Chương 162: Baelin 4
Following King Viserys, they made their way through the camp of the Volantene army, now much reduced in size he noted. As far as he could tell the Triarch had died in the fires that took Myr, and it seemed that what forces were left outside of the red cult had been swiftly and forcibly converted to its service. Of what remained only the Cult's heavy cavalry were really distinguishable from the teaming robed masses of its adherents, who mostly seemed to still be caught up in celebrations and confirmations of their new "converts."
Still, whoever they were they made way for his master, the fire in his eyes and the burning sword on his hip a clear indication of his status as the Azor Ahai. Even if none of them had yet seen his face.
He moved slowly, his burnt and scarred arms having to hold up his Tokar, but there was a certain purpose too it, and even as the crowds around them parted he heard whispers and prayers directed towards the Targaryen.
Soon, they reached the priests camp, separate from the main army of the cult. It occurred to him that it was odd that Viserys tent was not here, but rather on the other side of the camp. Perhaps it was the result of his hatred for this "old woman."
Regardless, they arrived at one of the larger tents in the priests compound, and his master's eyes flared as he laid sight on the woman by the door. A girl perhaps just into her teens, she was tall for her age, but her features were unspeakably beautiful. High Valyrian in tone and shape, and eerily silent, her almost supernaturally beautiful face sat over a body found normally only in marble masterpieces and Lyseni pleasure-slaves.
"Sister," Viserys intoned, his voice dark. "What spell has mother wrought over you now to change your form to such an extent."
The girl turned, her eyes meeting Viserys' and a cruel smirk played over her face as she took in his scorched arms. "Ah, clay, I see that R'hllor has not shown favor to you as he has to all of us, perhaps if you were less of a wretch you would already know." The woman brought a finger to the bottom of her full lips. "But then, if you were not such a wretch you would not be such a useful tool for grandmother. She wishes to speak with you in-"
Baelin hardly saw his master as he moved, so fluid and careful was the motion that delivered his burning blade to rest just below his sister's chin, and the girl recoiled at its proximity. "Do not think that you have such power over me simply because she does," Viserys said his eyes burning brighter than before.
After a moment of terror, the girl recompiled herself, though the sword never left her throat. She hissed through gritted teeth. "Grandmother wants you. Enter the tent." Her eyes roamed to find Baelin, and he felt a chill run down his spine as they found him, oh yes, they were beautiful too. They were cold and beautiful as an Icicle hanging above your brow, and a purple deeper than dye could replicate.
"Take your pet too. She should see him."
Viserys dropped the sword from her chin, glaring the entire way, and it struck Baelin that he had moved so quickly with his hands still burnt as if his anger had driven him beyond his pain or weakness. His master raised a hand that he follow, and Baelin hurried to do so.
The inside of the tent was pitch black, the sun was fully hidden by the heavy fabric, and the air was filled with smoke, bearing the sickly-sweet smell of incense and the disgusting tang of burnt human flesh, something he had grown all too accustomed too in these days.
The large tent was centered around a great firepit at its center, perhaps nine feet across, and beside it were three seats, denoted by pillows. Each more ornate than the last, the plainest of them was unoccupied, but in the other two sat the most beautiful women that Baelin had ever seen. The one on the greatest pillow had deep red hair, distinctive even in the orange firelight. It fell down in curls over her shoulder onto ornate robes which disguised the figure of a goddess beneath them. She seemed entirely without flaw, save for the fact that her eyes, which followed Viserys, we're clearly clouded and blind.
Beside her, on a somewhat less ornate pillow, sat another woman, raven hair fell down her back, and shrewd eyes followed both Viserys and him, she lacked the ornate robes of her superior, but made up for it by having her simpler red clothing low cut and revealing, clearly intending to show off her enormous… assets.
With these two before him, he was not surprised at all to see the King's sister take the seat on the last pillow, a trio of women who would send any Lyseni to shame.
"Viserys," the raven-haired woman spoke. "Teach your pet not to drool on the floor if you must bring him with you."
Baelin immediately clamped his mouth shut, resolving to look away from the women as he blushed out of embarrassment.
"Hmmph." His master grunted but said no more.
"Oh?" The most powerful woman questioned. "No defiance today? Perhaps you have learned your place after all." The fire in the pit at the center of the room flared slightly, filling the room with the smell of charred flesh. "Why have you come to us?"
"You already know… Mother." Viserys spit the word like it was poison, which Baelin supposed it might well be.
"Indeed, I do, you broken clay, shattered plaything. You wish for direction, for purpose." The woman cackled, and though her voice was beautiful, it sent terror running down Baelin's spine. "Well you will receive it, the army of Westeros comes to cut you down for daring to seek to reclaim your throne. Is that not direction enough?"
"No," Viserys stated plainly.
The woman cackled again. "You want more? Is it divination you seek then? Well go ahead then, Melisandre, Daenerys, tell him what you have seen in the fires."
Baelin turned his gaze towards the other women as they began to speak, their voices unison as the fire seemed to flare with each passing word.
"The Stag seeks out the Dragon with his hosts and banners high,
The Dragon answers and his roaring fires make reply.
In the plains and in the woods they match their bloody blades,
And when the battle is o'er and the dead fill-up the glades,
Then spear and horse shall fall and sag,
And the Dragon will have tasted the blood of the Stag."
The two spoke in a sort of unison that was just off enough to distinguish between their voices, the older and the younger, and Baelin felt he could almost see the pantomime that they described playing out before his very eyes, written in the flickering of the fire.
Viserys stood to his feet. "We will leave." He said, his voice betraying no emotion. "When should I march?"
"Tomorrow." The most powerful woman said. "At the earliest."
Viserys nodded, and Baelin followed him out, happy to get away from the cabal of beautiful witches.
At the very least his master didn't seem the type to kill him as a form of entertainment.
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