Kapitel 136: Melisandre 5
293AC
The siege camp of Volant is stretched all the way around the city of Myr, encircling it like an enormous mouth, ready to swallow it whole. Everywhere the sounds of work-drums and cymbals rang out alongside the sawing and cutting of wood. Carpenters and engineers driving the attacking armies in the construction of enormous siege towers.
The army of Volantis (or at least the only remaining one) was an eclectic mix of forces, not only were their significant contingents from most of the city's vassals, save Selhorys, but also forces from the cities of Slavery Bay, Ten thousand Unsullied and numerous other slave lords who had come with their personal armies to join the war and acquire new slaves from the people of the free cities, many of them had already taken their plunder in the countryside of the disputed lands, and their retinues were swollen with slaves.
Of course, greatest of all of these factions, though also seen with the most suspicion by the Triarch, was the army of the Red Cult, drawn of volunteers, commoner and Noble alike, nearly forty-thousand of the faithful made up almost half the army and most of its cavalry forces. Indeed, The Old woman's tent, Viserys' in name, was the tallest in the whole of the camp, though the Triarch still sat higher upon his elephant.
Still, there was no question of her master's power, even as withered up and ancient as she seemed to be, this far from her source of strength. Judging by appearances the Old Woman might be snapped like a twig, but she knew well how deceiving that appearance was.
Especially with Viserys at her back.
The young man never showed his face anymore, always wearing the helmet which has been crafted for him in Qohor, though it was Westerosi in design. He seemed to have shut himself away from the world almost completely. Perhaps in response to the marks of shadow which the old woman had worked over his body, chaining him to her will as if he were a guard dog. And a guard dog he was now. A guard dog with a blazing sword at his side that had the name of Azor Ahai on the lips of all who saw it, fire-spewing from its tip and wrapping about its length in a spiraling pattern.
She was sure that the old woman enjoyed having a figure so worshipped by the army around them being broken utterly in slavery to her.
It seemed like the type of thing that the witch enjoyed.
Melisandre entered the main chamber of the tent, where the old woman sat, accompanied by her favorite clay. The sight of it sent a pang through her towards her own adopted clay Daenerys, who accompanied the son of the Black Goat in Norvos. She imagined that the man had likely finished his conquest now, and she hoped that Daenerys would not be too scarred by the monster he was to become.
The fires said that she would live to return to her, but in what state Melisandre could hardly say.
"Greetings, Mother," Melisandre said, bowing plainly. "Have the messengers told you that the siege engines are almost finished and that the Triarch intends to launch an assault in two days?"
The old woman snorted, her withered nostrils flaring.
"I don't need messengers to tell me that, girl. I can hear the hammers fall silent as the wretches finish their work." The old woman raised her blind eyes to meet Melisandre's gaze. "You know that much."
"Yes, mother." She said without missing a beat, better not to engage with the Old Woman on such grounds. "Should we begin to mobilize the faithful then?"
"Phah, faith. There is less faith in this rabble than in a pile of rotten fish on a fire. They worship the burning sword, not R'hllor." The old woman spat with a hateful squint. "But yes, they should be mobilized. R'hllor proclaims our victory here. I see the wall of gold melt away in the heat of our fires."
Melisandre nodded at that. "I will marshal them at once."
"Wait." The old woman raised an almost skeletal hand. Her eyes turning to the side slowly. "Viserys. You do it. Accompany Melisandre and marshal our forces."
The armored prince did not nod, nor give any signal of compliance, but moved with his clattering footsteps to stand by her side nonetheless.
Melisandre only nodded, bowing steeply.
"Thank you, mother."
A dry throaty laugh followed her out of the tent, like a swan being strangled to death, and she grimaced as she walked, her eyes drawn to the blazing sword in her companion's sheath.
Was it truly held above R'hllor by his followers here? We're they idolaters all as the old woman said?
It sent a shudder down her spine as she realized she did not know.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein