The Westerlands. Casterly Rock. 299 AC.
Robb Stark.
The fire-worshipper had always unsettled Robb, especially when she tried to draw Stannis toward her faith. At first the king had refused to hear her at all, but Melisandre had since become one of his unofficial advisors, and his Hand was not pleased with how that had developed. Robb had not understood his father's aversion to R'hllor until Ned explained at length what the faith's spread would actually mean.
Watching the statues burn, the Mother and the Maiden, the Warrior and the Smith, the Crone and the Father, and the Stranger, the Young Wolf felt nothing, in spite of how momentous it all appeared. He, like the dozens of northerners around him, had no attachment to the burning of southern gods' likenesses. What genuinely surprised him was the timing: Stannis was converting to this new faith on the eve of the assault on Casterly Rock.
"Lord of Light, accept these false gods as offering. Accept them and fill us with your light. For the night is dark and full of terrors." Robb had been so deep in his own thoughts that he caught only the tail end of the red priestess's sermon.
"For the night is dark and full of terrors!" hundreds of knights standing in the king's retinue called out.
Stannis himself said nothing, watching the ceremony with a blank expression, as though neither what was happening now nor what lay ahead concerned him. With that single act, the king had revived the memory of Maegor the Cruel's war against the Faith. If in those days the septons had managed, however painfully, to make peace with a brutal king, they would fight to the last against this one, for faith in the Seven ran deep in the south.
"I don't like this business at all." Fighting for the throne was one thing, but fighting against an entire continent on behalf of a foreign god was another.
"You're not alone in that," Ned Stark said quietly. "His actions will bring disaster to our ranks."
"Not yet, at least." As it happened, the overwhelming majority of those present were either northerners or men from the Baratheon domain, and the burning of the Seven's statues meant little to them. But when word reached the main camp of the river lords, that was when the trouble would begin.
"Melisandre must be removed. She is poisoning the king's mind." Understanding what his father meant by removed, Robb very nearly choked.
"And you are prepared to do that?" Robb asked, and earned a tired look from his father in return.
"I have spent a year and a half working for His Majesty's benefit and keeping this army from falling apart," Ned said, and with that admission he seemed to age another ten years. "Northerners, river men, the king's own men, sellswords, all of them nursing grievances, all of them stirring trouble in the ranks. Even you, who should have been helping me, have been caught up in it. I will not allow a priestess to destroy what has been built with northern blood."
The Young Wolf's cheeks colored slightly, and not from the heat of the fire. Ned Stark was right. Robb was his son, his heir, a Stark, and should have been supporting the head of the pack. Instead he had been making his father's life harder. The worst of it was that his father had never once mentioned his own difficulties, only endured everything his son had done with quiet steadiness. In that moment Robb decided something important.
"I will help you, Father," he said, placing a hand on his father's shoulder.
"Thank you." For the first time in a long while, Ned allowed himself a small smile.
"Why now, though, and not after?" The king's timing made no sense to Robb and seemed to carry only risk.
"Now is exactly the right moment," Lord Stark replied, which earned him a puzzled look from his son. "The most devout believe the Seven decide the outcome of battles. But what will those same people think when the new faithful take a fortress that has never fallen?"
"That R'hllor is stronger than the Seven?" Robb offered.
"Consider also that if there is a victory, Stannis will be forgiven for changing his faith. As long as the king does not forcibly convert his subjects to the worship of this new god, the lords will tolerate it."
Now Robb understood the shape of what was happening. While Stannis kept winning, his faith would go uncontested. Some, seeing the priestess's abilities and the apparent fruits of the king's conversion, would make the crossing to R'hllorism on their own. Gradually a bloc of Red God devotees would form, giving the king more freedom to act. But all of it depended on victory.
"Come forth, Warrior of Light, Son of Fire! Come, your sword awaits you! Take it and lead us into battle against the great enemy!"
Robb watched with a complicated expression as Stannis drew the burning sword and walked along the ranks of his soldiers, as the priestess continued her fervent sermon, and as simple men soaked up the fanaticism being poured into them by a trick of fire. At last, when the servant of the Red God fell silent, King Stannis spoke.
"Prepare yourselves. Today we take that castle!" The king's voice rang out loud and clean, and the burning sword swung to point toward Casterly Rock.
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