Prince's Angel

Dreams, Destinies and Desires

Lys...

Belaegor son of Ayrmidon, gazed into the flames.

"Lord of Light, cast your flames upon us," he breathed. "For the night is dark and full of terrors."

"Indeed." It wasn't Kinvara's voice that he heard. This was another red priestess. "The night grows ever-darker still."

"Melisandre." His voice was raspy and from being out all night. He turned his eyes towards her. "Have you seen anything in the flames? What does the Lord of Light tell you?"

Melisandre's brow furrowed as she frowned. Not that it did anything to mar her beauty. She was so beautiful, almost as beautiful as his own sister, Belaegor thought. Her skin was as pale, smooth and unblemished as cream, she had a heart-shaped face and a voluptuous figure. Her hair was the most striking shade of burnished copper.

"Will it come soon?" He whispered.

Melisandre nodded gravely. "Yes. It will come soon, Lord Belaegor. Your sister shall birth the new age."

"The Targaryens?" He found himself whispering.

Melisandre merely nodded.

"You have given her the gifts?"

"Those?" Belaegor finally looked sceptical. He did not doubt the workings of R'hllor, but...

"Trust in him," Melisandre placed her hand on his arm. "All shall be revealed in time."

Belaegor hoped so. 

He wasn't as he was now. Countless years he had spent searching for a faith that was true and good; the black goat of Qohor had failed him as did Lorath. The Lion of the Night and the Maiden made of Light were fanciful tales; no more. Even the gods of Old Valyria whom he had prayed to as a child were as silent and grim and dead as the stones of their Freehold. If they still lived and they had power, why did they allow their worshippers to be annihilated? Belaegor thought.

The Graces of the Ghiscari had welcomed him and he found their perfumed arms more sweeter than the stench of a thousand sheep and goats, particularly the red ones. But although this faith had lasted as long as his belief in the gods of Old Valyria, it was a spark. A flicker. Nothing more.

And not all sparks caught a burning flame. Belaegor had spent years, wasted praying to gilded, dull and stone deities only to discover that they were, as they had always been, made of stone and wood. Only the flames shown to him by Melisandre and others alike gave him the vision, the pathway of truth and warmth he had been searching for and craved all his life. 

And he felt it. He felt it in his blood and his very soul. In his brains and his flesh and bones. The Lord of Light called to him. He pulled him, needed him. 

And that was what Belaegor had been praying for his entire life. Praying without knowing to whom he had been praying to.

"And the Lord of Light believes this?" He whispered to Melisandre. "She is the one chosen for this task?"

Melisandre smiled. "Do you doubt it in the least."

"I would never seek to question him," Belaegor murmured, turning back towards the flames. "But my sister..."

Melisandre stepped even closer to him. "Your sister shall deliver us all from the darkness," she whispered. "Do not fear for her. She was given beauty and gifts beyond reasoning, sent forth by the Lord of Light, born into this world and into your line for what will come. I have seen it, and he has told me."

Belaegor hoped that Jacaenor would soon present the gifts. 

Asshai holds many wonders, he thought.