The Red Cot was undeniably a global phenonon. The crimson star that streaked across the skies of the world, passing through lands of ice and fire, captivated the attention of all. From the Red Waste north of Qarth to Slaver's Bay, it traveled through the ruins of Valyria, over the southern Free Cities, and finally, even above King's Landing.
In Qarth, the wizards convened in the dim Temple of the Immortals. Warlocks. The room was dark, with only a small window on the western wall. The light filtering through it revealed dust particles floating in the air. At the center of the temple stood a long table, around which seventeen or eighteen n with blue lips were seated, their figures obscured by the shadows. In front of each was a wine glass and a tiny oil lamp. The glasses held a blue liquid known as "Shade of the Evening," and as they lifted them to sip, their blackened fingernails beca visible.
The oil lamps, no bigger than peas or soybeans, emitted only a faint glow, their smoke gathering above the warlocks' heads like a miniature sea of mist.
"It's changed. A lot has changed," spoke a pale-skinned warlock in a green robe, his voice echoing from the shadows. As he waved his hand, the smoke above the table began to swirl, eventually forming two indistinct human figures—one male, the other female. Despite the blurred features, the figures were unmistakably Viserys and Daenerys. Monts later, the smoke shifted again, revealing the image of a beautiful, nearly naked woman with a slender figure, surrounded by four small figures touching her. A tall man soon appeared, driving them away and rescuing the woman from further indignity.
"The 'Prince' in the prophecy has beco two," the warlock continued, his tone contemplative. "It seems that my doom may have been averted." The others, still puzzled, couldn't understand how the predictions of the Red Cot had changed so drastically. It was as if a powerful hand had altered the course of the world.
"Isn't that convenient? Two of them, and we can all have a share," comnted a well-proportioned wizard in a blue robe. Though his voice was calm, it carried an undertone of decay, like the voice of soone speaking from within a rotting coffin. None of their voices sounded like those of ordinary living n.
"Wizards, there is another matter," the green-robed warlock interjected. "The Prince of the prophecy may not co to Qarth. If we wish to see him, we must venture to the Narrow Sea."
"The West?" the blue-robed man asked.
"Silver hair, descendants of Valyria. If there is only one, there might be another. But when two appear together, is it not clear?" The wizards nodded in agreent, though they now faced another dilemma.
Viserys.
The rumors about Viserys made those with unscrupulous intentions hesitate. The Red Cot had seemingly granted him a surge of power, but even before its arrival, Viserys had single-handedly slain an entire band of pirates. That could only an he was now stronger than ever.
"Maybe we could invite him to Qarth?" a voice suggested, breaking the silence that had settled among the warlocks. For a mont, no one responded, acknowledging that, at present, there seed to be no better option.
...
In ereen, the Temple of the Graces stood majestic with its gleaming golden do, housing a grand statue of the Harpy. Galazza, the temple's esteed 'Green Grace', knelt before the statue draped in her traditional green veil, performing her daily prayers. At nearly seventy years old, Galazza had served as a saint since the tender age of twelve, dedicating her life to the sacred rites and traditions of her people.
As she knelt, her erald eyes gazed upon the imposing figure of the Harpy, but her thoughts wandered far beyond the temple walls. She pondered the recent appearance of the Red Cot, a celestial event that had caused widespread unrest. It was her duty to provide explanations and solace to both nobles and commoners alike, yet she grappled with her own uncertainties. After a lifeti of devotion, she still questioned the existence of gods and the true power behind the symbols she so faithfully served.
Suddenly, a sharp cracking sound echoed through the silent hall. Galazza's eyes darted around, searching for the source of the disturbance, but found nothing. "Did I imagine it?" she wondered, attributing the noise to her weary mind.
Just as she prepared to conclude her prayers, the sound resonated again, clearer and more pronounced. Behind her, four young tender maidens also heard the unsettling noise.
Fearful of showing disrespect, they exchanged quick, nervous glances without rising from their knees. This ti, the origin was unmistakable—it ca from the very statue of the Harpy before them.
With a resounding crash, the golden head of the Harpy detached and tumbled to the ground, rolling across the polished floor. Gasps filled the temple as Galazza and the maidens stared in shock at the decapitated statue, an ominous sign that sent shivers down their spines.
...
Two days after the appearance of the Bleeding Star, Volantis remained deeply affected. The usually bustling Long Bridge was nearly deserted, with only a handful of pedestrians braving the streets. The Black Wall, typically alive with music and revelry, had fallen eerily quiet, and incidents of fights and brawls had noticeably decreased.
In stark contrast, the Temple of R'hllor was overflowing with people from all walks of life—nobles adorned in fine garnts stood alongside ordinary citizens, all seeking answers and comfort. Tiger Cloaks and Red Priests worked diligently to maintain order amid the swelling crowd. Whispered conversations filled the air as anxious eyes frequently glanced upward at the fiery red cot blazing across the sky, its long tail casting an unsettling glow over the city.
It seed as though nearly every free person in Volantis had gathered at the temple, desperate for guidance and interpretation of this celestial on. The sudden appearance of the Red Cot had incited fear and speculation, and the populace awaited the words of Benerro, the High Priest, hoping he could shed light on the mysteries that plagued their hearts and minds.
"I heard that the cot predicts disaster and signals the end of the long sumr!" one person exclaid, fear evident in their voice.
"The red cot—could it be connected to the Lord of Light?" another speculated.
"May R'hllor favor his followers," soone else murmured, their voice trembling with uncertainty. The crowd was a mix of anxiety and hope, each person wrestling with their own thoughts about the ominous future.
"My followers of the Lord of Light!" A voice bood from the shadows, drawing everyone's attention. A black-skinned red priest stepped forward from behind the statue, his face frad by a thick, winding beard and hair as white as snow. His arms, forehead, and cheeks were adorned with intricate fla tattoos. This was Moqorro, the trusted right-hand man of High Priest Benerro.
The crowd turned to him, their fears montarily quelled by his commanding presence. "Believers of the Lord of Light, His Holiness Benerro has received a revelation from R'hllor. To ensure that more of you may receive this divine ssage, please proceed to the Long Bridge. His Holiness will speak there shortly."
Machilo's certainty inspired the restless crowd, and they began to move toward the Long Bridge. The sheer number of people made progress slow, and if not for the red priests maintaining order, a stampede could have occurred. Eventually, the ancient Long Bridge, built hundreds of years ago, groaned under the weight of nearly 20,000 people. Below them, the Rhoyne river rushed past, its sound mingling with the rising murmur of the crowd.
Suddenly, soone gasped, pointing to a fla rising above another person’s head. The people looked up, their eyes widening as they saw a ladder of fire materialize out of thin air. Conversations ceased, silence spreading through the crowd like falling dominoes, as all eyes fixed on the thirty-foot-high staircase of flas.
The sight was so miraculous that so devout believers fell to their knees in worship. It was then that they noticed soone ascending the fiery staircase—Benerro! The High Priest was barefoot, his red robe flowing seamlessly into the flas beneath his feet. Benerro paused at the top, looking down at the sea of faces below. He had waited a long ti for this mont.
The tens of thousands of believers stared up at him, the only sound now the relentless flow of the Rhoyne. Strangely, Benerro remained silent, and no one dared to urge him to speak. The tension grew until a stir began to ripple through the crowd. Just then, Benerro moved, raising his hand to point at the blood-red cot slashing across the sky.
The cot seed to tear a bloody wound in the heavens, and Benerro’s expression turned grave. He finally spoke, his voice calm yet resonating so powerfully that everyone heard him clearly.
"I have received instructions from R'hllor," he declared. The crowd leaned in, hanging on his every word. They were so entranced that they didn’t realize Benerro’s voice, though steady and composed, echoed loudly across the vast gathering.
"The Lord of Light has warned —darkness and destruction are coming!" As he spoke, Benerro gestured as if seizing sothing from the air. When he opened his hand, a fla flickered into existence in his palm.
The fire twisted and turned, forming two words in the ancient language of Valyria:
Darkness.
Destruction.
“Damn cot!” so of the n cursed, their anger directed at the fiery streak in the sky, though they had no idea where else to vent their frustration. Won covered their faces, weeping softly, while the children clung to their mothers, too young to understand but sensing the pervasive fear and unease.
“High Priest, the Lord of Light will save us, won’t he?” a voice suddenly called out, montarily silencing the anxious murmurs of the crowd.
“Yes!” Benerro’s reply rang out with conviction, his voice carrying a sense of authority that brought a flicker of hope to the troubled assembly. The people, montarily cald, turned their attention fully to him.
He continued, his voice echoing with the weight of prophecy, “Eight thousand years ago, the Lord of Light chose Azor Ahai as the savior of the world. And now, eight thousand years later, the savior will return to lead us through the Long Night!”
Tears of relief and excitent welled up in the eyes of so, as they clung to Benerro’s words like a lifeline. Others, however, remained skeptical, unable to fully grasp the enormity of eight thousand years or the truth behind a legend as ancient as Azor Ahai.
“So where is the Savior?” soone asked, their voice tinged with doubt.
“The Savior will appear... with the dragon,” Benerro declared.
...
anwhile, on the Black Wall, several figures stood with binoculars, their gaze fixed on the bustling Long Bridge below. They were the Triarchs of Volantis, leaders of the Tiger and Elephant parties. Usually, they were fierce rivals, constantly at odds with each other, but the sudden appearance of the Red Cot had forced them into an uneasy alliance. The growing influence of R'hllor in the city had made them increasingly wary.
“My n discovered that Benerro sent a dozen ships out of the harbor last night, heading east,” said Alios, the Triarch of the Elephant Party. His tone was asured, though the underlying concern was clear.
Viserys’s rise had allowed Alios’s mariti enterprises to flourish, expanding by hundreds of thousands of gold coins. This success also enabled him to keep a close eye on Benerro’s activities.
“So, did you send soone to follow him?” asked one of the Triarchs from the Tiger Party.
“Of course. My spies reported that he seed to be searching for soone,” Alios replied.
“Searching? For whom?” the other Triarch pressed.
“Viserys,” Alios answered gravely.
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