Chapter 6
A Trial by Fire, a test of courage for those who had dedicated their lives to R'hllor. Many had asked for it over the years, some as a test of their devotion and some even as a bluff.
Yet the latter had soon learned of their folly.
The priests gathered and sang praises of their lord as the preparations for the ceremony were finished. Hundreds of her fellow followers loomed over the main chambers, lit up by over a thousand flames, the largest of them said to have been burning away for centuries, famously called the Great Flame.
The fire burnt red hot, on a massive platform a hundred steps above ground. She herself was only a few steps away from it, singing praises for their one true God, as Benerro stood a mere step away from the Great Fire, and alongside him stood the person undergoing the Great Trial, Prince Daemon.
Clad in a simple white robe, she could see him looking into the fire with his amethyst eyes. She had seen many go through the trial, she had seen eyes filled with fear, reverence, hubris sometimes even contempt.
Yet his were filled with defiance. And rage.
Benerro raised his hand, thrusting it close to the fire, as he took out a knife, and then as they all quieted down, leaving only the sound of flickering flames, he cut the Prince's hand, and she didn't miss how his face didn't even shift at the wound as his blood dripped into the Great Flame.
"Oh, Great Lord of Fire, Judge, this man, for we seek your wisdom!"
And then it happened, the flames roared! All the priests lowered their gaze, and she felt a force push down on her spine, yet she didn't resist as she let it control her, let it bask her in the warmth as she lowered her gaze and let herself prostrate infront of their lord.
"I refuse," the whisper reached her ears, and she felt the fires in the room flicker, the warmth turning into searing heat as the pressure on her became more severe.
"I refuse," she heard it again as her heart thumped in her chest.
With all her might she pushed her gaze up, her skin burned as she looked up and found the Prince standing infront of the Great Fame which roared
With all her might, she pushed her gaze up, her skin burned as she looked up and found the Prince standing infront of the Great Flame which roared in rage and mockery as the whole temple lay prostrate, except him.
The Flame roared once more, inching closer to the roof, the Prince was now covered in sweat, his clothes burnt once more, yet he remained standing looking ahead.
"I refuse!" he said through gritted teeth, thrice now, and she felt the pressure on her back so much that she felt it would crack; her hands shook now as the seat covered her from head to toe.
'No' she thought as the Prince stood there and the Flames shifted.
'No' she thought as they rose once more, yet this time with much more fervour and in a much different colour as they enveloped the Prince, forcing even Benerro to back off.
"No," she gasped out as she felt a dark wraith escape out of the fire, its skin nothing but shadows, its form that of a woman.
This was irregular. For if the Gods had judged him to be unworthy, he would have been burnt. Yet the Prince still stood, surrounded by Fire of a dark and ominous colour, aflame yet not burnt.
And then she suddenly felt a heavy presence in the temple, as she felt the red ruby around her neck burn her skin as the very ground shook, and the lights flickered out, as she felt a thundering voice.
"Then suffer!"
0000
ARTHUR DAYNE
Arthur Dayne contemplated his failures as he stood outside the Tower of Joy. For a man regarded as the Greatest knight of their time, his life was marred by failure. The pride he had once felt upon lifting up his blade and donning his armour was now gone and now all that remained was duty.
And it had all begun on that wretched day. That wretched day when he had been forced to face his own friend in a life and death duel. Prince Daemon and him had always been friends, the bond between them different and much more stronger than the one he shared with the late Prince Rhaegar. And then the Prince had died by his hand, and though it was the fire that had killed him, Arthur knew that it was his own blade that had condemned him to that fate.
And since that day, he had lost everything, his honour, his family, his sister and a friend. That day had been the death of the sword of the Morning, he had sent Dawn back to Starfall finding himself not worthy of that blade any longer.
"I still cannot believe that Prince Rhaegar is dead," Whent spoke from the side, his brother in arms clad in white armour much like him sat besides him on stone, polishing his blade.
"We should have been by his side, fighting, not here guarding
"We should have been by his side, fighting, not here standing guard like common soldiers," he snarled his fists balling up in rage at their ordeal.
He had tried to reason with him throughout this wretched campaign of his, yet the Prince was as if in trance and had refused to heed to any of them. He had left all three of them here to guard his newly wed wife, another stain in his honor, to put down the usurper only to fall to his hammer.
"You speak true, but the Kingsguard follows their Kings commands, dead though they may be," When finished, for that was the reason they still remained here, for they were by duty.
"Sometimes I wish I had never donned this cloak," he uttered, and he saw Whent turn towards him.
"The cloak is a heavy burden, and given everything you went through, I can understand why you would wish so," Whent added as the hot Dornish Sun bore down on them.
"Gods! I wish Prince Daemon was alive, he would never have let things get so out of hand," Whent added, and as a pang of regret and sorrow swept through him.
"Aye, he wouldn't have," he agreed, for his brother spoke true. Prince Rhaegar was often thought to be antithesis of his father, the Mad King. Yet that was not true, and it was especially clear to those who were close to the two Princes.
While not the kind of madness that plagues his father, Prince Rhaegar had his own demons, the elder Targaryen Prince was obsessed with a prophecy of sorts and seemed so sure of himself beyond reason.
And the less he spoke of the whole affair with the Stark girl, the better, for it was clear that Prince Rhaegar was not the man they thought him to be. He was better, he believed, than his father, yet not the saviour or the sane-minded person people thought him to be. Yet he was the only person he could turn to in the hope of taking down his father, for he was the sole person capable of uniting the realm to bring down the Mad King.
Alas! That dream had now shattered with everything that had happened after Harrenhall.
Unlike his brother, Prince Daemon harboured none of their sire's madness, lest one was to call his brilliance a shade of madness itself. The younger Prince was of astute mind. He cared deeply for his family and the common folk alike, aware of their plights. Arthur believed that man could be the next Conciliator of the realm.
"Dayne!" suddenly Ser Oswell Whent called out his name, breaking him out of his trance, as he looked to the side and found his White brother tense and ready for battle.
"Look ahead," he said as he pointed forwards making him look into the distance, and Arthur's gaze narrowed as well as he saw a small caravan rushing towards them, a caravan of more than a dozen horses, heading straight towards them.
"Could these be the usurpers' men?" he questioned as he stood up and began to tighten his armor.
"I don't think so. By my estimate, he should still be recovering at the Trident," replied Whent as the man donned his special helmet, a white helm adorned in the shape of a bat.
"Then who are they?" he questioned. The Tower of Joy was located in a rather remote and desolate area of Dorne. One didn't simply pass through there and from the way the caravan rode they were riding towards it deliberately.
"I don't know," came the answer, they both took out their swords and got ready for battle.
"Hold!" came the booming voice from behind and the tension left him as he felt the familiar footsteps of the Lord Commander of the Kingsgaurd from behind. He looked back and found the man who had once ridden with the likes of Ser Duncan the Tall approach from behind. His helm covered his face, yet his whitened hair still flew out as he stepped forward, his expression tense.
"Look at the sigil they carry," he said as he pointed towards the Caravan once more, and Arthur acquiesced and looked ahead once more and as the caravan neared the banner became clear.
"It's the Targaryen sigil, but who are they?" he questioned as he looked towards their Lord Commander, Ser Gerold Hightower, the famous White Bull.
"That is what I wish to find out as well," and the three of them waited as the caravan rode forth until it was barely a few feet from them. Most of the men seemed foreign to the land, almost all of them clad in armor from head to toe, though the man that stepped forward was dressed in common robes, with not a hint of armor on him.
His face was small, a small beard covered his chin his eyes narrow and seemed to take in everything around them, hiding in them a wisdom he was often used to seeing in chained Maesters.
"Who are you people?" Ser Gerold asked as their retinue stood face to face with theirs, and Arthur found his gaze scanning the crowd, taking account of the men. They seemed to be sizing them up as well as the young, learned man stepped forward.
"Peace, good Ser. We come in peace," the man began, yet the words did little to placate Arthur as the man reached into his pocket and took out a scroll.
"The Prince knew of your presence and gave me this letter, addressed to Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard," began the man as he put forward the missive.
"Prince? Which Prince?" Ser Gerold asked, not moving towards the offered missive. At those words the man's lips turned up as he answered.
"Prince Daemon, though I believe it would be King Daemon now," finished the man, and Arthur's eyes narrowed at that.
"You think this a joke," he snarled. He was about to reach for his blade when suddenly, Ser Gerold's voice cut through.
"Arthur, enough!" the man's voice reverberated through the clearing as the man stepped forward and stood inches away from the learned man.
"If that was a jape, I will have your head," he said as he took the missive from him and began to read it, and Arthur watched the man still as his eyes skimmed over the letter.
"Impossible, this has to be a lie. I saw the Prince burn with my own eyes," he gasped out as he finished as Arthur took the missive from him.
"It is not, every word written in that missive is the truth, Prince Daemon lives and has returned to the capital to save his family's legacy. I believe the letter also bears your Princess's seal," the man finished and as Arthur skimmed over the contents of the missive he found himself stilled as well. For indeed, the letter seemed to have been written by Prince Daemon, and it indeed bore Elia's seal, that was nearly impossible to fake.
The words refused to register as the screams of his friend from that wretched day sang afresh in his mind once more. Yet what if it was true? What if he truly was alive?
"What are we to do now?" he questioned as he looked up and found Ser Gerold staring into the man's eyes.
"He could tell that the man's mind was racing, conflicted between his duty to the dead Prince Rhaegar and the glimmer of hope that was this missive. What were they to do?
In the end, the old knight finally spoke up.
"We do as the missive commands, we ride to the capital," and with that decision was made as Whent added from the side.
"If this is true, it changes everything," the man said, and Arthur found himself nodding in a daze, his mind still trying to come to terms with what he had read.
"Indeed, it does," and then suddenly, a voice from the retinue called out.
"I don't see that sword the Prince told us so much about?" Arthur's head snapped up as he found a man standing there looking over at them.
"Sword?" he repeated as suddenly it all clicked together.
"You mean Dawn?" he questioned, and the armored man nodded.
"Yeah, the one that was made out of a comet; he told us he was defeated by a man, the man who wielded it," the man began, and Arthur frowned as he heard the man besides him smirk and laugh as he replied.
"Yeah, like we would ever believe that, that any single man could ever defeat him in open combat!"
0000
EDDARD STARK
Eddard Stark had never thought that he would find himself in the situation he was now in. He was a second son, the proverbial spare to his brother Brandon, set for an uneventful life. And he was content with it.
Yet it had all changed so abruptly. And it had all begun with that tourney at Harrenhall. And now a year later, he had lost his father, his brother, and his sister he remained oblivious to the situation regarding his sister.
Yet they were not all, for this was war. He had lost much more, friends, leal lords, squires and knights. It had been a bloody affair, yet they had won. Their rebellion against the tyrannical rule of the Targaryen regime was set to end, for he had believed that they had struck the final nail in the coffin at the Trident when Robert had slain Rhaegar Targaryen, caving in the chest of the Prince with a single blow of his hammer.
He had suffered for that blow, and even now he remained behind to recover from his injuries. The Targaryen host had been rudderless after the death of their Prince and had retreated haphazardly, the castles further ahead had surrendered without battle, as him and Jon rode towards the final prize.
Kingslanding.
Yet the Gods were cruel. For as he reread the missive he held in his hands, told him that the war was not yet over. Far from it actually if he were to believe the words written in it.
There was tension in the tent, as he sat in a chair opposite to the man who had raised both him and Robert, the most honourable man known to him. Jon Arryn had a troubled look on his face as he read the missive himself.
The rays of the sun lit the insides of their tent, as they rested maybe a week's ride away from the capital, their pace had slowed down for they had thought the war won. Yet as he eyes the seal on the missive doubt began to creep onto him.
"Do you believe it to be true?" Eddard questioned, turning to the wisdom of the older man. For he was only a second son and had long been out of his depth. All he had wanted was to bring together his family, a feat which was seeming more and more unlikely with every passing day.
"What's written in the letter?" he elaborated as Jon looked up, the older Lord of the Vale scratched the stubble which had grown over his chin, his blue eyes gleaming as lines appeared on his forehead.
"I wish to call it all a lie and be done with it, yet it bears both the Maesters and Princess Elia's seal, and that makes my above wish nothing more than that, a wish," spoke the man as he leaned back.
"Had it been a simple letter, I would have called it a mummer's farce, but with those seals, I find it hard to call it a lie, for if it is a mummer's play, it is one of the more elaborate one's," finished the man.
"So, you believe it to be true that Prince Daemon still lives, has returned to the capital, and now bears his father's crown? I remember hearing stories of how the Prince was murdered in a pyre so hot that it melted steel," he rebutted, and the aged lord nodded. His white hair had grown thinner over the years.
"Yes, I know of those tales as well, just as I also know that the Prince was rather close with Princess Elia while she served as the Queen's lady-in-waiting. So, if anyone could confirm the claim, it would have been her and the letter..." he pointed towards the Seal below.
"...bears her seal. So, I am afraid we must move forward with the assumption that the words written in it are the truth," he finished. Eddard felt his world shift at that, leaned back, and raced his mind as he tried to imagine the implications behind this new scenario.
He wasn't the only one, for he could see Jon rubbing his stubble, shaking his head as the older man's mind raced. Eddard's eyes went towards the missive once more, skimming over a line written for them, the Lords of the Rebellion.
"What do you make of his offer?" he asked the older man.
"He offers us mercy if we were to halt our campaign and promises to return to your sister. It's a threat one would usually make from a place of power, one which I know must be tempting for you, Ned, but we must stay together and remain true to the purpose of our campaign," the old man replied.
It was true to his purpose, he thought, yet he didn't utter it out.
"Do you even believe it to be true? That the Mad King is dead," he questioned, wondering if they could trust the words of the Prince. Or was he of an ilk similar to his brother and father?
And the mere thought of the two of them enraged him as he thought of his father and Brandon. Yet revenge was not possible now, the Mad King was dead.
"Yes, I do. Copies of that letter were sent all over the realm; they wouldn't have lied about something so big. Moreover, after what the Mad King did to Prince Daemon, I refuse to believe that this transfer of Crown was anything but peaceful," Jon added, and it was sound reasoning.
"And what of this Prince? I recall little of him. How was he?' he questioned, and the meaning wasn't lost to Jon, who answered after half a minute of thought.
"Prince Daemon was Rhaegar's younger brother. As a child, he was described as rather a rebellious sort, prone to mischief, especially around his own father. That very mischief grew into stubborn defiance as he grew older, unlike Prince Rhaegar it was pretty common for the younger Prince to butt heads with his father. I remember hearing good things about him, and his character, though I know little how far we can trust the word of men for they spoke similarly good of Prince Rhaegar," and Eddard's fists balled up at that name.
It was over, he assured himself. He was gone.
"So, how will you respond to this?" he questioned.
And Jon shook his head as he answered.
"We cannot leave the realm's fate to a coin toss of the Gods. It is time that the Targaryen rule over these lands came to an end. We have thousands of men with us, four of the Great Houses stand together, it is too late to turn our back on our cause. Though this has to be Robert's call, I know what he would say and I would agree with him, over this," finished the man as he stood up.
Eddard still sat there, knowing what duty demanded of him. Robert was his friend, a brother in all but blood, and his King. And so, he would ride for him and carry his banner.
"So, war it is," he finished, and Jon nodded, and then his eyes landed on the unfurled map which lay infront of him.
"War it is."
And as Jon's words came he stood up and reached towards the direwolf and the falcon, and began to move them around.
"Then we shall ride hard. The Royal host will still be in disarray at the moment, we must not give them time to organise. If we ride hard and fast, we could be at the City gates in four days, maybe five. We must strike quickly," he added as he pointed towards the capital city on the map, and Jon nodded.
"You are right, but you are forgetting one thing, Ned," the older man said as his finger moved towards the side, picking up a carved piece which he placed ahead of their own Falcon and Direwolf, this one shaped in the form of a roaring lion.
"The Lannisters," he was quick to understand his mistake as Jon nodded.
"The Lannisters, indeed."
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