The final night of 298 AC was destined to be recorded in history.
The massive bonfire blazed fiercely, flas rising several ters high, waves of heat rolling outward.
Luke Jaqenion sat cross-legged, floating above the flas. His dark imperial robe fluttered in the hot wind.
The three dragon eggs — black, cyan, and white — floated around him, slowly rotating.
On the plaza, a hundred thousand citizens of Draco watched in breathless silence.
On the large screens, the cara remained locked on the figure bathed in firelight.
Luke slowly descended into the flas, and the fire swallowed his form.
The entire plaza fell into absolute silence.
Then soone began to pray.
Then a second, a third, a tenth, a hundredth…
Hundreds of thousands of people prayed at the sa ti.
The firelight dyed Draco's night sky red.
At the sa ti, across the Narrow Sea in Essos, sothing equally shocking was happening.
On the edge of the vast Dothraki Sea, a massive funeral pyre had been built high.
On the pyre lay the body of Khal Drogo. The witch Mirri Maz Duur was bound to the pyre, still cursing Daenerys.
Daenerys Targaryen stood before the pyre, her expression solemn.
In her hands, she held three dragon eggs… her most precious dowry, long considered fossils.
"Ser Jorah," her voice was terrifyingly calm, "place them on the pyre."
"Khaleesi…" Jorah Mormont tried to stop her.
"Place them."
Jorah took the eggs with trembling hands and laid them among the wood.
After he stepped back, under the horrified gaze of everyone present, Daenerys took a deep breath, personally lit the pyre, and stepped into the flas.
"No—!" Jorah's cry was swallowed by the roar of the inferno.
The witch's screams and wails rose from the flas, shrill and despairing.
Then everything fell silent.
The once calm night sky suddenly churned with wind and clouds.
Thick, heavy clouds rushed in from all directions like stampeding horses, obscuring the stars and moon. A massive, slowly rotating storm cloud ford above the pyre.
It was as if the sky had opened a single eye.
Gazing down at this unbelievable scene on the earth.
And within the flas, that slender figure still stood.
Almost at the sa mont, on Dragonstone!
Unlike the glory in Draco and the tragedy in the Dothraki Sea, the ritual on Dragonstone was filled with darkness and eeriness.
Inside the Stone Drum's great hall, the fireplace blazed.
Stannis Baratheon stood before the flas, his face stern. Beside him stood the red priestess lisandre, her expression mysterious and devout.
Half an hour earlier, in a dim room in the Stone Drum, lisandre had engaged in an almost sorcerous act of "sex" with a young man.
The young man was nad Gendry.
Robert Baratheon's bastard son.
Afterward, four hungry leeches were placed on his body, sucking the blood of this blacksmith who carried royal blood.
Gendry was bled to death on the spot.
At this mont, those four plump leeches, swollen with "kingsblood," lay in lisandre's palm.
"Kingsblood," lisandre's voice was soft as a dream. "It possesses the greatest power in the world. Offer it to the Lord of Light, and he will grant you victory."
Stannis took the leeches.
He walked to the flas and, with a solemn expression, dropped them into the fire one by one.
With each one, he spoke a na:
"Usurper, Robb Stark."
The first leech fell into the flas, curled, burst, and turned to ash.
"Usurper, Balon Greyjoy."
The second.
"Usurper, Joffrey Baratheon."
The third.
The flas flickered, as if devouring the lives behind those nas.
Stannis picked up the last leech.
He paused for a mont.
"Usurper, Luke Jaqenion."
The fourth leech fell into the flas.
Four leeches, cursing four false kings!
In the eyes of lisandre and Stannis, this was an offering of curses and death to the Lord of Light, R'hllor, in exchange for the destruction of these four "usurpers."
The flas crackled and popped.
The corners of lisandre's mouth curved upward slightly.
"The Lord of Light has heard your prayer, Your Grace."
Stannis stared into the flas without speaking.
The ritual was complete.
Stannis stood by the window, looking out at the distant sea.
lisandre walked to his side.
"What troubles you, Your Grace?"
Stannis was silent for a mont.
"That Luke Jaqenion," he said slowly, "he really can fly."
lisandre smiled faintly.
"The power of the Lord of Light far surpasses such petty tricks."
Stannis turned to look at her.
"Are you certain?"
lisandre did not answer.
She simply gazed out the window.
Toward the direction of Draco.
Suddenly, a massive "cot" appeared in the distant sky without warning.
It ca.
No prelude, no on. One second the sky was pitch black, the next a blood-red light tore through the night.
It was entirely blood-red, trailing a long tail. At its brightest, it could illuminate half the night sky, brighter than the moon.
Its appearance was so sudden and striking that the entire continent of Westeros and the lands of Essos across the Narrow Sea could see it.
Draco.
In the bonfire, Luke was using his own magic power to nourish the three dragon eggs. He suddenly looked up, saw the cot, and drew in a sharp breath.
"The Red Cot!"
He murmured, a flash of shock in his eyes.
"Is this truly fate? The dragon eggs are hatching tonight, and the Red Cot appears? I didn't coordinate this with it…"
The three dragon eggs floating around him seed to sense sothing as well. The patterns on their surfaces began to glow faintly!
In the funeral pyre on the Dothraki Sea.
Daenerys Targaryen also saw the cot.
"Shierak qiya…"
She softly spoke the ancient na.
The Bleeding Star.
In Valyrian legend, this cot foretold the awakening of dragons. Her ancestors had seen such a celestial sign before the Doom.
She clutched the dragon in her arms tightly, tears shining in her eyes.
She knew she had bet correctly.
Destiny was truly on her side.
Dragonstone, Stone Drum.
lisandre stood by the window, gazing at the blood-red cot.
A look of (ecstatic joy) appeared on her face.
"The Lord of Light!"
She fell to her knees, raising her hands high, her voice trembling.
"This is your sign! This is your revelation! Lord Stannis is the prince of prophecy! Azor Ahai reborn!"
Stannis stood behind her, looking at the cot. For the first ti, a ripple appeared on his stern face.
He gripped the sword in his hand tightly.
The sword known as "Lightbringer."
King's Landing, Red Keep.
Joffrey stood by the window of the throne room, looking up at the cot.
A smug smile appeared on his face.
"Did you see that?" he said to the servant beside him. "This is a gift from the heavens for King Joffrey's coronation! It proves I am the rightful ruler! The Seven Gods are blessing !"
The servants nodded repeatedly, not daring to contradict him.
But deep in their eyes, there was hidden terror.
Unlike the delight in the Red Keep, the smallfolk of King's Landing felt only fear when they saw the cot.
"The Red ssenger…"
"The Dragon's Tail…"
"Disaster is coming… war is coming… death is coming…"
So prayed in the streets, others packed their belongings to flee. The old veterans who had seen the world said the last ti such a cot appeared was when the Targaryen dynasty fell.
What would happen this ti?
The Riverlands.
On the battlefield between the Northern camp and Harrenhal, soldiers from both sides saw the cot.
"What is that?"
"An ill on…"
"Blood and storms are coming…"
A sense of foreboding rose in the soldiers' hearts. The veterans who had experienced war felt the oppressive calm before the storm even more strongly.
Robb Stark stepped out of his tent and gazed at the cot for a long ti.
His direwolf Grey Wind crouched beside him, letting out a low whine.
In the distance, on the walls of Harrenhal, Tywin Lannister also stood there, looking at the blood-red cot.
His face showed no expression.
But in his eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible shadow passed.
Oldtown, Starry Sept and King's Landing, Great Sept of Baelor.
Followers of the Seven gathered in the great septs to pray.
The High Septon stood before the altar, looking at the red light shining through the stained-glass windows. His voice was low and solemn:
"Westeros has fallen into chaos, with false kings and evil gods rising… This is the sword the gods use to punish the world. Only through faith can we be saved!"
The believers prostrated themselves, tears streaming down their faces.
Oldtown, Honeywine River, the Citadel's towers stood quietly in the night.
Many maesters stood by their windows, observing this rare celestial phenonon. They took out parchnt, recording the cot's position, brightness, and color… attempting to explain this supernatural event with reason.
But in a secluded room, one man was not looking out the window.
Maester Marwyn.
He was one of the most unorthodox scholars in the Citadel. He studied sorcery, magic, and things the Citadel considered "forbidden." He was the odd one out in the Citadel, and one of the few who truly believed magic existed.
At this mont, he stood by the window, also looking up at the sky.
Then, as if sensing sothing, he suddenly turned around.
His old eyes widened like copper bells.
In the corner of the room, a glass candle had stood for years.
The candle, said to be a relic from Valyria, had been extinguished for centuries. The Citadel kept it as an antique, a witness to history, but no one had ever seen it light.
Now, it was burning.
The light was unlike ordinary fla.
It emitted an uncomfortable bright glow and caused strange shifts in the colors around it.
White beca bright as fallen snow, yellow shone like pure gold, red turned into fla, black beca so deep…
Maester Marwyn's breathing grew rapid.
His hands trembled.
"The glass candle… it burns…"
He murmured to himself.
"Magic… has returned."
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