ground. Still, it was warm in his chambers, even too warm for most. In his windowsill stood three thick tallow candles, casting flickering light into the darkness beyond the pane, keeping the terrors of the night at bay. A fire burned in the hearth, day and night. The first thing he had learned, the first thing he had internalized as a servant of the Lord of Light, was that the fire must never be allowed to go out.
He stood naked in front of the fireplace, gazing for a moment into the glowing flames. He wanted to take another sip from the wine carafe he held in his right hand, having dispensed with little things like using a cup hours ago already, but found that it was empty. Again. He looked around his small chamber – larger and more luxurious than any humble servant of the Lord of Light would have been entitled to, but smaller and simpler than the chamber in the Red Keep he would certainly have received had he had the King's ear – but found no more wine. He had run out of spirits early in the evening already. The only thing left was the naked woman in his bed. For a moment he tried to remember her name.
Larra? Or Mona? No, definitely something with L. Lisa possibly....
It didn't matter, though. The night was already late. Soon the sun would rise and then she would all by herself put on her clothes again and disappear from his chambers to return to her husband and children and her insignificant little life.
He turned back to the flames and for quite a while did nothing but stare silently into light and the heat. Staggering, he knelt down in front of the hearth and had to fight hard with his senses not to fall to the ground like a sack of flour. He closed his eyes and said a prayer to his God. He opened them again, looked into the flames, and waited for the Lord of Light to share his wisdom with him. He had not done so for years, though. He snorted a short laugh when, after a while, he still saw nothing but charred wood washed out by the heat and the dancing figures that the flames drew on the old stones of the hearth.
I, of all people, probably shouldn't talk about the insignificance of other people's lives, he thought bitterly. The Lord of Light would not grant him his favor tonight, just as he had not done the hundreds, now thousands, of nights before. Why had they chosen him to go to Westeros? He hadn't understood it then, but hadn't questioned the decision either, and still didn't understand.
They should have sent someone else to carry out the Lord's will. Taenela or Belos of Selhorys or Harano of Tyrosh. Not me.
He had been sent to the Sunset Kingdoms years ago to proselytize the last king, who had been said to have a strong fascination with fire and flames, for their faith. King Aerys, however, though indeed fascinated fire and flames, had not wanted to accept a new faith that could offer him and his bloodline nothing but submission to just another god. King Aerys had considered his bloodline itself to be divine, as did his son, the current King Rhaegar, and his children apparently as well. Aerys had wanted to be a god himself. Submission, even to the one, true God, had been out of the question for him.
"Hollow talk and empty rituals, constraint and submission I can already get from the damned Seven. What good is it for me to kneel to any other god, when I myself have the blood of gods flowing in my veins?" he had scolded and had him then thrown out of the Throne Room.
The king had allowed him to stay in King's Landing, but had never listened to him after that again. So instead of winning the king of all the Sunset Kingdoms over to the Lord of Light, the Heart of Flame, Thoros had begun wasting his time and indulging in his old vices again, doing what he did best. Drinking, fighting and fucking.
At some point, the sweetness of wine and the warmth between the legs of women had been more important to him than his god, and he had felt good about it. The more he had given himself to the worldly life, the more he had distanced himself from R'hllor... and R'hllor from him, it seemed. But was this really true? If he preached the only truth and sang of the glory of the one true God, how could it be that in years, decades, this God had not once granted him his favor, had not once shown him even the smallest vision in the flames? He was not a good priest of R'hllor, he was more than aware of that himself, but still he had done his duty, had served the Lord of Light as best he could. The doubts in his heart had taken root and had sprouted like weeds, though, had poisoned his soul and his mind, until at some point he had even dared to question the very existence of the Lord of Light at all. It had taken a powerful sign of the glory of his God to lead this lost believer back to the light, and truly there had been a sign.
He remembered well when, years ago, the bells of the city had rung in a mournful concert, announcing the death of the beloved Queen Rhaella. Three days later, according to the Valyrian tradition still practiced by the royal family, her body had been burned on a huge pyre in the center of the Dragonpit. Thoros, attending the ceremony like thousands of other commoners from King's Landing, remembered the sight, how small her body had looked on the huge pile of wood and straw, and how quickly it had disappeared in the blazing inferno of the enormous fire. That very night King Aerys had died as well. As the stories would have it, he had died of a broken heart after losing his beloved queen. Thoros, however, as superficially as he had been allowed to know the old king, knew better. That night, R'hllor had called the old king to him. Thoros was certain that this had been the price R'hllor had demanded for the grace of his glory, with or without the knowledge of both king and queen. The blood of the queen taken by the flames and the life of the king taken by the Lord himself.
It was said that the children of the newly crowned King Rhaegar, weeping for the loss of their grandmother, had slept snuggled together in a bed, tightly clutching the three dragon eggs Queen Rhaella had given them as a gift just some month prior. What exactly had happened, whether it had been the flames around the queen's body, the death of the king, the tears of the children, or perhaps all three, he could not say. Nobody could. That night, however, the eggs had hatched in the arms of the children, bringing new, sacred life into the world.
Thoros vividly recalled the excitement of the days that had followed when the stories about strange events in the Red Keep had begun to make the rounds. No one had really known anything, but everyone had had something to tell. The entire city had been on its feet for days and stories of all that had supposedly gone on in the Red Keep that night, one wilder than the other, had made the rounds in every tavern and brothel of the city and beyond. The brother of the new king, a boy of less than ten name days, had allegedly tried to usurp his brother and was now sitting in the Black Cells. King Rhaegar had allegedly taken two new wives and cast off his Dornish queen to procreate dragons and manticores in unnatural sexual practices with his new wives and other men and even animals. A demonic beast from the depths of the Smoking Sea had allegedly entered the fortress at night and devoured King Rhaegar's children with skin and hair. It had been three days for the truth to spread and before he himself had been able to catch a glimpse of the miracle that had taken place in the Red Keep, before he himself had first seen the little wonderous creatures circling around one of the Red Keep's massive round towers. Small as cats and colorful as the most beautiful birds they had been, but as distinctive as nothing else in the world.
Dragons.
On that day he had found his faith again. The dragons had returned to the world, and certainly this could have been nothing other than the will of R'hllor. For sure. Even after that, though, he had not been able to give up wine and women, but his faith in his God, the one true God, had been unshakable as never before. Yet R'hllor had never granted him his grace again, had never sent him visions again.
Please, Lord of Light, show me the truth. Just one more time, he pleaded in his mind. He just had to see something. Too many servants of their God had already proclaimed false prophecies because they did not see what the Lord had shown them, but saw what they had wanted to see. Too many faithful servants of the Lord of Light, the one true God, had unwittingly done the work of the Great Other in this way already, undermining the power and the truth of R'Hllor and weakening it in the hearts of the faithful. Soon he would see the king.
King Rhaegar had, even after years of absence and hundreds of attempts and petitions, still not allowed him to enter his sacred halls again. That did not matter, however. R'hllor had awakened dragons, had made this miracle happen, and he, a humble servant of the Lord of Light, would certainly have a role to play in the years to come. Of that he had no doubt. One way or another, his destiny would reveal itself to him, and certainly it would have something to do with the royal family. Why else would the Lord of Light have led him to this place, at the time when the dragons had returned to the world, if not to serve him here? And what better way could there be for him to serve the one true God than to advise the king in the way of the Lord and to convince him of the truth of his faith after all?
Thoros would be with the king, most certainly, and would be allowed to preach the truth of R'hllor to him and to the entire realm. He would see him and speak with him, he would probably even see his children, the instruments of the Lord of Light themselves. And for this meeting, this first, so decisive meeting, whether it would take place in one day and in ten years, he needed something to tell the king, to present to the king.
The king would hardly meet with him in private, probably more likely with half the court present, including the High Septon, false prophet of false gods that he was, and so his opportunity to convince the king of his words and his god would quickly pass if he did not take it. So he had to take this chance, perhaps the last one he would ever get. For a long time before but all the more since the dragons had returned to the world, the priests of R'hllor had courted the favor of the King of the Sunset Kingdoms, asking permission to reside in his court, to advise him, and to proselytize in his realm. After years, soon the time would finally come. Where he had failed with King Aerys, he would be given another chance with King Rhaegar and his children. He would be at His Grace's side and would be allowed to proclaim the truth of their god at court if he was able to convince King Rhaegar. But for this he needed the wisdom of R'hllor.
Please, Lord of Light, grant me your wisdom, show me your truth, he pleaded again in his mind.
Thoros needed something, anything, to say to the king, apart from the usual sermons with which he and his fellow believers had already failed in their attempt to convert King Aerys. For months he had made countless attempts every day to see an image in the flames or to hear a single word in the crackling of the fire or to find and prepare words of wisdom and truth that he could say to the king.
It was said that a good story was worth more than all the gold in the world to win over the heart of a man. So he had read the sacred writings of R'hllor again, for the first time in decades. In the end, he had chosen to tell the story of Lady Amandre and the three holy candles as it offered some symbols that might catch the king's attention, he hoped, and read it so many times that at some point he knew it by heart word for word. Three candles, three heads of the dragon. Candle flames that, in the story, burned away the terros of the night, as hot as a dragon's fire. Sacred blood, blessed by R'hllor himself, which had brought forth a sacred bloodline of great kings. But the more he had read the story, recited it to innkeepers and whores and anyone else who had wanted to listen, to be sure not to forget even a single word, the more ridiculous he had felt. The ear of a king could not be won with a children's story, sacred or not.
He was already about to rise again when suddenly... something happened. The flames, they... changed. Figures began dancing before his eyes, bright golden and fiery red, forming unrecognizable images and shadows, merging into formless shapes and dissipating as quickly as they had come. Small and hard to see at first, but becoming clearer with every moment, with every heartbeat. He didn't know how long he had stared into the dancing flames when they changed again. At first, he only saw red and yellow, then suddely twirls of green and blue, black and purple, began mingling in, fading away, and emerging again and again, swirling around each other in a wild dance. More and more colors, more and more shapes, more and more movements leapt into his eyes. Faster and faster, until everything became a wild swirl of shapes and colors, brighter and flashier with each passing moment. And then everything was... white.
He heard nothing but his own breathing and the beating of his heart, saw nothing but white. White wherever he looked. The sky, filled with white clouds over a white field, pointed trees covered with white snow, lit by a white moon, big and heavy in the sky as if it wanted to fall down to earth. Snowflakes blew about in rapid dance, like millions of tiny birds circling around themselves, each separately and yet still together, as if guided by an invisible hand. Clouds as pale as the skin of the fairest maiden drew up, hiding the moon behind a thin veil. The light became weaker, suddenly. The clouds, a moment ago faint and white and thin as silk cloth, seemed to grow denser, heavier, fuller, darker and darker with every beat of his heart. More and more of the moon's brightness faded, swallowed by now pitch black clouds, impenetrable as if made of stone. More and more darkness spread. The snow, however, still shone white, so brilliantly white.
Thoros tried to look around, to see where he was. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, except darkness and snow and more darkness. Panic seized him. He felt his heart begin to beat faster. In earlier years, when his faith had been as young as his body, his God had occasionally given him the grace to receive visions in the flames from him. They had been images full of warmth. There had always been a flame somewhere, assuring him that his God was with him, taking him into his heart and protecting him. But here... here was no warmth, no flame, no light. There was only cold and darkness. Cold and darkness.
Then he saw something. For a moment, Thoros thought he had imagined it. But that was impossible. The Lord let him see these images. None of this was imagination or deception. However, as quickly as it had come, so quickly it had disappeared again. Thoros concentrated, forcing his mind even deeper into the vision, into the darkness of the snow-covered forest before him. There it was again. Very briefly, almost invisible. Or was it not? Yes, most certainly. Coldness ran through him. Suddenly, as if by an invisible force, the warmth seemed to be mercilessly pulled out of his body. He froze, feeling his limbs tremble and numbness spread through his fingers and toes, hands and feet. Even the light from the fire in front of him itself seemed to dim. Then he saw them, clearly, as if they had been there all along.
From the darkness, eyes stared back at him, unmoving and unrelenting. Eyes, bright blue eyes, burning like ice in elegant ashen faces, pale as milk. First two, then four, then eight, then ten. Thoros had the feeling that he was being watched. But that was not possible. The Lord of Light sent him these images, it could not possibly be that these... beings could see him. It simply could not be. The eyes, however, shining like stars and yet unnatural and terrible at the same time, looked at him, stared straight at him, seemed to look through his eyes and his flesh right into his very soul, feasting on his doubts and his fear. With each passing moment he grew colder and colder, shivering all over his body by now. This was no right, this was wrong! They were not supposed to see him! There was supposed to be a flame! R'hllor was supposed to be here with him, guiding him, protecting him, but there was no flame and no warmth. Only cold and darkness... and those eyes, those terrible eyes.
With a loud cry, he leapt to his feet, stumbled back, and slammed against his bed. The warmth in his chamber was back, the light of the fire shining brightly again. His hands and feet were still cold and numb, however, he realized with horror.
"Why are you screaming like that?" the woman asked sleepily.
Thoros hurried over to the small chair where his robe, faded and stained, hung over the back. It reeked of sweat and cheap wine. He quickly pulled it on, slipping into his ragged sandals.
"What's going on?" the woman asked.
"I have to go to the king. Right now. The time has come. The time has come. By the grace of the Lord of Light, the time has come. I must go to the king."
"To the king?" the woman asked, leaning on her forearms and frowning. One of her breasts, full and heavy and wonderful, had slipped over the edge of his bed and hung down.
Lorna, he thought at that moment, looking at her nipple. Her name is Lorna. Why he hadn't been able to remember this until he saw her bare teat, he didn't want to think about that now.
"Yes, I need to see the king. Immediately."
No, not to the king, he then thought. To a temple. I have to go to a Red Temple.
He needed to confer with his fellow believers. What if this vision had been a trap by the Great Other to spread lies and falsehoods? He would be doing the work of the Great Other and that could not be. But if what he had seen was true... By R'hllor, the mere thought made him shudder again. He would travel to a temple, report his vision, and hear what his brothers and sisters in the faith had to say. However, it was not worth the effort to tell the woman about it.
"But of course. Surely the king will receive you at once. When you speak to him, please give him my best regards," she laughed as he hurried out the door.