章 185: Chapter 186: The Red Priestess
The sunset's golden light pierced the clouds, casting a warm glow over the ramparts of Skyreach. Yet wisps of black smoke marred the picturesque scene, drifting above scattered stones and shattered armor, a grim testament to the battle that had raged.
And then there were the corpses, scattered like broken dolls.
The air was thick with the stench of death. Vultures and crows circled eagerly, impatient for the feast of flesh below.
They fed upon victors and vanquished alike, commoners and nobles alike; these harbingers of death made no distinction.
Skyreach, once proud and majestic, had been battered by nearly two months of relentless war. The city walls, stained by blood and scorched by flame, had taken on a sinister hue. A section near the gate lay in ruins, rubble scattered with the bodies of fallen soldiers, forming a ghastly, blood-splattered mound.
This was the sight that greeted Margaery Tyrell upon her arrival.
"It may be best if you stay back at camp," her brother Garlan Tyrell suggested quietly, stepping slightly to shield her from the scene.
Margaery took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, but the air was thick and fetid, threatening to make her retch.
"No, I need to see the city for myself," she replied, her face pale yet determined.
Garlan sighed, gesturing toward the roses in her hands. "Breathe in the scent; it might help."
Margaery gratefully lifted the bouquet closer, letting the floral fragrance temper the stench as they moved forward.
Garlan led the way, attempting to avoid the bodies strewn on the ground, though it was nearly impossible to do so.
But the bodies were not the worst of it. The groans of the wounded left alive amidst the debris, their moans barely audible, were what truly haunted.
"Is no one helping them?" Margaery paused by a wounded man in Reach colors.
An arrow had pierced his throat, and blood was bubbling from his mouth as he reached a bloodied hand toward the hem of her gown.
"The maesters will attend to them," Garlan murmured, pulling her gently away, though he knew this man would not survive. "Come along."
Margaery bent down, placing a single rose in his hand.
A faint smile crossed the soldier's face. He ceased struggling, accepting his fate.
As she continued, Margaery's eyes welled up. By the time they reached the city's gates, her bouquet was nearly gone.
"What will you offer to the king, now?" Garlan asked. "Then again, perhaps he doesn't deserve a rose."
In a somber tone, Margaery asked, "I heard the city had already been taken over twenty days ago, but because of the king's order to retreat…"
"Yes. That king is a mockery of a ruler." Garlan's expression twisted, then softened as he turned to her with a concerned look. "Margaery, I suspect Father summoned you here to propose your marriage to the king. If you don't want this, you don't have to agree—I'll stand by you, no matter what."
"Thank you, Garlan." Margaery smiled faintly but fell silent as they climbed toward the ramparts, where scattered fires still flickered and the sound of sporadic fighting echoed faintly. It seemed the Dornish had not fully abandoned the city yet.
As they reached the walls, they heard King Joffrey's voice ring out.
"…Where is the Red Viper? Has anyone captured him? That treacherous fool! I want his head!"
"Sire, the soldiers are still searching the city. There should be news soon."
"Tell them to hurry! If the Red Viper escapes, I'll have their heads!"
"Yes, Your Grace." Ser Barristan Selmy nodded deferentially but did not pass the order on.
Joffrey, grinning with self-satisfaction, twirled his whip. As he was likely preparing his next "wise" command, Lord Mace Tyrell spoke up.
"Sire, my daughter Margaery has arrived."
At this, Joffrey turned, seeing a girl approaching in a dark green cloak. Her features were delicate, her doe-like eyes gentle, and a golden rose was embroidered over her heart. Her elegant figure swayed gracefully with each step.
"Your Grace," Margaery curtsied, "congratulations on the taking of Skyreach."
"Conquest," Joffrey corrected, hands on his hips. "I conquered this city!"
"Yes, Your Grace." Margaery smiled sweetly. "Your accomplishments are unparalleled."
Satisfied, Joffrey nodded, turning to Lord Mace. "You have a sensible daughter, Lord Tyrell."
Mace grinned like a bloated toad. "Your Grace, what do you think of her as a queen?"
At this, Margaery's body tensed slightly.
She remained silent, lowering her head demurely, as if from shyness.
"My queen?" Joffrey blinked, then looked her over with a smile. "Yes, she's pretty—and better mannered than that Stark girl."
"Wonderful, Your Grace!" Lord Mace eagerly exclaimed. "When would you like to announce the betrothal?"
"Let's do it in five days. That's my nameday, and we'll have a feast here in Skyreach to celebrate this glorious conquest!"
"As you wish, Your Grace. We shall…"
Lord Mace's words were interrupted by the sound of a scuffle nearby.
It appeared that Ser Barristan Selmy was holding someone back.
"He's your king!" Ser Barristan warned, lowering his voice to a firm but soft tone. "Don't do anything foolish."
"So what if he's the king?" Ser Robar Royce, bloodstained and wild-eyed, seethed. "He must answer for the soldiers who died in the sept!"
"Who's there?" Joffrey called out.
Ser Barristan swiftly pushed Robar back, snapping, "Wash up and dress properly before you appear before the king. Use this time to cool off."
At his signal, guards escorted Robar away.
"Your Grace, that was Ser Robar Royce," Barristan reported.
"Where is he?"
"He's fought hard for days and was not fit to appear before you. However, he brings good news: Prince Oberyn is dead, killed in the sept."
"The Red Viper is dead?" Joffrey laughed heartily. "Good! Excellent! Who killed him? I want to reward the man!"
"He was slain by Samwell Caesar, the lord of Eagle Nest."
"Caesar?" Joffrey thought for a moment, remembering. "Ah, he's the champion from the tourney in King's Landing! Bring him to me; I want to reward him personally!"
"Your Grace, Lord Caesar was injured in the duel and remains unconscious."
"Very well, then. I'll see him when he wakes." Joffrey dismissed it with a wave.
"Did the Red Viper's spear poison him?" Margaery asked, alarmed.
Ser Barristan's expression grew grim. "Yes."
"Then you must send a maester skilled in poisons!" she urged. "He'll need immediate care."
"Maester Craylen will do; he has enough silver links for that." Joffrey ordered casually before losing interest. "Now, about the feast for my nameday. Does the Fowler castle have a suitable hall?"
Lord Mace quickly responded, "Oh, absolutely, Your Grace. The Fowlers once called themselves kings of the sky and cliffs; their hall will be grand enough."
"Good," Joffrey said, nodding in approval before turning to Margaery. "Lady Margaery, is there anything you would like at the feast? Lady Margaery?"
He called her name twice before Margaery snapped out of her daze. "Forgive me, Your Grace. The sights of the battlefield were… quite disturbing."
"Hm. Yes, women should stay far from war." Joffrey nodded, uncharacteristically thoughtful. "Go, get some rest. And see my mother—tell her we'll soon be betrothed."
"Yes, Your Grace."
With a curtsy, Margaery left the tower and hurried toward the Reach camp.
Her knight… was he all right?
She moved quickly, eyes scanning the encampment for the Caesar banner.
Yet the faster she searched, the harder it was to find.
The Reach encampment sprawled over the hills, its tents scattered like mushrooms after rain, each banner flapping in the wind.
She passed the sigils of the Meadow, Leygood, Merryweather, and Webber families, but there was no sign of Caesar's.
Finally, she spotted the twin-tailed fox banner of House Florent and hurried over.
Guided by a Florent knight, she found her way to the Caesar encampment.
"How is Lord Caesar?" Margaery burst into the tent, breathless with worry.
Inside, three maesters surrounded the bed where Samwell lay. One replied, "Lady Margaery, Lord Caesar's wound was poisoned. We've removed as much necrotic tissue as possible, but the toxin has spread to his organs. Unless we know the exact poison, there's little we can do."
"Then I'll question the Dornish prisoners!" Lucas Dayne immediately strode out, resolute.
But the others did not hold much hope. What could prisoners know of the Red Viper's venom?
Even if they did know, some poisons had no cure.
"Is there no other way?" Margaery asked, voice tight with worry.
"We can try bloodletting to purge the toxins," one of the maesters suggested. "But we cannot guarantee success…"
"Is that truly the best option?" Margaery pressed, her voice trembling.
"We can only try…" the maester replied, clearly uncertain.
"Is there no other way?" Alekyne Florent asked anxiously, his face pale.
Although Dickon Tarly escaped, he was shot in the back and didn't make it through. If his eldest nephew Samwell also died, he feared Lord Randyll Tarly's wrath upon their return to the Reach.
The tent fell into a heavy silence.
Then, a smooth, melodic voice with a distinct eastern accent spoke from outside the tent. "I have a way."
"Who's there?" Alekyne called.
The voice of a guard answered, "My lord, it's a red priestess, from Asshai she said."
"Bring her in," Alekyne replied quickly, willing to try anything to save his nephew.
The tent flap lifted, and in stepped a woman tall and graceful, her presence commanding attention.
She was dressed entirely in shades of red.
Her gown was a rich crimson, wide-sleeved and flowing nearly to the floor, revealing a darker, blood-red underrobe. Around her neck lay a red-gold choker adorned with a large ruby, glowing like a coal in firelight.
Her hair, a deep copper-red, seemed to shine like polished metal, and her eyes held the same striking color, alive with an inner flame.
Her skin was fair, almost unnaturally pale, like fresh milk.
"My lords, I am Melisandre, sent by R'hllor, the Lord of Light whom you in Westeros call the Red God," she said, bowing slightly.
Alekyne, not interested in her god, cut to the point. "Can you heal him?"
"Yes," she replied.
"How?" Alekyne pressed.
"By the blessing of the Lord of Light," Melisandre answered simply, stepping forward with quiet assurance.
Without waiting for further permission, she glided to Samwell's bedside and bent down.
Her scarlet lips pressed gently against the wound on Samwell's shoulder, where the poison lingered.
(End of Chapter)
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