His was a smell of fading fire. A charcoal stench, remiss of the warmth so radiant beforehand. Extinguished, spent, useless. Blackwater was a page in the history book of Westeros, and he was not written as the victor. His folly, a belief that numbers certified victory, leading to defeat.
Damnable fool. A larger army does not mean victory. Five hundred men were all that was needed to hold Storm's End; I have led my army to the depths of the Seven Hells in my arrogance.
Where was the Red Woman now? Where was the Fire God she spoke of? The sound of his men burning, Davos - loyalest of them all, haunted his mind. It bounced from ear to ear, allowing him no rest, no measure of peace.
Fingers gripped the stone table. Digging inwards, crushing flesh with a great rage unseen. The Lannisters, the Tyrells, Renly -- they all laughed; they all mocked. He would make them burn.
Movement behind him caught his attention, a fragrance not of flowers, but of immortality; the Red Woman.
❝—— Less than a third of my army remains. Those that did not die in the Wildfire have feld. Tell me - where is your god now? ❞
