"Gods, I have done it..." she murmured with the faintest of smiles, her voice hoarse as autumn wind through dry leaves.
Joffrey felt the change immediately.
Formless magic surged like a tide into the priestess's swollen belly, then spread throughout her trembling form with wild, untamed power.
In that instant, transformation began.
Her eyes blazed like crimson coals pulled fresh from a forge, while beads of sweat upon her skin caught the chamber's light and gleamed like scattered diamonds. Each breath made them rise and fall, her hair, her lips, her fingers—all seemed touched by otherworldly radiance.
Melisandre glowed from within, beautiful and terrible as a fallen star.
She had become a vessel for something else to enter this world.
Her burning gaze fixed upon Joffrey as though she wished to speak some final words, some warning or blessing.
But the moment would not wait.
The scorching power within her flesh grew restless, demanding release. Melisandre trembled like a woman in fever's grip, breathing in harsh gasps as she struggled to part her legs.
"Ahhhh!"
Blood flowed from between her thighs—but it ran black as midnight ink. Her cry echoed through the chamber, impossible to distinguish between agony and ecstasy, perhaps embodying both in equal measure.
Before long, something emerged.
The head of a child wearing a shadowy crown fought its way free from her body, followed by grasping hands. The thing twisted and writhed, black fingers clutching at Melisandre's bleeding thighs, pushing and clawing until the entire shadow-birth entered the mortal realm.
Silent. Unnatural. Wrong.
It crawled like an infant for several paces, then the shadow-flesh stretched and extended with impossible speed, growing from child to adult in mere heartbeats. Darkness spread across the chamber like spilled wine.
When it stood upright, the creature towered over Joffrey himself.
The thing's full height could not be contained within the room—shoulders, neck, and head dissolved into thick shadow that clung to the ceiling like some soul-devouring void.
It possessed no face, only depth beyond measurement. Like pooled ink or empty air, as though it were merely shadow cast by dancing flames.
Yet Joffrey recognized it immediately.
The being who cast this shadow was himself.
His shadow assassin had been born.
Joffrey stared with fascination, but the creature showed no reaction to his attention.
"Your Majesty," Melisandre called weakly from her bed of birth and blood. "Come and rest. It requires you to dream a dream."
Strange suction pulled at him then, craving his spirit and very soul like hunger incarnate.
"Sandor!" Joffrey commanded sharply.
The Hound burst through the chamber door in response, obedient as any loyal watchdog.
Joffrey began removing his shirt and doublet. "Leave all fighting beyond these walls to your capable hands. Simply follow our arrangements."
He fixed Sandor with a meaningful look. "Don't slaughter too many of my lambs unnecessarily. Ownerless sheep pose no threat—they represent wealth waiting to be claimed."
"End everything before sunset."
The Hound nodded with his usual calm acceptance. "Yes, Your Grace."
"Go."
Joffrey settled upon another clean bed and closed his eyes, no longer resisting the otherworldly pull upon his essence.
In an instant, his soul floated free from mortal flesh and merged with the towering shadow.
When he opened his eyes again, the world had transformed completely.
Color held no meaning here—only light and darkness existed, life and soul, energy and particles containing fundamental truth.
Looking forward, he saw waves of turbulent force, floating gray smoke that swayed and merged into backgrounds of black and white.
Looking down, solid stone walls had become riddled hourglasses where countless particles flowed in and out, their information clear as written words. Half his shadow-body and Melisandre occupied the chamber below.
Looking up, air currents surged constantly while small silver birds occasionally crossed the sky, leaving luminous trails behind them.
Turning to peer behind, he observed countless thick gray streams gathering beyond Storm's End's walls, forming an enormous ring. Though it dissipated slowly, endless thin wisps rose from below to maintain this spectacle.
Dense silver light created the gray smoke—one by one, dazzling and delicious souls.
He saw a modest hill in the distance.
Silver light clustered there in great concentration. One soul proved particularly enticing above all others.
Renly.
Joffrey understood immediately.
Why Renly specifically? What made him different? What connection existed between king's blood and the soul's essence? Who truly possessed such royal heritage? Did it stem from bloodline alone?
Another question to add to his growing collection.
But now was hardly the time for philosophical study. Joffrey immersed himself deeper into this new form, exploring the shadow's magical nature and learning to control this extraordinary body.
The task proved less difficult than expected. The shadow itself seemed eager for action.
Silently, he crossed half of Storm's End and arrived within the walls closest to Renly's position.
The shadow sent instinctive signals of resistance—Joffrey recognized this as reaction to magical auras within the fortification. Yet these enchantments had been modified by his own hand and would coexist peacefully with shadow magic from this moment forward.
He sank into the earth itself.
The gray underworld proved a blur of confusion, filled with dim spots of light like scattered stars, chaotic and difficult to distinguish.
Fortunately, that tempting soul ahead provided clear guidance toward his target.
He stalked through stone and soil toward his prey.
Shadow moved faster than sound, though not quite matching light's impossible speed.
He arrived.
Directly beneath his quarry.
Voices from the lively feast above reached even here.
"Though we all know the truth," Renly was saying with obvious regret, "some still consider him blood of my blood. Very well—we shall honor their wishes and bury him properly rather than displaying his head upon spear-points for common gawking."
Joffrey felt momentary surprise. Were they discussing his own anticipated death?
Earl Ralph Buckler of Bronzegate eagerly agreed. "Such shows true kingly wisdom. A toast to justice tempered with mercy!"
Every soul present understood the necessity of what they planned.
Only one true king could rule the Seven Kingdoms.
"To victory!"
Men raised cups and drained them completely, hiding darker thoughts behind wine's temporary courage.
Very well, Joffrey observed Ralph Buckler's foolish grin with cold amusement. You shall be first to receive my mercy.
He extended his right hand.
Ink-black shadow separated from his essence, flowing and climbing onto his arm before gradually extending into something far more deadly.
A shadow blade.
Viewed edge-on, it seemed thin as gossamer, as though it possessed no substance whatsoever. From another angle, it appeared as pure darkness deeper than Valyrian steel.
"My friends," Renly began with genuine warmth lighting his features.
The tent suddenly darkened.
Was it mere illusion?
Renly seemed to sense something amiss and glanced toward an empty seat with growing concern.
Candlelight flickered and trembled. Shadows shifted and swayed, raising the impossible sword. That blade of pure darkness...
"How cold it grows," Ralph Buckler murmured in confused, subtle tones. A small, rough gasp marked his complete collapse.
Pfft! Thud!
Fresh blood erupted from his severed neck with tremendous force, coating golden silk above while splashing across faces and into mouths of nearby celebrants. His head tumbled free, rolling until it came to rest facing King Renly upon his elevated platform.
Dead eyes stared accusingly at the man who would be king.
"Monster!"
The tent exploded into chaos!
The towering shadow rose to its full height, crown nearly touching canvas ceiling, its form more solid and threatening than before. Darkness wrapped the entire pavilion like a funeral shroud.
Renly stared directly at the crown adorning the shadow's head.
"Joffrey!" he screamed with rage and recognition.
The shadow offered no response save its methodical, patient advance toward one target after another.
Men screamed, shouted, fled in desperate panic. But shadow that devoured everything rendered their efforts meaningless.
Lord Randyll Tarly pressed against the tent's rear wall, finding it impossibly hard and thick as stone.
It is finished.
He understood with terrible clarity that none would escape this slaughter.