Thoros felt his soul being scorched continuously by the black fire. He wanted to scream but could not make any sound. He sensed that his physical body must be trembling uncontrollably.
Then the vision before him shifted again.
The mountains collapsed behind the wolf pack. Snow melted in an instant. Riverbeds cracked and ran dry.
The black flames the wolves ignited burned furiously from all sides. More and more black-fire wolves poured out from the flames in every direction — not from the warmth of a hearth, but from a greedy, annihilating inferno.
The great fire swallowed the green Riverlands, burned Riverrun to ash. The flames spread without stop, sweeping across the sturdy walls of Casterly Rock, passing over the sheer thousand-foot cliffs of the Eyrie.
It consumed the towering spires of Oldtown, reduced the countless scrolls of the Citadel to drifting cinders.
The flames crested the walls of King's Landing. The Red Keep wailed inside the blaze. The Iron Throne melted in the heat, twisting into a hideous mass of useless scrap.
The crowns that had represented the power of the Seven Kingdoms through countless generations, the ancient family sigils, the royal seals, the noble charters, the swords and shields of knights — all were consumed and destroyed within the towering fire.
In the forests, the weirwood trees carved with human faces wept red-black resin, then charred to cinder in the blaze. The sept of the Seven collapsed. The seven statues of the gods were burned beyond recognition.
Thoros trembled in every limb. What kind of fire is this, that burns everything in the real world?
The image shifted.
Thoros's soul was abruptly dragged into a grand palace hall.
This place was more magnificent than the throne room of the Red Keep — hundreds upon hundreds of red candles illuminated every corner.
The hall was full of noise and life. Nobly dressed lords and ladies laughed and conversed, in the midst of a grand feast. He saw the stag banner of the royal house, the direwolf banner of the North, the roaring lion banner of the Westerlands, the golden rose banner of the Reach, the blue falcon banner of the Vale...
All the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms seemed to have gathered in one place.
But then Thoros blinked — or rather, his consciousness flickered — and in an instant everything before him changed its shape entirely. Every single noble had become a skeleton.
Rotting scraps of flesh and torn sinew still clung to their white bones. Swords and knives jutted from their ruined bodies. Their magnificent silken finery was drenched in dried blood and filth. Yet they still held their wine cups. Still conversed. Still laughed their maniac laughter.
A skull wearing the Baratheon crown had its lower jaw fallen off, yet it still went through the motions of drinking.
A female skeleton draped in Lannister crimson and gold brocade had hollow eye sockets in which pale green fire burned, and was "whispering" to the skeleton beside her.
Bone knocked against bone in a strange clicking, chattering rhythm. Their hollow jaws opened and closed, producing a cacophonous, bizarre noise — like human voices rising up from the very depths of hell.
This was a feast of death. A carnival of the white bones of hell.
That supremely horrific vision shattered in an instant, and Thoros's soul was hurled into a pure, absolute inferno that felt as though it could swallow the entire world.
In the center of the endless blaze, the silhouette of a man slowly coalesced. His entire body was composed of leaping flame. His face was blurred and indistinct, impossible to make out.
He simply stood there. Around him, an infinite pack of wolves made of shadow and flame.
They no longer ran. They lay prostrate on the ground, as docile as hunting hounds.
They looked up at the man in the fire with fervent devotion blazing in their eyes.
Then, above the man's head, a crown slowly took shape within the flames — forming, condensing, solidifying.
It was a crown forged from pure, burning fire.
No gold. No jewels. Only the power of destruction and rebirth.
The man made of flame slowly raised his hand.
He placed the crown of fire upon his own head.
The one who crowns himself has no master.
King in the Flames.
A tremendous force struck. Thoros felt his soul shoved violently back into his body. He pitched sharply backward, lost his balance, and crashed hard onto the floor.
The wine cup behind him was knocked over, rolling across the stone tiles with a hollow thud.
Thoros gasped desperately, like a fish thrown onto shore, unable to breathe. His whole body trembled beyond his control. Cold sweat had soaked through the back of his red robes.
His eyes could not focus. The flames in the hearth dissolved in his vision into a blurry, terrifying smear of light.
He had forgotten where he was. He had forgotten there was a king in the room.
Robert was startled by the dramatic reaction and sobered considerably. He tried to laugh it off and mock his friend:
"That frightened? Did the fire singe your leg hair? Scared of a little singed hair?"
He leaned over and looked down at Thoros on the floor.
"Or did you see in the flames that your wine had run out and the roast pig had all been eaten?"
Thoros's mouth hung open. His throat produced sounds, but not a single word came out.
Robert straightened up. He noticed something was wrong with Thoros. Although he didn't think Thoros would put on a supernatural act for him, he still frowned with impatience:
"Hey! Thoros! What did you see?"
He walked over and gave Thoros's ribs a light kick with the tip of his boot.
"Tell me! Did I get those Targaryen bastards' heads? How many new crowns have I added? How many swords has the Iron Throne gained?"
Thoros lay there in a daze, as if his soul had not yet fully returned. What could he say?
That he saw wolf packs charged with hatred, pouring down from the mountains to devour the entire kingdom?
That he saw the future of every noble in the Seven Kingdoms — nothing more than a skeleton banquet held in a palace?
That he saw an unknown man, surrounded by wolves on every side, crowned king in a fire that destroyed all things?
He knew Robert would not believe any of it. Robert would only think him a madman.
But he still wanted to say something to his friend.
Thoros struggled, pressing his hands against the floor, trying to push himself upright.
His teeth chattered and ground together, audible from across the room.
"I..."
He finally forced out a single word, his voice so ragged it didn't sound like his own.
"I saw... wolves from the mountains..."
"...pouring down..."
"Saw... the Seven Kingdoms burning..."
His gaze was vacant, fixed on the carpet in front of him. The patterns on it seemed to writhe like flames. He had never feared fire like this before, not even the fire of his own faith.
"Nobles... turned to bones... dancing at a feast..."
He raised his head. His bloodshot eyes finally met Robert's bewildered gaze.
"My friend... Your Grace... that was no good omen."
His voice was on the edge of breaking, filled with a terror that no words could fully describe.
"No... it was... it was a divine oracle."
The grin on Robert's face froze. He stared at Thoros's face, white as paper, and those pupils dilated wide with fear.
He said nothing.
Several seconds passed. He waved a hand and turned to walk away.
"Don't mention gods or fire to me again."
"I don't believe in any of that!"
Robert's tone recovered its lightness — but that lightness carried a deliberate, impatient edge.
"What a bore! My friend!"
He walked to the table and poured himself another cup. He laughed once, as if he had heard the funniest joke in the world.
"You're saying those mountain clan savages? That they'll burn my kingdom?"
"You might as well have said those pirates."
"The mountain clans are nothing but a few thousand bandits."
"You've really lost your mind."
Robert raised his cup and drained it in one pull.
"Go sleep it off, red robes."
He had his back to Thoros. His voice was flat.
"You're drunk, my friend."
Thoros did not move. He sat there on the cold stone floor, letting the cold sweat dry on his skin little by little.
The sound of the king's footsteps receded. The door opened. Then it closed.
The room now held nothing but the crackling of the fire in the hearth — and that sound, in this moment, was like the low murmuring of a devil.
Thoros slowly bowed his head. His trembling fingers pressed against his chest. Through the soaking red robe, he could feel it — the hard, smooth surface of the rune that represented the Lord of Light.
For years it had been nothing but a cold ornament. A symbol of identity. But now he felt as though it was burning hot.
That faith of his — long since sunken and numb — had been dragged forcibly back tonight by a power that brooked no refusal.
He looked toward the dancing flames in the hearth. In his eyes there was no longer any contempt or performance. Only awe. And trembling.
He murmured to himself, his voice so quiet it was nearly inaudible.
"Is this the oracle you have sent to me?"
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