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Chapter 489
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 16:59:32 +0000 UTCR’hllor’s divine sign did not alarm everyone—in fact, it only stirred a select few.
Within the densely packed buildings of Last Hearth’s inner keep, the daily routines of the ordinary workers and soldiers went on as usual. At the sound of the morning horn, they groggily sat up in bed, yawning, rubbing their bleary eyes, and dressing for the day ahead. The cleaning staff began clearing the ice that had formed overnight, patrol guards marched in formation to maintain order, warehouse workers tallied leftover supplies from the last battle while preparing materials for the next "expedition," and officers without immediate tasks, having finished their steaming breakfasts, gathered at the training grounds to warm up for the day’s drills.
As Aegor strode briskly across the plaza and streets, trailed by Melisandre and a small retinue of guards, his purposeful pace seemed to kick the inner keep into high gear, drawing more eyes than usual.
It wasn’t merely the faint aura of authority radiating from him, which ordinary folk could hardly detect from a distance—it was the subtle but unmistakable shift in Melisandre’s demeanor.
And Aegor noticed it too.
The power of R’hllor’s divine authority—it was astonishing.
After confirming his role as her chosen representative, Aegor had carelessly let slip the phrase “Lady R’hllor.” Melisandre, without hesitation, adopted the same term, discarding her usual phrasing. Normally, she walked beside him, sometimes even gripping his arm to control his pace. Today, however, she fell half a step behind, quickening her stride to keep up with him. The typically aloof priestess, who rarely wasted words on him, now idly followed him through the streets without complaint.
And Moqorro? He had obeyed Aegor’s orders without the slightest resistance.
Every subtle shift, every small detail in their behavior pointed to a single conclusion: R’hllor’s authority over her followers was far greater than Aegor had previously estimated. Her meticulous planning and execution exceeded his expectations, and the status of a “chosen representative” clearly outranked even the prophesied “Prince That Was Promised.”
The challenges Aegor had anticipated—doubt and obstruction from R’hllor’s high-ranking faithful—had not materialized. Instead, he had easily secured their recognition and gained the ability to command them. If he could extend this authority to control the manpower and resources of the entire faith, the value of R’hllor’s “advance payment” would far exceed his initial assessment.
This realization lightened his mood considerably, adding a spring to his step as he marched through the keep with his retinue. With purpose and confidence, Aegor arrived at the military stables.
The Night’s Watch lacked a dedicated cavalry force, and its horses were used primarily by rangers and officers. Inside the stable, the grooms were busy feeding the military horses their morning hay. They worked with practiced efficiency, and within moments, half of the horses were happily munching away. Aegor gestured for the workers to continue, reassuring them they didn’t need to interrupt their tasks, and then casually approached the stables, his eyes fixed on the horses to gauge their reactions.
Those already eating continued to focus on their hay, chewing noisily. The others, still waiting for their turn, grew restless, swishing their tails, flicking their ears, snorting, and pawing at the ground in impatience.
At first, none of the horses seemed to notice Aegor’s approach. But after a few seconds, their behavior began to shift. One by one, the eating horses paused, lifting their heads from their feed. The restless ones stopped their fidgeting, turned their heads, and fixed their gaze on the man approaching the stable.
Finally, as if an invisible wave had swept through the stable, every single horse froze in place. The scene resembled a choreographed performance: the horses stood perfectly still, their heads all tilted toward Aegor as though drawn by an unseen force. Dozens of eyes locked onto him.
“What… what’s going on here?”
The grooms, the guards, and Melisandre all noticed the strange phenomenon. One of the stable workers muttered his confusion, but he dared not slack off in front of the Lord Commander. He continued filling the troughs with hay, though none of the horses resumed eating.
It wasn’t what Aegor had expected.
He inspected the horses curiously, even reaching out to touch one of the immobile animals. The horse didn’t react violently, nor did it seem terrified into stillness. Its breathing and heartbeat were normal, but its gaze was fixed on him, as if he were some alien being or an unprecedented marvel.
Clearly, the horses could sense the strange aura emitted by the dragon scale embedded in his chest. However, they weren’t panicked or paralyzed.
This left Aegor with several possibilities. Perhaps the horses were intelligent enough to recognize he posed no threat. Perhaps the dragon’s aura in the scale wasn’t potent enough to overwhelm them. Or, most likely, R’hllor had foreseen such scenarios and cast spells on the scale to regulate its aura, ensuring it could assist him without disrupting his daily life.
After all, it would be a bit ridiculous if the goddess’s chosen champion couldn’t even ride a horse properly.
One mystery solved, Aegor’s thoughts drifted naturally from riding horses to a far grander ambition: riding dragons.
A sudden premonition struck him—this aura, this scale, might give him the qualifications to command a dragon.
The idea thrilled him. For fantasy enthusiasts, riding a dragon would be the pinnacle of glory. But for Aegor, a practical-minded man who valued his life above all, the idea of riding a dragon in an age where anti-dragon weaponry had become widespread was far less enticing than commanding a dragon rider.
“Cough.”
A light cough interrupted his thoughts.
Under normal circumstances, Melisandre would have already voiced her impatience with his behavior. But now, in the presence of R’hllor’s chosen representative, she held her tongue, suppressing her usual urge to interrupt. Though she knew Aegor well, his recent audience with the goddess had elevated his status beyond what it once was. Who could say if his seemingly nonsensical actions with the horses were part of some divine mandate?
Minutes passed, and the horses gradually lost interest in Aegor. One by one, they returned to their hay, and Aegor, shaken from his reverie by Melisandre’s cough, departed the stable. Satisfied that he had confirmed the scale’s influence over animals, he offered a few casual words to the stable hands to justify his visit and then led his retinue away.
On the way back to his office, Melisandre, predictably, questioned the purpose of his visit and made another attempt to pry details about his encounter with R’hllor. Aegor, with practiced ease, deflected her questions with vague answers. Yet his mind wandered to a different concern.
What troubled him most now?
It wasn’t the possibility of rebellion within the Gift, nor the troublemakers who had recently arrived to join Daenerys’s court, nor the political scheming of Robb Stark or the southern lords. No, the source of his unease was a singular figure within the Night’s Watch: Bran Stark, the greenseer.
Most of his potential adversaries were either manageable or predictable. But Bran’s origins, abilities, and intentions were an enigma, one that filled Aegor with a rare sense of dread.
In his earlier dream with R’hllor, Aegor had considered asking her about Bran—his secrets, his weaknesses, his purpose. But the thought that the greenseer might somehow be R’hllor had stayed his tongue.
Now, as R’hllor’s chosen, Aegor wondered if he could confront Bran directly, using his new title to intimidate the boy into backing down. But one doubt lingered: Was R’hllor truly as powerful as she claimed? Would her name carry any weight with a being like the greenseer?
And if Bran wasn’t afraid of her—or worse, if he already knew she was weakened—then invoking her name might only make Aegor look foolish.
As these doubts swirled in his mind, the answer arrived faster than he could have expected.
Returning to the plaza outside his office, Aegor stopped in his tracks. A wooden wheelchair, pushed by a sturdy woman, came into view. Seated in it, legs covered by a woolen blanket, was none other than Bran Stark.
…
