King's Landing, Red Keep.
The lingering glow of the sunset streamed through the stained-glass windows, bathing a luxurious guest room in a golden-red hue of blood and honey.
The air was thick with the smell of wine and sweat, almost to the point of ignition.
King Robert Baratheon drained a cup of Arbor gold wine, the heavy golden goblet hitting the oak table with a dull thud, splashing crimson liquid everywhere.
His already slightly corpulent body sank into the chair, the rich silk outer robe stretched tightly over his bulging belly.
"Seven Hells!" Robert's booming voice was completely mismatched with his increasingly corpulent physique. "Old Jon! He just keeps telling me no!"
Across from him, Thoros of Myr, a priest, was bleary-eyed, his red robe askew, his disheveled hair stained with wine.
Robert grabbed the wine jug from the table and drank directly from the spout, the wine trickling down his messy black beard, soaking half of his luxurious robes:
"It's just that fool Balon Greyjoy from the Iron Islands! Causing trouble at sea!"
"I want to lead the troops to Pyke myself! Twist his head off and hang it on the prow of my ship!"
"He forbids it!!!"
His thick arm waved in the air, as if still holding the warhammer that had brought the entire kingdom to its knees.
"He actually said the King shouldn't move lightly, and that Stannis could just go!"
"Stannis! He's a block of ice! He's completely useless! Only I can do it!"
Robert's face was flushed red with alcohol and anger.
"To hell with the squids! Let me go myself! Look at the good deeds the lion and the fish have done! They haven't achieved an inch of achievement yet!"
"If I went!!! The war would have ended long ago!!!"
Having finally vented his angry words, he patted his belly as if in remembrance; what was once an iron-hard abdomen was now a mass of soft flesh.
"Even so! I'm still the Robert who could smash Rhaegar Targaryen's chest with one hammer!"
"But they just want to keep me locked in this damned castle! Dealing with these endless bills and noble squabbles!"
"Instead of doing what a King should do! Fighting wars and finding women!"
Thoros let out a loud burp, his tall, fat body shaking with amusement, and he drunkenly pointed at Robert's belly, letting out an incoherent laugh:
"You'd best hurry, my King."
"Otherwise, it won't be long before your belly gets stuck in your antlered helmet."
Thoros took another gulp of wine, wiped his mouth, and teased, "I doubt your warhorse can even carry you, let alone your warhammer."
Robert was startled at first, then burst into thunderous laughter, a hearty laugh, yet with an undisguised hint of bitterness. He threw an arm around Thoros's neck, his immense strength almost choking the priest.
"You drunkard from Myr! Less talk!"
He released his grip and pointed at the roaring flames in the fireplace, a drunken glint in his eyes.
"Your Red God, don't his followers always boast that they can see the future in the flames?"
Robert leaned close to Thoros's face, a strong smell of wine wafting onto the Red God priest's face.
"Come on! Show your King!"
"Though you in your red robes don't believe in the Seven Gods, you always say you believe in fire, that you see the future in fire—come on, let me see the future tonight, find something interesting!"
He sank back into his chair, the chair groaning under his weight.
"Look at the future of the kingdom! See where my next great war will be!"
"See when the heads of those two Targaryen bastards will reach my hands!"
Robert grinned, revealing wine-stained teeth, and teased.
"If you can't see it, I'll shove your big head into that fireplace!"
Thoros felt a bitter smile in his heart. The Lord of Light? R'hllor? He had been in Westeros for so many years and had never seen that god perform any miracles, or perhaps he was simply not the chosen one. By now, he was long lost in wine, good food, and the false glory of tourneys. His belief and faith in the Lord of Light had long since faded.
He knew that his so-called "flame prophecies" were mostly vague, petty parlor tricks, which he used to fool the rural followers of the Seven Kingdoms, or, as now, to amuse the King after a drink. But the King's command was a command, even if it was drunken talk.
Thoros cleared his throat theatrically, stood up, and staggered to the fireplace. The heat of the flames washed over him, making him slightly more sober.
He muttered, reciting a few ancient prayers that had long become rusty and almost forgotten:
'Lord of Light, the night is dark and full of terrors, please drive away the darkness....'
+
"Guide us.."
Thoros's voice was dry and hesitant, alcohol numbing his brain.
"In the flames... to your servant... reveal the future..."
Thoros gazed at the flickering flames in the fireplace, orange-red tongues of fire licking the black charcoal, making crackling sounds.
Nothing happened. Thoros was somewhat disappointed. He wasn't the chosen one, or perhaps the Lord of Light didn't exist at all. He was about to tell Robert some auspicious words like "The Seven Kingdoms will enjoy eternal peace" to get by, knowing that Robert was just looking for amusement and to fuel his drinking.
But suddenly, he froze. At first, the flames were no different than usual, warm, bright, and chaotically flickering. Just as Thoros was about to babble, he felt an irresistible pull from deep within the flames.
It wasn't a physical tug, but something deeper, more fundamental, almost from the very source of his soul.
The world before his eyes instantly twisted, disappeared; the luxurious guest room, the drunken King, the wine glasses on the table—everything transformed into swirling blocks of color, then dissolved into nothingness.
His soul felt as if an invisible hand had forcibly ripped it from his body. He fell, plunging into a world composed entirely of fire.
There was no up or down, no left or right, only endless, burning light and heat. Then, the scene solidified, and he found himself standing amidst a majestic, continuous mountain range.
Thoros felt he had no physical form, only a pair of floating eyes, an observing consciousness. As if guided, he looked into the distance.
What did the Lord of Light want to tell him?
In the distance, the peaks of the Brightmoon Mountains pierced the clouds like sharp swords. The air was crisp, deep mist enveloped them, and a rolling rumble echoed from deep within the mountains. The ground was shaking, his soul trembled, and countless black, evil wolves poured forth from the valleys and dense forests.
They were not of flesh and blood, but composed of pure darkness and twisted flames.
Their bodies were flowing dark fire, and fierce flames burned in their eye sockets.
Each wolf carried the scorching aura of hatred, blood, and violent death.
The pack of wolves formed a black torrent of fire, roaring and surging, sweeping towards the plains.
Thoros tried to control his soul-body to escape, but found himself unable to move, only able to watch helplessly as the black flames surged towards him.
Finally, he closed his eyes, awaiting the demise of his soul.
A bone-chilling cold instantly pierced his consciousness; it wasn't the cold of winter ice, but the cold of death and nothingness.
He slowly opened his eyes, sensing his soul. The black flame wolves passed directly through his ethereal soul-body.
He looked at them; they were not ferocious. They were silent, running only for their purpose.
Slaughter.
Revenge.
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