Song of The Blessed - 11 (Patreon)

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Song of The Blessed

Chapter 11 – A Blessing of the Gods, a Falcon’s Rest

~ Draedon Baratheon ~

Draedon stood upon a floor of polished marble, reflecting a sky that swirled with embers of gold and azure. He was not merely the Crown Prince here; he was the anchor.

"The old falcon is dying," Draedon said, his voice echoing not just with sound, but with the weight of intent. "And not by the hands of time."

Around him, the pantheon gathered. They did not sit upon chairs of wood or iron, but upon manifestations of their domains.

Apollo, radiant and shifting, paced the floor. He—or now she, currently favouring the guise of a sun-kissed woman with eyes like molten gold—shook her head, sending sparks of light cascading into the ether. "A clumsiness of mortals," Apollo mused, the voice sounding like a harp struck by a master’s hand. "The Maester calls it a stomach bug. A purge of the bowels, he says. Ignorance is the truest darkness."

"It is a biological insult," came the sharp, clinical rebuke of Athena. The Goddess of Wisdom stood near a table that glowed with an unnatural shine to it; books that contained more knowledge than the entire Seven Kingdoms rested on top of it. She wore the panoply of war, her helmet pushed back to reveal grey eyes that held the cold precision of a winter storm. "The symptoms are inconsistent with natural pathology. The rapid onset of fever, the specific wasting of the muscle tissue, the pallor of the skin that suggests hypoxia despite adequate respiration... it is a chemical agent."

"Poison," Draedon stated flatly. "Jon Arryn is being murdered."

"And a cowardly murder at that!" roared Ares. The God of War was a towering inferno of muscle and scarred flesh, seated upon a throne of bloody blades and gory spears. He slammed a fist against his armrest, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. "No steel? No challenge? Just a few drops in a cup of wine? It reeks of weakness! It reeks of fear."

"It reeks of opportunity," a silken voice purred from the shadows. Aphrodite lounged upon a chaise of rose petals, her form the very definition of desire, shifting to match Draedon’s deepest, subconscious ideals of beauty. She played with a lock of Lannister gold hair, her form shifting to reflect a more Targaryen beauty the next before reverting back, her eyes heavy-lidded and knowing. "A tragedy, yes. But tragedy opens the heart, does it not? Grief makes the spirit malleable. The court will be in mourning. They will look for comfort. They will look to you."

Draedon acknowledged them all, but his mind was racing. "Jon Arryn is the glue holding the Seven Kingdoms together. If he dies now, before I have fully consolidated the power of the Faith, before I have secured the loyalty of the Great Houses, chaos will descend too quickly. I need him alive. Or at least... I need to know who killed him."

"You need to see the threads," Athena said, stepping forward. Her bronze greaves clinked softly, a sound of absolute order. "The mortals lie. They breathe deceit as easily as air. The wife, the Master of Coin, the Spider, the Lions and Roses, the Queen... they all wear masks. You have the strength of Ares, the charisma of Aphrodite, the radiance of Apollo, and even the thirst for knowledge like an Athenian. But to rule, truly rule, you need to discern the truth amidst the noise."

Apollo stopped pacing and moved to stand beside her sister.

"Our stunt in the arena," Apollo began, a smile playing on her lips, "your resurrection... it has done more than just awe the masses. It has opened a floodgate. The belief flowing into us is a torrent. It is power, raw and unshaped. We can shape it."

"Into a blessing," Athena finished. "We have discussed this. Aletheia, the Goddess of Truth, is not among us. But her domain... it is adjacent to ours. Prophecy is truth revealed before time. Wisdom is truth distilled from knowledge. Light is the enemy of concealment."

Athena extended a hand, palm up. A sphere of pure white light materialized, surrounded by geometric rings of words and equations, that were written in languages he could not comprehend, glowed with a soft blue hue.

"We can mimic the domain of Truth," Athena explained, her gaze intense. "If Apollo and I weave our blessings together. It will not be omnipotence. You will not know every thought in a man's head. But you will perceive the dissonance. When a lie is spoken, it will reveal itself to you in a form we are unsure about. You will hear it. You will feel it. You will see the shadows of deception clinging to their tongues."

"Truth and Unconcealedness," Apollo added, placing her hand over Athena’s. The light intensified, becoming blinding. "The ability to look at a plot and see the rot at its core. To look at a man and know his intent."

Draedon stepped closer to the combined divinity. "And the cost?"

"Learning the truth comes at the cost of truly trusting the people around you," Athena said. "To peer past the veil of lies requires mental fortitude. It will tax you. But you are a vessel built for endurance."

"I want it," Draedon said without hesitation. "The court is a pit of vipers. I need to see the fangs before they strike. Even if it is my own blood."

Aphrodite let out a soft, petulant sigh, rolling onto her stomach and kicking her feet in the air. "Oh, you bore me with all this 'truth' and 'strategy'. I wanted to bless him next! A touch of the divine allure? A pheromonal command that would bring the highborn ladies to their knees with a single glance? Is that not useful?"

"Not now, Aphrodite," Athena snapped, though she didn't look at the Love Goddess. "This is about survival, not debauchery. The boy needs to navigate a political minefield, not a brothel. He has enough allure to bed half the city already. Survival takes priority over seduction."

"Politics is a brothel, sister," Aphrodite laughed, a sound like silver bells. "Just with uglier whores."

"She has a point," Draedon muttered, hiding a smirk.

"He can have your gifts later," Athena conceded with a sigh. "Once this is dealt with. Once the board is stabilized. For now, the Truth takes priority."

Aphrodite pouted, a gesture that would have started wars in ancient times. "Fine. When the funeral is over, I get my turn. Draedon needs to be adored, not just feared."

Draedon agreed with the Goddess of Love, ignoring her comment about a funeral, but his eyes fixed on the coalescing power in Athena and Apollo’s hands. "Do it."

The twin gods thrust their hands forward. The sphere of light and logic shot into Draedon’s chest.

It was not pain, but a sudden, hyper-clarity. It felt as though a film had been peeled from his eyes. The world of his mindscape sharpened to an infinite degree. He could see the dust motes dancing in Apollo’s radiance. He could hear the mathematical hum of the universe.

"Awaken, Draedon," Athena’s voice echoed, sounding like a great bell. "The game is afoot, and the first move has already been made."

Draedon gasped, his eyes snapping open.

The transition from the divine mindscape to the reality of the Red Keep was jarring. The air here was stagnant, heavy with the humidity of late summer and the faint, pervasive scent of stone and plotting. He lay in his bed, the silk sheets tangled around his legs, sweat cooling on his skin.

He sat up, the movement fluid and powerful. He flexed his neck. The power was there. It wasn't a buzzing energy like the strength of Ares, but a quiet hum in the back of his skull, a waiting sentinel.

He swung his legs out of bed and stood. The stone floor was cool beneath his feet. He walked to the window, looking out over the sleeping city. It was the hour of the wolf, the darkest part of the night. King’s Landing was a sprawling beast, silent save for the distant barking of dogs and the rhythmic crash of the ocean waves against the cliffs.

Jon Arryn.

Draedon dressed quickly. He pulled on breeches of black wool and a loose white shirt, throwing a dark doublet over it but leaving it unbuttoned. He needed to move.

He left his chambers, his men, Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Ronnet Connington, snapping to attention at the door.

"Your Grace?" Connington's voice was deadpan, his eyes flat.

"Stay here," Draedon commanded. "I have business to attend to. Alone."

They hesitated, then bowed. "As you command."

Draedon felt a slight prickle at the base of his neck, the air around them taking a faint Baratheon yellow glow. He instinctively knew their obedience was true, but there was a layer of curiosity, a silent question they didn't voice. The new power was working. He could feel the unsaid words hovering in the air.

Draedon moved through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast like a wraith. He didn't head toward the Hand’s Tower immediately. He needed an expert. Common logic dictated that to fight a poison, one needed a poison master. And there was only one man in the city who fit that description, and who Draedon could call in a favour from.

He descended toward the manse where the Dornish delegation was housed. The guards posted there looked surprised to see the Crown Prince stalking through the gates in the dead of night, but they fell back at his glare, not daring to raise their questions.

Draedon stopped before a heavy oak door carved with the sun-and-spear of Martell. He didn't announce himself. He raised a fist and knocked, three hard, deliberate raps.

Silence. Then, the sound of shuffling, a low murmur of a woman’s voice, a groan of protest, and finally, footsteps.

The door creaked open.

Oberyn Martell stood there, looking dishevelled and dangerous. He wore only a pair of loose linen trousers, his chest bare, marked with old scars and fresh love bites. His dark hair was a mess, and his eyes, usually sharp as venomous daggers, were heavy with sleep and irritation.

Behind him, in the dim light of the room, Draedon could see the shapes of two people in the bed—a man and a woman, entangled in the sheets.

Oberyn blinked, his eyes focusing on the figure in the hallway. The irritation vanished, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise, and then, immediately, a mask of amused curiosity.

"Your Grace," Oberyn drawled, leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "I must say, I didn't take you for the type to make... nocturnal visitations. Had I known you were interested in joining, I would have saved some wine. Or perhaps you’re here for Ellaria? She does have a fondness for dangerous men."

Draedon didn't smile. He didn't engage in the banter. He looked Oberyn dead in the eye, the new weight of his perception pressing against the Dornish prince.

"I am not here for pleasure, Oberyn."

Oberyn’s smile faltered slightly at the tone. It was the voice of a King, not a prince. "Then, if I may ask, why are you here at this ungodly hour, disturbing my rest?"

"Jon Arryn is dying," Draedon said.

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "Old men die. It is the one thing they are good at."

"He is being murdered," Draedon corrected, his voice dropping to a low, commanding whisper. "Poison. The Maesters are useless. They think it is a stomach bug. They are purging him, yet he weakens as we speak."

Oberyn’s posture shifted. The languid lover vanished; the Red Viper appeared. He straightened, his eyes narrowing. "Poison, you say?"

"I have good reason to suspect it," Draedon said. "And I understand your knowledge on the matter is possibly better than any grey rat from the Citadel."

Oberyn studied him for a long moment. He was looking for the lie, for the trap. But Draedon stood there, open, intense, radiating a certainty that was almost palpable.

"And why would I help the Hand of the King?" Oberyn asked softly. "Jon Arryn brokered the peace that let your father sit on the throne over my sister’s corpse."

"Because I asked you to," Draedon said simply. "And because I am the man who gave you the Mountain’s head."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and taut.

Then, Oberyn grinned. Oberyn always respected men that knew how to use their power over others, as long as it did not bring any harm to him and his. And with this, he too could use something that would indebt the future and the current King to him. 

"I need a poison master," Draedon repeated.

"Just a moment," Oberyn said. "Let me find my breeches."

~ Robert Baratheon ~

The Tower of the Hand smelled of sickness. It was a cloying, sweet-sour stench that hung in the heavy tapestries and seeped into the stone. It smelled of shit and vomit, of fever-sweat, and of impending death.

Robert Baratheon sat in a chair that was too small for his bulk, positioned right beside the great four-poster bed. The King of the Seven Kingdoms looked like a ruin of a man. His face was flushed, his eyes rimmed with red, swimming with a mixture of wine and unadulterated grief.

He held Jon Arryn’s hand—a hand that was now just skin and bone, trembling with tremors.

"Damn it, Jon," Robert whispered, his voice cracking. "Fight it. You’re a Falcon. You’re tough. You survived multiple wars. You survived the Greyjoys. Don't let a fucking insect causing bellyache take you."

On the other side of the room, Lysa Arryn was pacing.

Robert hated her. He had never been a man to hide his feelings, and right now, his loathing for the woman was a physical thing in his gut. She was a screeching, hysterical harpy. Even now, with her husband dying, she was making it about herself.

"What will happen to us?" Lysa wailed, wringing her hands, her blue eyes wide and frantic. "My sweet Robyn! He’s too young to be Lord of the Eyrie! They’ll eat him alive! And me! Oh, the Gods are cruel! Why is this happening to me?"

"Quiet, woman!" Robert growled, not looking up. "For the love of the Seven, have some dignity."

"Dignity?" Lysa shrieked, her voice rising to a pitch that made Robert’s teeth ache. "My husband is dying, and you talk of dignity? You, who whore your way through the city while your Hand runs the kingdom? It’s your fault! If he hadn't worked himself to the bone for you—"

"I said quiet! I am still your King!" Robert roared, half-rising from his chair.

Jon Arryn moaned on the bed, a sound of weak distress.

Robert sank back down, instantly deflated. "Pycelle," he muttered. "Where in the seven hells is Pycelle?"

"Preparing another purgative, Your Grace," Maester Colemon said nervously from the corner. The young Maester looked terrified, clutching a basin as if it were a shield. "To... to flush the body of the Hand."

"He’s been flushed enough!" Robert snapped. "He’s wasting away! Look at him! He’s burning up!"

Just then, the heavy doors of the chamber swung open.

Robert turned, ready to shout at whoever was interrupting, but the words died in his throat.

Draedon strode into the room. He took up space in a way that reminded Robert painfully of himself in his youth, all muscle and an undeniable presence. But there was a coldness to Draedon, a sharpness that Robert had never possessed.

And trailing behind him, looking like a predator stalking through tall grass, was Oberyn Martell.

Robert blinked, confused. "Draedon? What... and why is he here?"

Draedon didn't stop until he was at the foot of the bed. He looked at Jon Arryn, his face an unreadable mask. Then he looked at Robert.

"He is here because I asked him to be," Draedon said calmly. "Because Maester Colemon is young, and Pycelle is either incompetent or senile."

"How dare you!" Lysa shrieked, rushing forward. She placed herself between Draedon and the bed, her face twisted in a rictus of outrage. "Get out! Get that... that Dornish savage out of here! This is my husband’s deathbed! I will not have it defiled by—"

Draedon looked at her.

He didn't shout. He didn't raise a hand. He simply focused the power Athena and Apollo had granted him.

He looked at Lysa Arryn, and he perceived.

Fear.

It hit him like a physical wave. Not the fear of a grieving widow losing her protector.

No.

This was the sharp, jagged fear of guilt. The fear of exposure.

He saw the change in the air around her, a sickly green and red colour tainting it. The way her hands shook not from sorrow, but from adrenaline. The way her eyes darted to the table where the water pitcher stood.

"Shut up," Draedon said.

The words were spoken softly, but they carried a terrifying weight. Lysa froze, her mouth open.

Draedon stepped closer, towering over her. "Your husband is dying, and all I hear from you is noise. You are terrified, Lady Lysa. But not for him."

Lysa paled, stumbling back. "I... I don't know what you mean! I am his wife! I—"

Lie.

The colour of the lie was slowly turning into a faint black, her fear and guilt intensifying. 

"Get her out," Draedon ordered, not looking away from her eyes.

"Draedon?" Robert asked, bewildered. "She’s his wife."

"She is hysterical and she is in the way," Draedon said. He turned to the door. "Ser Barristan! Ser Jaime!"

The two Kingsguard entered immediately.

"Escort Lady Lysa to her chambers," Draedon commanded. "She is overwrought. Keep her there."

"You can't!" Lysa screamed, flailing as Jaime stepped forward. "Robert! My King! Stop him! He’s hurting me!"

Robert looked at his son. He saw the steel in Draedon’s eyes, a look of absolute command that brooked no argument. And, truthfully, Robert wanted her gone too.

"Go, Lysa," Robert grunted, waving a hand. "Let the men work."

Lysa was dragged out, screeching like a banshee, her heels dragging on the stone floor. The doors slammed shut, cutting off her wails.

Silence returned to the room, heavier than before.

"Check him," Draedon said to Oberyn.

Oberyn Martell stepped forward. He didn't bow to the King. He moved with a clinical efficiency, ignoring Robert’s suspicious glare. He approached the bed, pushing Maester Colemon aside with a casual brush of his hand.

"Let us see," Oberyn murmured.

He peeled back Jon Arryn’s eyelids. He pressed his fingers against the glands in the old man’s neck. He sniffed the dying man’s breath, then dipped a finger into the basin of vomit Colemon was holding and brought it next to his nose, wiping it clean immediately within moments.

Robert watched, horrified and fascinated. "Well?"

Oberyn patted his dry mouth with the back of his hand. His expression was grim.

"It is a stomach bug in the same way that a dragon is a lizard," Oberyn said, his voice flat. "He has been poisoned."

Robert went still. "Poison?"

"It is not from Westeros," Oberyn diagnosed, gesturing to the sweat on Jon’s brow. "No, this finesse, this elegance, it only comes from the poisons in Essos. Rare. Expensive. Odourless and tasteless. From what I can see and have been told about Lord Arryn's condition, it has attacked the gut and the bowels first, mimicking a natural illness. But look here..." He pointed to the faint blue tinge under Jon’s fingernails. "The fever is too high. The body is burning itself out trying to fight a fire that is already in the blood."

"If it were a simple illness," Oberyn continued, looking at Colemon with contempt, "your purgatives might have helped. But with this? You’ve only accelerated the absorption. You’ve dehydrated him while the poison eats his organs."

Robert’s face turned a shade of purple that was truly alarming. He stood up, knocking his chair over. "Who?" he roared. "Who did this?"

"Someone who wanted him silent," Draedon said quietly. "Someone who has access to his food, or his drink."

"I will kill them!" Robert bellowed, his hands curling into fists the size of hams. "I’ll crush their skulls! I’ll—"

"Save your rage, father," Draedon cut in. "We can hunt the killer later. Can he be saved?"

He looked at Oberyn.

The Red Viper looked down at Jon Arryn. He hesitated. It was a rare moment of uncertainty for the Dornishman.

"The dose..." Oberyn shook his head. "Whoever did this wanted to be sure. They gave him enough to kill a mammoth. It has been in his system for days. His organs are failing. His heart is fluttering like a trapped bird."

Robert looked at Oberyn, really looked at him, for the first time in years. He saw the man whose sister had been raped and murdered by his own banner men. He saw the hatred that had simmered for over a decade and a half.

And Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, felt a wave of shame so profound it nearly buckled his knees.

"Prince Oberyn," Robert said, his voice hoarse. "Please."

It was a single word, but it carried the weight of a mountain. A King begging a man he had wronged.

Oberyn stared at Robert. His jaw tightened. The memory of Elia was a ghost that stood between them, demanding blood.

"If it were just you asking, Robert Baratheon," Oberyn said softly, his voice cold as ice, "I would let him die. I would watch you weep and I would laugh. For Elia. For Rhaenys. For Aegon."

Robert flinched, but he didn't look away. He took the blow.

Oberyn turned his gaze to Draedon. "But your son... if it were not for the fact that he brought justice to Elia’s ghost by butchering the Mountain and brought myself and my sister’s soul peace. He gave me the head of the monster. He balanced the scales in the Crown’s favour, if only a little."

Oberyn sighed, rolling up his sleeves. "I will try. But I promise nothing. He is walking through the door of the Stranger’s house already. I can try to pull him back, but the grip of death is strong."

"Do it," Draedon said.

Oberyn began to bark orders. "Hot water! Clean linens! I need milk of the poppy, but not too much. And bring me my satchel from my chambers—the one with the red leather straps. Run, you fool!"

Maester Colemon scrambled out of the room.

Robert stood there, breathing heavily, watching the Dornishman work on the man who had been nothing short of a second father to him. Draedon moved to stand beside the King.

"We will find who did this," Draedon said, his voice low, meant only for Robert. "And when we do, there will be no trial. Only execution."

Robert looked at his son. He placed a heavy hand on Draedon’s shoulder. "You’re a good lad, Draedon. Better than I deserve."

~ Draedon Baratheon ~

Despite the frantic efforts of Oberyn Martell, the Stranger would not be denied his due.

The poison had burrowed too deep. The damage to Jon Arryn’s internal organs was catastrophic. Oberyn managed to break the fever for a few hours, granting the old Hand a moment of lucid clarity where he whispered something to Robert; "The seed is strong", before slipping back into the darkness.

Two days later, just as the dawn broke over Blackwater Bay, Jon Arryn exhaled his last breath.

The King’s grief was a storm. He raged, he wept, he smashed furniture. But Draedon remained the same. Calm, observant, calculating.

The funeral was held in the Great Sept of Baelor.

It was a spectacle of mourning. The massive crystal dome of the Sept caught the midday sun, casting rainbows of light across the throngs of people gathered within. The air was thick with the smoke of scented candles and the murmuring of thousands of prayers.

Jon Arryn’s body lay upon a bier of white marble, dressed in his finest velvet, the Falcon of Arryn embroidered on his chest. His face was pale, his features sharp in death. Two pieces of circular stones, fashioned into looking like eyes, were placed on his closed ones. 

Draedon stood in the front row, beside his father. Robert was sombre, clad in black, his eyes red-rimmed. To his left stood Cersei, beautiful and cold in her mourning blacks, holding the hand of a fidgeting Tommen. Joffrey looked bored. Myrcella was weeping softly.

And then there was Lysa.

She had been allowed out of her chambers for the service. She stood with her son, the frail Robert Arryn, or Sweet Robyn, as she called him. The boy was shaking as he wept, his eyes darting around the cavernous space, terrified. Lysa clutched him so tight her knuckles were white, but her eyes were dry.

Draedon saw it again. The lie in her very existence. She was acting the grieving widow, but underneath, there was relief. And anticipation. She kept glancing toward the gallery where Petyr Baelish stood, a small, dark figure against a pillar.

The High Septon, a portly man with a voice that droned on like a buzzing fly, was conducting the final rites.

"He was the Shield of the Vale," the High Septon intoned, raising his wooden staff. "A servant of the Realm. A servant of the Gods. May the Father judge him justly. May the Mother show him mercy."

The service went on. The nobles shuffled. The smallfolk in the back craned their necks to see the royals.

Draedon waited. He felt the presence of Hades in the back of his mind—a cold, heavy weight, like a stone in his stomach.

‘The stage is set, little prince,’ Hades whispered, his deep, heavy voice sounding ancient. ‘The souls of men are fearful things. They fear the end. Show them that you are the bridge. Show them that even Death bows to you.’

The High Septon finished his prayer and stepped back. "Let the family pay their final respects."

Lysa stepped forward, dragging Robin. She kissed Jon’s cold forehead quickly, flinching as she did so. She muttered something inaudible and hurried away, pulling her son with her.

Robert stepped forward. He placed his hand on Jon’s chest. He stayed there for a long time, his shoulders shaking. Then, he turned and walked back, his face a mask of misery.

Draedon stepped forward.

A hush fell over the Sept. The Champion of the Seven. The Resurrected Prince. Every eye was on him.

He approached the bier. He looked down at the man who had held the realm together for fourteen years. He felt a pang of genuine regret. Jon Arryn had been a good man, if a blind one.

Draedon placed his hand on Jon’s cold arm.

‘Now,’ Hades commanded. ‘Speak to the shadows. Let them hear you.’

Draedon bowed his head. He didn't shout, yet the whisper of his voice projected throughout, pitching it so that it carried through the silent Sept, a clear baritone.

"Lord Stranger," Draedon said. "He was a man of duty. His watch has ended. Please... take care of him."

The words hung in the air.

For four heartbeats, nothing happened.

Then, the candles flickered. All of them. Thousands of flames dipped and bowed simultaneously, as if a sudden draft had swept through the sealed Sept.

The light in the crystal dome dimmed.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd.

Above the bier, the air began to thicken. It swirled, darkening, coalescing into a cloud of inky shadow that seemed to drink the light around it.

People screamed. Some fell to their knees. The High Septon dropped his heavy body on the floor, his hand toppling over a glass goblet which shattered on the stone floor with a loud crack.

From the centre of the swirling shadow, a shape emerged. It was indistinct, a silhouette of a hooded figure, tall and gaunt. It hovered over Jon Arryn’s body.

Then, a hand emerged from the cloak.

It was skeletal, the bones dark as dragon-glass, wreathed in faint wisps of grey mist.

The skeletal hand reached down. It passed through the fabric of Jon Arryn’s tunic. It placed its palm gently over the dead man’s heart.

A sensation of profound cold washed over the Sept. It did not feel like a painful cold, but the stillness of a deep, winter night.

It was the feeling of finality. Of peace.

Draedon did not flinch. He did not step back. He kept his hand on Jon’s arm, and he bowed his head lower, a gesture of respect to the entity.

The cloaked figure seemed to look at Draedon. Though it had no face, Draedon felt its gaze, Hades’ gaze, acknowledging him.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the hand withdrew. The shadow dissipated, dissolving into wisps that vanished into the air. The candles flared back to life, burning brighter than before.

The silence that followed was absolute.

No one moved. No one breathed.

Then, a single voice from the crowd, a woman’s voice, cried out. "The Stranger! The Stranger came for him!"

"He blessed him!" another voice shouted. "The Prince called him, and he answered!"

"A miracle!"

Pandemonium erupted. It wasn't panic; it was religious ecstasy. People were weeping, hugging each other, falling prostrate on the floor. The High Septon was on his knees, staring at Draedon with eyes wide with terror and awe.

Robert was staring at his son, his mouth agape. Cersei looked pale, clutching Tommen, Myrcella and Joffrey, her eyes locked on Draedon with a mixture of fear and ferocious pride.

Draedon stood by the bier, an island of calm in the sea of noise. He turned slowly to face the crowd. He didn't smile. He looked solemn, humble, yet undeniably powerful.

He had called Death, and Death had answered.

In the shadows of his mind, he heard Hades chuckle, a raspy sound that showed his humour about the entire situation.

‘Well done, boy. You own their souls now.'

Draedon walked back to his family. The nobles parted for him like the Red Sea, bowing lower than they ever had for any King. Even Tywin Lannister, standing near the back, looked at his grandson with a calculating, reassessing glint in his eyes.

The game had changed. He wasn't just playing for the Iron Throne anymore. He was playing for the heavens. And he was winning.

As he walked out of the Sept into the blinding sunlight, the roar of the smallfolk outside greeting him like a physical blow, Draedon allowed himself a small, hidden smile.

The poison had killed the Falcon.

But it had birthed the start of a new age.

And now, the hunt for the poisoner would begin.

With the eyes of the Truth, the will of the Baratheon, and the gold of the Underworld, there was nowhere to hide.

Author’s Notes

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