Song of the Blessed - 7 (Patreon)

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Song of The Blessed

Chapter 07 – A God Among Men

~ Jon Arryn  ~

The stench of King’s Landing had changed. For twenty years, Jon Arryn had known the city by its particular stench; a miasma of shit, sour wine, unwashed bodies, and the rotting refuse of a million souls crammed behind stone walls. But today, standing on the balcony of the Tower of the Hand, the wind that whipped at his grey cloak carried a new scent.

Incense. Myrrh. The cloying, smoky sweetness of burnt offerings.

The city was no longer a cesspit; it was a cathedral.

Jon gripped the stone railing, his knuckles white. Below, in the streets of King’s Landing and up the winding path of the Hook, the smallfolk were not working. They were chanting. The sound was a low, thrumming vibration that seeped into the very foundation of the Red Keep.

The Champion.

The Blessed.

The Golden Stag.

"It is a dangerous thing," Jon murmured to the empty air, his voice raspy. "To have a god walk among men."

He turned back into his solar. The room felt smaller than it had a week ago. The maps of the Seven Kingdoms, the ledgers of the now lowered debt, the careful reports of harvest yields—they all seemed trivial now. How did one tax a miracle? How did one negotiate treaties when the heir to the throne had taken a sword through the heart and simply refused to die?

The door opened, and a page boy entered, looking pale and jittery. "Lord Hand? The King... he is in the yard."

Jon sighed. "Drinking? It is not yet noon."

"No, my lord. He is... sparring."

Jon’s eyebrows shot up. He dismissed the boy and made his way down the winding stairs, his old knees protesting the descent. When he reached the gallery overlooking the training yard, he stopped dead.

The yard was usually a place of lazy practice this time of day, squires half-heartedly banging swords. Today, it was a forge of violence.

Robert Baratheon was stripped to the waist. His massive gut, usually straining against velvet doublets, jiggled with the force of his exertion, but beneath the layers of fat, the slumbering muscle of the Demon of the Trident was waking up. He held a Warhammer; not his old one, which was too heavy for him now, but a heavy training maul.

*Crack.*

The maul splintered a wooden shield held by Sandor Clegane. The Hound had become easier to deal with now that the source of two of his greatest agonies lay six feet under.

"Again!" Robert roared. His face was purple, sweat streaming into his beard, but his eyes were clear. There was no glaze of wine. "Move your feet, damn you! If the Targaryen spawn come, they won't stand still!"

Jon watched, a chill settling in his stomach. Robert was laughing, but it wasn't the drunken guffaw of the feast hall. It was the manic, adrenaline-fueled laugh of a warrior who had remembered what he was.

"He has been at it for three hours," a voice said beside him.

Jon turned to see Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander’s face a mask of stoic concern.

"He has not called for wine?" Jon asked.

"Water. Only water," Barristan said quietly. "He told me that he was a 'fat fuck' when his son died. He could not move fast enough to save his own son even if he tried. He swore by the Seven that if the Gods gave him Draedon back, he would be worthy of him. He intends to lead the vanguard if war comes again."

Jon looked back at the King. A fit, focused Robert Baratheon. Ideally, this should have pleased him. It was what he had wanted for years. But now? It terrified him. An energized Robert was an unpredictable Robert. And Robert’s motivation was singular: Draedon.

The Prince.

Jon had seen him earlier that morning. Draedon had been walking the gardens, Myrcella and Tommen trailing him like ducklings. Cersei was there, too. The Queen had changed. The haughty, bored sneer was gone, replaced by a feral, wide-eyed vigilance. She hovered over Draedon, touching his arm, his shoulder, checking him as if afraid he might dissipate into smoke.

But it was the way the others looked at him. The Gold Cloaks dropped to one knee when Draedon passed. The servants wept openly. Even the high lords like Tywin Lannister’s stooges and the sycophants of the Reach, bowed with a trembling reverence that had nothing to do with protocol and everything to do with awe and fear.

Fear of the unknown.

Draedon walked through it all with a terrifying calm. He did not preen. He did not gloat. He moved with the easy, terrifying grace of a predator that knows it has no natural enemies.

"The board has been kicked over," Jon whispered. "We are playing a game that no longer has rules."

Jon excused himself, his head throbbing. He needed quiet. He needed logic. He needed to understand the lineage of this power, or perhaps, the truth behind the boy who defied death.

He found himself walking not back to his tower, but to the Grand Library. It was dusty and cool, smelling of old parchment and dry ink. Pycelle rarely came here; the old fool preferred his comforts.

Jon moved to the section regarding the histories of the Great Houses. He needed to ground himself in the past, to find precedent. His hand trailed over the spines of leather-bound tomes until it rested on a heavy, oversized volume, coated in a layer of neglect.

‘The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms,’ by Grand Maester Malleon.

Jon pulled it down. It thumped heavily onto the reading table. He opened it, the stiff pages crackling. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. Perhaps a record of Baratheon resilience. Perhaps a hint of Targaryen madness in the bloodline.

He turned the pages to House Baratheon.
‘Orys Baratheon, black of hair.’
‘Axel Baratheon, black of hair.’
‘Lyonel Baratheon, black of hair.’
‘Steffon Baratheon, black of hair.’
‘Robert Baratheon, black of hair.’

Jon frowned. He flipped the pages back. To House Lannister.
‘Tytos Lannister, golden of hair.’
‘Tywin Lannister, golden of hair.’
‘Jaime Lannister, golden of hair.’

He paused. He thought of Draedon. The boy had the black hair of his father, yes. But Joffrey? Tommen? Myrcella?

Gold. Pure, Lannister gold.

And Draedon... when he had risen... Jon recalled the light. It wasn't just resurrection. It was power. But before the miracle, Jon had always noted how... different Draedon was from Joffrey.

He turned back to the Baratheon lineage. Every union of a Baratheon and a Lannister in the past—and there had been three—resulted in black hair. The seed was strong.

So why were three of the royal children golden?

Jon sat back, the heavy book open before him. The cheering of the crowd outside seemed to dim, replaced by the thudding of his own heart. The miracle had blinded them all, dazzled them with divine light. But beneath the glow of the resurrection lay a shadow, a secret that had been sitting in plain sight.

Draedon was the anomaly. The only one who looked like the King.

"The seed is strong," Jon whispered, fear clutching his throat. "But the others..."

Draedon was the only one with hair and eyes of a Baratheo, then perhaps he was the only true son Robert had. And if that were true, then the Queen...

Jon closed the book. His hands were shaking. He had come looking for history, and he had found a conspiracy that threatened to tear the world apart.

He needed to investigate more. 

~ Margaery Tyrell  ~

The wheelhouse of House Tyrell was a carriage fit for royalty, smelling of rosewater and polished mahogany, but to Margaery Tyrell, it felt like a cage rolling toward the precipice of the world.

"Look at them," Mace Tyrell breathed, peering through the velvet curtains as the carriage rumbled through the King’s Gate. "I have never seen the common people so... agitated. Do you think they will riot?"

"They are not rioting, you oaf," Olenna Tyrell snapped. The Queen of Thorns sat huddled in her corner, looking smaller than usual, her sharp eyes darting. "They are worshipping. There is a difference, though it usually ends in the same amount of blood."

"It is glorious," Lady Alerie Tyrell sighed, clasping her hands to her chest. Her eyes were wet with tears. "To think, we are to be in the presence of the Chosen One. The Warrior made flesh. We must light seven hundred candles. We must—"

"We must keep our wits about us, Alerie," Olenna cut in, her voice like a lash. "Put away your prayer beads. You are a Tyrell, not a Septa."

And with that an argument ensued. Again. 

Margaery sat in silence, smoothing the silk of her skirt. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She was trained for this. She had been groomed since she was a girl to smile at wolves and charm lions. But a god? How did one seduce a god?

The carriage lurched to a halt in the courtyard of the Red Keep. The noise was deafening here—the clash of steel, the shouting of orders, the underlying hum of a castle on the brink of war or ascension.

They disembarked. Mace puffed out his chest, trying to look important, while Alerie practically swooned. But Margaery’s eyes were drawn instantly to the upper balconies.

And there she saw him.

He was standing on the bridge between the fortress and the holdfast. He wore simple black pants, his sculpted body out for the world to see. No crown, no jewels. Now, his perfect body possessed a scar, a visible red line that was already fading, proof of his return to the realm of the living.

He didn't need them. He radiated a presence that made the sunlight seemingly bend toward him.

Prince Draedon.

He was looking down at the courtyard. His gaze swept over the bustling servants, the guards, and then, inevitably, it locked onto the Tyrell procession.

For a second, their eyes met.

Margaery felt the breath seize in her throat. She expected arrogance. She expected the hungry leering she had seen in Robert, or the petulant cruelty of Joffrey.

Instead, she saw amusement.

It was a confident, knowing look. As if he could see through her silks, through her skin, right down to the ambitious gears turning in her soul. And he didn't mind.

He smiled. It wasn't a courtly smile. It was a predator's grin, devastatingly handsome and utterly terrifying.

Margaery felt a flush rise from her neck to her cheeks. It wasn't shame. It was heat. Pure, liquid heat pooling in her belly.

"Margaery," Olenna’s sharp whisper broke the spell. The old woman had moved to her side, gripping her arm with a claw-like hand. "Close your mouth, girl. You look like a fish."

Margaery snapped her jaw shut, composing her features. "Grandmother."

"Listen to me," Olenna hissed, leading her toward the guest chambers as Mace barked orders at the baggage train. "This is not the game we prepared for. I have schemed against Targaryen madness, Baratheon drunkenness, and Lannister pride. I can outmanoeuvre men."

"But can we outmanoeuvre a god?" Margaery questioned her grandmother.

"He is still a man, granddaughter," Olenna said, though her voice lacked its usual certainty.

"Is he?" Margaery stopped in the corridor, looking her grandmother dead in the eye. "He took a sword through the heart. Every one heard what the Grandmaester said. By all laws of nature, he should be rotting on a slab. Instead, he is stronger. The people think he is divine."

"What do we do now?" Margaery asked.

"We survive," Olenna said grimly. "You must get close to him. Not to control him—I fear that is impossible now. But to see if he can be steered. If he is a god, we must be his high priests. If he is a monster, we must be the ones holding the chain. But be warned, my rose..."

Olenna looked back toward the yard, a rare flicker of genuine fear in her eyes.

"Do not let him consume you. Men like that... they burn everything they touch. If you play him false, if you try to manipulate him like we planned, things that would work on the others, he will not just execute you. The mob will tear you apart with their bare hands for touching their idol."

Margaery nodded, dutifully. "Yes, Grandmother."

But as she walked to her chambers, her thoughts were not on survival. They were on that smile.

She had spent her life preparing to be a Queen, to sit beside a King and whisper in his ear, guiding the realm with a soft hand. She wanted power. She wanted adoration.

But thinking of Draedon, watching the way he stood like an immovable object against the sky, Margaery realized something terrifying.

She didn't want to guide him. She didn't want to manipulate him.

She wanted him to look at her with those glowing, impossible eyes and tell her what to do. She wanted to surrender. The ambition that usually fuelled her was mutating into something darker, heavier. A carnal hunger to be dominated by the only man in the world who was truly above the Game.

She entered her room and closed the door, leaning back against the heavy wood. She let out a shaky breath, her hand drifting down her bodice.

"Draedon," she whispered, testing the name on her tongue. It tasted of danger. It tasted of victory.

She would have him. Not as a piece on the board, but as the master of it. And if she burned? Well, at least it would be a glorious fire.

~ Oberyn Martell  ~

The wine in Oberyn Martell’s cup was deep red, the colour of blood. It was a vintage from the private cellars of Sunspear, heavy and spiced, usually capable of drowning any sorrow.

Today, it tasted like horseshit.

He sat on the floor of the rented manse, his back against a pile of silk cushions. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering light of oil lamps that cast long, dancing shadows against the tapestries.

"You are brooding," a voice purred.

Oberyn didn't look up as Ellaria Sand glided into the room. She moved with the liquid grace of a viper, her sheer robes leaving little to the imagination. She sank down beside him, draping an arm over his shoulders, her fingers trailing through his hair.

"I am thinking," Oberyn corrected, staring into his cup.

"About the Mountain?"

"About the Mountain," he agreed. "And the man who stole him from me."

For fourteen years, Oberyn had nursed his hatred. It had been his companion, his lover, his reason for breathing. He had visualized Gregor Clegane’s death a thousand ways. The poison. The confession. The slow, agonizing end.

And then, in a heartbeat, it was gone.

Draedon Baratheon had not just killed the Mountain. He had erased him. He had turned the monster into a footnote in his own legend.

"He saved your life, my love," Ellaria murmured, nipping gently at his ear. "If the Prince had not intervened, I would be weeping over your corpse right now."

"I know," Oberyn snapped, the words bitter. "That is the worst of it. I owe the Lannister spawn my life. My vengeance is hollow, and I am in debt to the son of the Usurper and the Lioness."

"He is not a Lannister," Ellaria said softly. "Not anymore. Did you see him? The light? The crowd calls him the Warrior Reborn."

Oberyn swirled the wine. "I saw a trick of the light. Or blood magic. Or perhaps the gods truly are cruel enough to choose a Baratheon as their champion."

"Does it matter?" Ellaria took the cup from his hand and set it aside. She straddled his lap, her dark eyes locking onto his. "The Mountain is dead. Elia is avenged. The method was not yours, but the result is the same. The monster is gone."

Oberyn looked up at her. She was right, of course. Logic dictated he should be celebrating. But Oberyn Martell was a creature of passion, not cold logic. He felt unmoored. The target he had aimed at for a decade had vanished.

"The game has changed, Ellaria," he said, his hands resting on her hips. "We came for justice. We came to bring vengeance and blood, or at least to plant the seeds of it. But how do we fight this? The boy has the love of the smallfolk, the reverence and fear of the lords, and apparently, the favour of the gods. If Dorne opposes him, we will be crushed. Not by armies, but by the sheer weight of his narrative."

"Then do not oppose him," Ellaria whispered, leaning down to kiss his neck. "Seduce him."

Oberyn chuckled, a dark, low sound. "He is a boy. A powerful boy, but a boy."

"He is a god, Oberyn. And gods require offerings." She pulled back, searching his face. "You saw him. He is not Robert. He is not Tywin. He is something new. Dorne has always appreciated... power."

Oberyn’s mind began to race, the fog of self-pity lifting as the strategist within him awoke. Old allegiances, the Targaryen loyalties, the secret pacts, they were dust now. Viserys was a beggar king across the sea. Daenerys would not be accepted over a man.

But here, in King’s Landing, was a Dragon in the skin of a Stag. A force that had shattered the status quo with a single blow.

If you cannot destroy the storm, you must sail with it.

"He will need allies," Oberyn mused aloud. "Real allies. Not the sycophants Robert surrounds himself with. He will need people who understand the call of the flesh and desire."

"And who understands that better than us?" Ellaria smiled, a wicked, knowing curve of her lips.

Oberyn felt a spark of the old fire return. His revenge was done. Now, it was time for survival. And perhaps, something more enjoyable.

"I need an audience," Oberyn decided. "I need to look him in the eye. Not across a tourney field, but man to God."

"And what will you say to him?"

Oberyn smirked. It was the smile of the Red Viper, dangerous and depraved. He ran a hand up Ellaria’s thigh, gripping her flesh.

"I will tell him that a life for a life is the old way," Oberyn purred. "I will tell him that Dorne pays its debts in pleasure, not just blood."

He stood up, lifting Ellaria effortlessly with him.

"A man must bring a gift to a god," he said, his eyes gleaming with a mix of political cunning and perverted anticipation. "And I think I know exactly the kind of gift a young, resurrected Prince might appreciate."

He kissed Ellaria hard, tasting the wine on her lips.

"I need to send a letter," Oberyn commanded. "We go to the Red Keep. It is time to see if the God's Shadow casts a shade for us to dance in."

Author’s Notes

Next chapter will be more perspectives. And we will be entering canon shortly.

Do review it.

See you soon.