Thoros felt his soul being constantly scorched by the black flames; he wanted to scream but couldn't make any sound, feeling that his physical body must be trembling uncontrollably.
Immediately after, the scene before his eyes changed again.
The High Mountain collapsed behind the wolf pack, snow melted instantly, and riverbeds dried and cracked.
The black flames they ignited burned fiercely from all directions, and more and more black flame wolves surged forth from the surrounding fire, not a warm hearth fire, but a greedy, destructive inferno.
The great fire consumed the verdant Riverlands, burning Riverrun to ashes, and the flames spread relentlessly, sweeping over the strong walls of Storm's End, crossing the towering cliffs of the Eyrie.
It swallowed the soaring towers of Oldtown, turning countless scrolls in the Citadel into dust.
The flames climbed over the walls of King's Landing, the Red Keep wailed in the inferno, and the Iron Throne melted in the high heat, twisting into a grotesque mass of scrap metal.
Countless crowns representing the Seven Kingdoms' power, ancient family sigils, seals of authority, noble documents, and knightly swords and shields were all destroyed in the overwhelming blaze.
In the forests, the weirwood trees with carved faces wept bloody sap, then turned to charcoal in the inferno, and the septs of the Seven collapsed.
The seven statues of the gods were burned beyond recognition.
Thoros trembled all over. What kind of flames were these, burning everything in the real world?
The scene shifted, and Thoros's soul was abruptly pulled into a magnificent palace hall.
It was even more splendid than the Red Keep's Throne Room, with hundreds of glowing red candles illuminating every corner.
The hall was bustling with noise, and lavishly dressed nobles were laughing and chatting, holding a grand feast. He saw the stag banner of the royal family, the direwolf banner of the North, the roaring lion banner of the Westerlands, the golden rose banner of the Reach, the blue falcon banner of the Vale...
All the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms seemed to be gathered here.
However—Thoros blinked, or rather, his consciousness fluctuated, and everything before his eyes instantly changed. All the nobles turned into skeletons.
Rotten flesh and broken tendons still hung on the white bones, swords were stuck in their incomplete bodies, and their luxurious silk robes were covered in dried blood and filth. They still held their wine cups, still conversed, still laughed wildly.
A skeleton wearing the Baratheon family's crown had its lower jaw detached, yet it still made the motion of drinking.
A female skeleton, draped in Lannister crimson and gold brocade, had eerie green flames burning in her empty eye sockets, "whispering" to the skeleton beside her.
Bone clattered against bone, making strange clicking sounds, and their hollow lower jaws opened and closed, emitting a noisy and bizarre human voice, as if from the depths of hell.
This was a feast of death, a carnival of hellish skeletons.
This utterly terrifying scene instantly shattered, and Thoros's soul was thrown into a pure, devouring inferno that seemed capable of consuming the entire world.
At the heart of the endless flames, a man's figure slowly emerged. He was entirely made of dancing flames, his face blurry and unrecognizable.
He simply stood there, and around him was the endless pack of wolves, composed of shadows and flames.
They no longer ran but lay prostrate, as docile as hounds.
They gazed up at the man in the flames, their eyes burning with fervent loyalty.
Then, a crown slowly materialized from the flames above the man's head.
It was a crown forged from pure, burning flames.
No gold, no jewels, only the power of destruction and rebirth.
The man made of flames slowly raised his hand.
He placed that crown of fire upon his own head.
The crowned one has no master.
King in the Flame.
A massive force struck, and Thoros felt his soul being violently shoved back into his body. He lurched backward, lost his balance, and fell heavily onto the floor.
The wine cup behind him was knocked over, rolling on the stone floor with a thud.
Thoros gasped violently, like a fish thrown ashore, unable to breathe. He trembled uncontrollably, and cold sweat soaked his red vest.
His eyes couldn't focus; the flames in the fireplace became a blurry, terrifying light spot in his vision.
He had forgotten where he was, and he had forgotten that a King was beside him.
Robert was startled by his exaggerated reaction, and most of his drunkenness dissipated. He chuckled, trying to mock his friend:
"Scared like that? Did the flames burn your leg hair? Afraid of burning off your foot hair?"
He leaned down, looking at Thoros on the floor.
"Or did you see in the flames that you'd run out of wine and all the roasted pig would be eaten?"
Thoros opened his mouth, but only sounds came out of his throat, not a single word.
Robert straightened up. He noticed Thoros's odd behavior. Although he didn't think Thoros would play tricks on him, he still frowned impatiently:
"Hey! Thoros! What did you see?"
He walked over and lightly nudged Thoros's ribs with the tip of his boot.
"Tell me, did I get the heads of the Targaryen bastards? How many new crowns did I add! How many new swords did I stick into the Iron Throne!"
Thoros lay there in a daze, as if his soul had not yet returned. How was he supposed to say it?
Should he say he saw wolves, symbols of hatred, surge down from the High Mountain to devour the entire kingdom?
Should he say he saw the future of all the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms, nothing but a skeleton carnival held in a palace?
Should he say he saw an unknown man, surrounded by wolves, who would be crowned King in the flames that destroyed everything?
He knew Robert wouldn't believe any of it and would just think he was crazy.
But he still wanted to say something to his friend. Thoros struggled, propping himself up with his hands on the ground, trying to sit up.
His teeth chattered, making a clearly audible clattering sound.
"I..."
He finally squeezed out a word, his voice hoarse and unlike his own.
"I saw... the wolves from the High Mountain..."
...Surging down...
"Saw... the Seven Kingdoms burning in fire..."
His gaze was empty as he looked at the carpet in front of him; its patterns seemed to turn into twisting flames. He had never been so afraid of fire, not even the fire he worshipped.
"Nobles... turning into skeletons... dancing at a feast..."
He raised his head, and his bloodshot eyes finally met Robert's puzzled gaze.
"My friend... Your Majesty, that is not a good omen."
His voice was tearful, filled with an inexpressible terror.
"No, it's... it's a prophecy."
The playful expression on Robert's face froze. He stared at Thoros's paper-white face and his pupils, enlarged by fear,
He didn't know what he was thinking.
A few seconds later, he waved his hand and turned to walk away.
"Don't talk to me about gods and fire anymore."
"I don't believe in any of that!"
Robert's tone returned to casualness, but that casualness carried a deliberate, impatient undertone.
"How boring! My friend!"
He walked to the table and poured himself another drink. He chuckled, as if he had heard the funniest joke in the world.
"Are you talking about those wildlings from the High Mountain Clan? They're going to burn down my kingdom?"
"You might as well say those pirates."
"The High Mountain Clan wildlings are just a few thousand bandits."
"You're truly mad."
Robert raised his cup and drained its contents.
"Go to sleep, Red Priest."
He had his back to Thoros, his voice muffled.
"You're drunk, my friend."
Thoros didn't move. He just sat there on the cold floor, letting the cold sweat dry little by little.
The King's footsteps faded, the door opened, then closed again.
Only the crackling of the flames in the fireplace remained in the room, a sound that now seemed like the devil's whisper.
Thoros slowly lowered his head, his trembling fingers touching his chest. Through his soaked red robe, he could feel the hard, unyielding rune representing the Lord of Light.
For years, it had merely been a cold ornament, a symbol of identity, but now, he felt as if it were burning hot.
His long-lapsed, numb faith was forcibly pulled back tonight by an irresistible force.
He looked at the dancing flames in the fireplace, his eyes no longer holding disdain or perfunctoriness, only reverence and trembling.
He murmured to himself, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible.
"Is this the prophecy you sent me?"
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