Chapter 341: The Purity Is Too Low, Robert

Tywin stood back, watching the chaos unfold as more nobles rushed toward the flames. In his eyes, those seeking death were simply pawns. A part of him even suspected that the dark clouds above had thickened in response to these reckless "sacrifices." If that was the case, he wouldn't hesitate to let a few more throw themselves into the fire.

Jaime, however, was less cold-hearted. Unlike Robert, he didn't relish watching noblemen fall to madness. He quickly ordered his soldiers to set up a perimeter, ensuring no one else could do anything rash. Seeing this, Ned Stark could only sigh in silence. He knew that after this ordeal, the lords of Westeros would distance themselves even further from Robert's rule.

Ned glanced at the sky, where the dark clouds overhead had grown thicker, like shattered fragments of the heavens threatening to crush Dragonstone. The ominous storm brewed with the weight of something more than mere weather—something sacrificial.

Far from the scene, Viserys noticed the swirling, dark thunderclouds looming over Dragonstone. He recognized it as some sort of magical lightning storm. Meanwhile, across the water, Benerro, aided by the red priests, had also begun his ritual for the "Blood of Kings."

"O R'hllor, come forth and accept the offerings of your faithful!" Benerro's voice rang out, and as he chanted, the red of his robes seemed to glow brighter, as if flames had ignited across his body. The tattoos on his skin flickered, the flames within them dancing to the rhythm of his prayer.

The blood in the altar caught fire, its bright red flames leaping and twisting like living embers. Viserys observed this with a slight smirk. The absurdity of it all amused him. What had started as a battle for the throne had somehow turned into a contest between the followers of R'hllor.

Still, Viserys wasn't entirely displeased. The followers of R'hllor were powerful, and it wouldn't be a bad idea to divide them into multiple factions—perhaps two or even three. After all, he would never allow a situation like the Pope crowning an emperor. The power of the monarch had to remain above that of any god. The two must be united in service to the crown, never the other way around.

Benerro continued his fervent prayers: "Your servant offers you a noble sacrifice, praying for your arrival to save him from disaster and storm. The road through the long night is harsh, so we beseech your mercy." He repeated the prayer three times, and slowly, the howling winds began to die down, and the once raging waves grew calm.

The storm clouds that had been pressing toward Viserys's fleet paused in midair, hovering ominously between the island and the ships. Light broke through the sky, as if the sea and the heavens were locked in a struggle for dominance.

On Dragonstone, Melisandre felt a shift in power coming from the fleet's direction. She continued to channel her magic, the crimson jewel at her throat glowing with tension. For a moment, she sensed the clouds above shifting course, turning back toward Dragonstone.

She wasn't the only one who noticed this anomaly. A low murmur spread through the crowd as they realized what was happening. A storm was building, and it was heading straight for them.

At that moment, Davos Seaworth noticed a fine sheen of sweat glistening on Melisandre's forehead—a rare sight, as she had never shown such strain before. Despite his mistrust of the Red Witch, Davos found himself inexplicably hoping that the looming thunderstorm would dissipate.

'No, victory belongs to Stannis,' he told himself, but the conviction in his heart faltered.

Tywin, ever calculating, scanned the crowd. His mind mulled over the possibility that more sacrifices might strengthen the magic. He spotted several nobles with their faces covered and briefly considered whether sacrificing them all might tip the balance in their favor.

Melisandre, sensing the intensity of Viserys's own sacrificial magic, suddenly cried out, "I need the blood of a king!"

The king's blood—their king—could only mean Robert. Without hesitation, Robert strode toward the fire. Unsheathing his sword, he met the Red Witch's gaze. At her silent affirmation, he sliced his palm open with the blade, allowing black-and-red blood to drip into the flames.

But nothing happened. The dark cloud above Dragonstone paused for only a brief moment before continuing its ominous drift toward the island.

Robert looked at Melisandre in dismay, as if to ask: What do you mean? Am I not the king?

Melisandre understood the issue immediately. Viserys was also of royal blood, and as he too was addressed as "Your Grace," his blood—untainted by rebellion—held a higher purity.

Before she could explain, the yellow dragon hovering overhead roared, as if declaring to all who the true king was. The sound reverberated through the crowd, and with it, the storm clouds accelerated.

"Your Grace! We need more!" Melisandre urged, her voice filled with urgency. The blood dripping from Robert's palm had slowed, but with grim determination, he slashed his wrist deeply. Blood poured out like a fountain, filling the air with the thick, metallic scent of iron and sulfur.

The flames roared higher, fed by the blood of the king, but the clouds above remained stubborn. They continued to swirl toward Dragonstone, unaffected by Robert's sacrifice.

On the other side, Viserys had also acted. Calmly, he drew a small cut across his left hand, letting the blood trickle into his own ritual fire. It wasn't much, but it was enough. The clouds above seemed to respond instantly, speeding up as if some unseen force had pressed down on the accelerator.

Robert's blue eyes darkened with frustration. No matter how much blood he shed, it wasn't enough. His strength and sacrifice paled against the forces Viserys had called upon. Despair flickered across his face as he realized his efforts were in vain.

"Let's get out of here, Your Grace!" Littlefinger urged, his voice tight with fear. He had no intention of dying in a place like this.

But Robert stood frozen, unmoved. An overwhelming sense of shame weighed down on him, as though something he had prided himself on his entire life had been stripped away, leaving him exposed before the world. A choice had to be made.

From a distance, Tywin Lannister watched Robert's state. Cold and calculating, he made his decision and turned away without a second glance. With Tywin taking the lead, the nobles of the Westerlands swiftly followed, retreating from the impending disaster.

"Ned, we need to go!" Catelyn pleaded, tugging at her husband's arm.

Ned hesitated, torn. He looked at Robert, standing by the flames like a broken man, and found himself trapped between duty and family. His heart ached with indecision. On one side stood his king, the man he had sworn to follow; on the other, his family, urging him to leave before it was too late.

Renly, too, wanted to flee, but the bond of blood held him back. Robert was his brother, and despite everything, some small piece of him still felt the pull of duty and decency.

Stannis was no different. He wanted to abandon the sinking ship, but Melisandre had promised him that this sacrifice would bring them victory. His faith held him in place.

"Ned! Come on!" Edmure, on the other side, joined the chorus of voices urging Ned to make his decision.

At last, Ned let out a deep breath, as if trying to pull every last bit of strength from the air around him. Without another word, he strode up to Robert and, with a surge of determination, lifted him. Robert didn't resist. His eyes were empty, his body limp—he was like a shell, his spirit drained.

Seeing Robert's lifeless demeanor, the others quickly stepped in to help Ned carry him. They moved as one, lifting their king, who no longer had the will to move himself.

They would not stay to defend Dragonstone. The place was lost. Their only option now was retreat. Whether to King's Landing, Harrenhal, or back to the Westerlands, they had to escape before Viserys arrived.

They couldn't let him catch them here.