Perhaps Robert sensed he had gone too far, so he chose not to pursue the matter further. Soon after, fresh soldiers replaced the terrified ones on the Stone Tower, and they resumed their watch over the approaching fleet.
"Your Grace, the enemy fleet is still forty nautical miles away!" came the report.
Melisandre had advised that the sacrificial ritual should begin when Viserys's fleet was within ten nautical miles. The chanting, she insisted, had to be performed by all, with the higher-ranked nobles contributing to its potency. That was why nearly every noble present had been summoned for the occasion.
She cast a glance at Stannis, but he remained as unmoved as ever. He should have been the one to inform Robert, but after their recent argument, the air between them was frostier than Stannis's own expression.
In the end, it was Selyse who gave Cersei a meaningful look. Cersei, in turn, relayed the message to Robert, who shot Stannis a sideways glance before waving his hand dismissively.
With the king's signal, the nobles stepped forward. Renly adjusted his robes, affecting a pious demeanor, while Loras followed at his side, his face impassive. Ned, keeping Catelyn behind him, did not force her to participate.
The Tully knew they had no choice but to join the ritual. Viserys had already commissioned a statue of Ser Willem in Tyrosh, and if they failed here, House Tully might lose both Riverrun and any chance to protect the capital. House Florent, along with the followers of R'hllor like Stannis, also moved forward. They had forsaken the legends of the Seven Gods—fire was now their sacred cause.
As Ardrian felt the sea breeze tugging at the square kerchief tied around his face, he prepared to step forward. But to his surprise, he noticed that Monford Velaryon had not moved at all.
Monford Velaryon—his family had married into House Targaryen three times, producing a legendary dragon rider.
In many ways, House Velaryon was seen as the forty-first Dragonlord family, and they held onto that pride. Though they had bent the knee when the Targaryens fell from power, with Viserys's fleet approaching, how could they continue to serve the usurpers?
Monford's father had died in the War of the Usurper, and at the time, Monford had been only six or seven years old—about the same age as his own son now. To him, Stannis was simply a lord he was forced to accept. His true loyalty was always to the Targaryens.
Ardrian, realizing Monford had taken fewer steps than expected, found himself slowing down as well, until they both ended up near the back of the line. Ardrian turned to look at the Velaryon, only to find him gone.
When he scanned the area again, he saw Monford slipping through the crowd, making his way toward the altar. No—he wasn't heading for the altar; his gaze was locked on the Red Witch. Ardrian's eyes widened as he noticed the black, one-foot-long dragonbone dagger clutched in Monford's hand.
He was going to assassinate the Red Witch.
In that moment, Ardrian realized that no one else had noticed Monford's intent but him. Should he warn the others? If he did, he could thwart a potential disaster, but Viserys's fleet was fast approaching, and perhaps... pretending not to see would serve him better.
With a steely resolve, Ardrian made his decision. He stepped forward, keeping pace with the others, trying to blend in and avoid suspicion.
As the Red Witch raised her hand toward the sacrificial altar, preparing to invoke the gods, the crowd watched in silent confusion, unaware of the danger creeping closer.
In the next moment, red-orange flames erupted with a deafening roar, engulfing all fourteen statues of the gods. The statues of the Seven in the cathedral were enormous, twice the size of those on Dragonstone. The flames twisted their features grotesquely, but even so, the statues on Dragonstone were more intricately crafted—the Father's beard gilded in gold, the Maiden's and Crone's eyes adorned with pearls, the Smith's muscles chiseled in perfect detail, and the Warrior's face contorted as the fire consumed it.
Melisandre began to circle the inferno, her voice rising in a chant.
"R'hllor, we are in darkness, come down upon us!" she cried out. "Lord of Light, we offer you these false gods, these seven-faced deceptions, your enemies. Take them away, and let your power descend, for the night is dark and full of terrors!"
With each word, the nobles behind her echoed the prayer. The first and second invocations were spoken in Asshai'i and High Valyrian. Despite most of the nobles never having encountered these languages, they repeated the simple phrases without hesitation. The sacrifice was far better prepared than any prior offering to the Seven Gods.
As the chant continued, wisps of black smoke began to rise from the bonfire, curling around the statues of the Seven. Dark clouds gathered overhead, swirling ominously. It was as though an "accretion disc" had formed in the sky, thickening with every moment.
'The sacrifice is working,' Robert thought, exhaling in relief. Even Jaime and Tywin, usually stoic, appeared visibly relaxed. The followers of R'hllor were elated, but the devout believers of the Seven, like Davos Seaworth and Catelyn Stark, were filled with dread, their hearts heavy with the weight of blasphemy.
As they began to recite the third prayer in the common tongue, an overwhelming sense of sacrilege overcame the followers of the Seven. They could barely speak, their mouths frozen by the sheer blasphemy of it. It was as if the act of speaking the familiar words in this unholy context tore at their souls, a deep violation that they could not bear to voice.
Suddenly, a shout pierced the air:
"Long live the Seven Gods! Long live Your Grace Viserys!"
A flash of bright gold streaked through the crowd—Montford Velaryon. He charged toward Melisandre, his black dagger raised high, shouting in defiance. But Melisandre didn't even turn. She lifted her hand, and the ruby at her throat blazed to life, its glow enveloping Montford in a searing orange-red flame.
Montford's advance halted as though an invisible force had seized him. Before the horrified eyes of the crowd, he was dragged, seemingly against his will, into the raging fire where the statues of the Seven burned.
"Fire and Blood! Fire and Blood! Fire and Blood!!!" Montford's voice rang out, hoarse and agonized, the sound tearing through the air. His cry sent shivers down the spines of the followers of the Seven, as if their hearts had been scraped raw by sandpaper and then trampled upon.
Robert's brow furrowed as he watched the scene, a wave of unease washing over him. The flames roared higher, casting a terrible glow over the assembly. Fear flickered in the eyes of many, especially those loyal to the Seven.
"Long live the Seven Gods!!!" came another shout, this time from an unseen figure who emerged from the crowd. The person didn't attack anyone but instead ran straight toward the burning pyre, diving into the flames with reckless abandon.