Chapter 201: The Prophecy

Night fell, yet Melisandre's room would never truly be dark. Dozens of candles burned fiercely in every corner, warding off the shadows and holding back the encroaching night.

Melisandre sat before the fireplace, her eyes closed, murmuring a quiet prayer. She was wrapped in her crimson robe, a figure both ethereal and foreboding.

Golden and crimson flames danced and twisted before her, flickering and merging into strange and mesmerizing visions, each one laced with a touch of silent horror.

The red priestess trembled, blackened blood trickling from her eyes, boiling and steaming as it fell to the ground.

With a shuddering breath, she reached her hands into the fire, and a sound escaped her, part agony and part ecstasy.

The flames crept up her pale, unblemished skin, like the soft caress of a lover, infusing her with a strange, intoxicated longing.

"Meliel…" A woman's voice, filled with despair, echoed in her ears.

"Subject number seven!" a man's voice followed.

Melisandre was lost in her vision and began to weep.

Her tears dissolved into flames, vanishing before they could fall.

Knock, knock—

The sound broke her trance.

She opened her eyes, and the haze of pain and confusion disappeared, replaced by her usual expression of serene devotion.

When she opened the door, she found Samwell standing there.

"Lord Caesar," Melisandre greeted him with a slight bow.

"Still awake, Lady Melisandre?"

"I rarely sleep." She stepped aside to allow him in.

"Insomnia?"

"Sleep is an invitation to death, and dreams are the mutterings of false gods, seeking to drag us into endless darkness," she said gravely. "So, I would rather keep vigil by the fire all night, bathing in the holy flame of the Lord of Light."

She's utterly mad, Samwell thought, suddenly questioning the wisdom of seeking her advice.

"I see worry in your eyes, Lord Caesar," Melisandre observed, her fiery gaze fixed on him. "Tell me. Perhaps I can help."

"I'm preparing to journey to Highgarden," Samwell said, choosing his words carefully.

"You're concerned the Tyrells may harbor ill intent toward you," Melisandre finished his sentence.

"More or less," he admitted.

It wasn't that he doubted Margaery, but he couldn't trust that Lady Olenna or Lord Mace would share her wishes. Mace Tyrell, in particular, might be impulsive enough to turn him over to the Lannisters as a token of goodwill.

Yet going to Highgarden wasn't optional.

Biding his time on Eagle's Nest was hardly a solution; the island's potential was limited, and Cleopatra was still far from being a decisive weapon on the battlefield—although her growth had accelerated thanks to the dragonbone broth, it would take years before she could truly turn the tide of war.

If Tywin Lannister managed to secure his grip on the Seven Kingdoms and eventually turned his attention to Eagle's Nest, Samwell would be forced to flee.

So, he needed Highgarden's support.

Fortunately, he wasn't entirely unprepared. He planned to stop at Horn Hill and take Lord Randyll Tarly with him—perhaps Lord Florent of Brightwater as well. With both his father's and uncle's support, even if Mace Tyrell was reluctant, he wouldn't be able to simply turn Samwell over to the Lannisters.

Still, with all his plans in place, Samwell remained wary, which was why he'd sought Melisandre out.

"I don't advise you to go to Highgarden," Melisandre warned.

He remained impassive. "And why is that?"

"Because in the flames, I saw roses wither," she murmured, staring into the fire, her face flushed in its glow. "Black blood flooding Highgarden, consuming everything. The white castle crumbling beneath a dark tide, shadows coalescing into skulls, gray and white intermingling in the sky, bringing forth a chill that extinguishes every flame, heralding death and ruin."

Her chant carried an eerie, captivating power, yet Samwell was unmoved.

He knew this woman's visions were often riddled with misinterpretation.

Besides, prophecies weren't always destined to come true.

He'd tested that himself back in Skyreach.

The fire in the sept had shown him a vision of Joffrey ordering a massacre, turning the entire city into a nightmare. Yet when Samwell killed the hated king himself, there had been no massacre.

He'd come to realize that even the Lord of Light couldn't see everything.

Neither his killing of Joffrey nor his hatching of the dragon had shown up in any vision. If anyone argued that these events were too trivial to merit divine forewarning, they would be grasping at straws.

Then there was the prophecy regarding his own identity. Samwell knew he wasn't the reincarnation of Azor Ahai, nor had he been born amidst salt and smoke. As for the burning red sword and the dragon emerging from stone, those were things he'd managed through clever planning.

The real Azor Ahai reborn was most likely either Jon Snow or Daenerys Targaryen.

"Did everything you see in the flames come to pass?" he asked.

"This is more than mere sight," Melisandre replied. "Prophecy is an art—one that requires mastery, discipline, and study. The Lord of Light speaks through holy fire, conveying his will in smoke, ash, and flickering flames. These are words only a god could wield."

She added with pride, "I have spent uncounted years perfecting this art at great cost. No one else, not even my peers, can read the secrets in the flames as I can."

And yet, you're wrong as often as not, he thought to himself.

Her lengthy answer had also sidestepped his question entirely.

Were you a spokesperson in another life?

"In Essos, a scholar of the Ghiscari Empire once said that prophecies are like wicked, alluring mistresses," Samwell mused, gazing at the fire. "They'll bring you endless pleasure, but once you believe you've mastered them, they'll strip you of everything. That's the nature of prophecy. Just when you think you're in control, it pulls you into the abyss."

"Which is why the Ghiscari Empire fell," she replied coolly. "They did not believe in prophecy or magic, and so the Valyrians, with their dragons, annihilated them. Every inch of Ghiscari land was sown with salt, sulfur, and bones. Such is the fate of the faithless, Lord Caesar."

"You misunderstand me," he said. "I believe in magic; I even have a dragon. But prophecies, I approach with caution."

There were countless prophecies in the original story, and Samwell knew that even foreknowledge couldn't prevent certain fates.

Take the prophecy from the Frog Witch about Cersei's doom. It had haunted the queen her entire life, driving her to do unspeakable things to prevent its fulfillment. But ultimately, her efforts were futile.

Her struggles had merely become part of the prophecy.

"You said you saw roses wither," he noted thoughtfully. "That doesn't necessarily portend misfortune for me."

"No, it does not. But Highgarden has become a place of ill omen. If you truly seek my advice, I would counsel you to keep away."

"Thank you for your counsel," he replied. "But I have my reasons for going."

He doesn't trust me, Melisandre realized.

She could sense his doubts, like a dark mist filling the room.

But she wasn't discouraged.

Doubt was a natural part of leadership.

While her initial plan had been to charm this prophesied prince into loving her—or even becoming her puppet—she now saw that a man easily swayed by her would disappoint her in the end.

This delicate dance, then, was just fine with her.

"If you're determined to go, then allow me to offer you the Lord of Light's blessing," Melisandre said, crossing to a small, ornate chest in the corner of the room. She opened it, revealing a small red gemstone.

The gem shimmered with a bloody glow, similar to the one on the choker at her throat, though smaller.

Samwell accepted it, feeling a warm pulse emanate from its surface. He had a hunch about its purpose.

"What is it?"

Melisandre held his hand over the gem, her lips moving in a quiet incantation:

"Lord Caesar, repeat after me—Lakqumos."

"Lakqumos."

A strange echo filled the room, slithering into his ears like countless whispering worms.

The gemstone flared brightly, casting shimmering waves of light around him. As he watched, his body seemed to shift and warp—his belly grew rounder, his shoulders broader, his youthful features softened into something heavier and older. His dark hair turned brown, streaked with gray.

Melisandre gestured to a mirror. "Behold the Lord of Light's blessing."

Samwell stared at his reflection, his eyes widening—

He was looking at Lord Mace Tyrell himself!

"Is this some form of magic?" He couldn't resist touching his transformed face.

"Call it an illusion, a glamour, or shapeshifting. As the Lord of Light commands fire, so his servants can shape light."

"Is this how the Faceless Men of Braavos change their appearance?"

"Something similar."

"And how do I dispel it?"

"It will fade in half an hour. If you wish to assume this form again, just hold the ruby and speak the spell I just taught you. But please remember that the power in this ruby can only support three disguises, and we have already used one."

"Can I disguise myself as anyone other than the Mace Tyrell?"

"Sadly no." Melisandre shook her head. "This ruby is soaked in the blood of Mace Tyrell. Only by whispering and praying can you call back his shadow from it and cast it upon you."

Samwell glanced at the red-robed witch, secretly wondering when this witch got the blood of the "Lord Pufffish". Was it in Skyreach?

"I like this gift very much." Lord Mace in the mirror showed a satisfied smile, "This is much more useful than those illusory prophecies."

"It's a pleasure to serve you."

(End of this chapter)