Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 338: The Burning Seven Gods

Dragonstone.

It was here that the ancestors of the Targaryens arrived, bringing their five dragons from Valyria. The castle itself was a testament to their power, built with the legendary magic and architectural skill of the Valyrians. The stronghold resembled a colossal dragon, its black stone towers jutting into the sky like a beast frozen in mid-flight. Among them, the “Stone Tower” was the tallest, perched atop a 200-foot mountain of stone, high enough to gaze out over a hundred miles of the island.

Below the towering structure, a vast crowd had gathered—far larger than the one that had witnessed Stannis burn the idols in the original timeline. This time, Stannis wasn’t alone. Robert was here too. Renly, Tywin, Oberyn Martell, and even Ned Stark had come.

"Ned, this isn't how it should be. It isn't how it should be," Catelyn whispered, her voice trembling.

Tears brimmed in her eyes as she watched the statues of the Seven Gods being dragged from the Sept of Baelor in King's Landing, then pulled from the smaller sept on Dragonstone. A devout believer in the Seven, Catelyn now understood why the Sept had been closed that day. In the fierce sea breeze, the fourteen statues stood like prisoners awaiting execution, placed in a circle around a heap of dry wood and charcoal, their fate sealed in the flames.

Robert had originally planned to demand the statues from the Starry Sept in Oldtown as well, but word had come that Viserys would attack Westeros within the month. In response, House Tyrell raised the banner of the three-headed dragon and declared its loyalty to House Targaryen.

Ned took Catelyn in his arms, unsure of what to say. He simply stroked her shoulder, offering silent comfort. As a Stark, he followed the Old Gods, but he respected Catelyn's devotion to the Faith of the Seven. He’d even had a small sept built at Winterfell so she could worship in peace.

The Great Sept of Baelor in King’s Landing and the Starry Sept in Oldtown were revered as the holiest places for followers of the Seven. Now, they stood helpless, watching their faith trampled. To the faithful, it wasn’t just cold statues being burned, but something far more personal—their hearts.

Ned understood Catelyn's pain. He had even cautioned Robert that burning the statues of the Seven might alienate many. But Robert had dismissed the concern. "I've no life left to lose. Why should I care?" he had said.

Ned glanced at Robert, who stood beside Cersei in a rare display of unity. Both stared at the statues without a flicker of emotion. Cersei, visibly pregnant, remained stone-faced. She believed the child was Robert’s, but for the past two weeks, she had felt no signs of life from the baby. She hadn’t told anyone. With war looming, it seemed like a dark omen.

She shifted her gaze to her three existing children, her only desire now being that they would grow up safely.

Renly, like his brothers, wasn’t a devout believer. He went through the motions for the sake of his House, but the whole spectacle left him cold. His squire and lover, Loras Tyrell, was another matter. The devout young knight couldn’t bear the sight of the desecration. He tore a strip of cloth from his cloak and wrapped it around his face, leaving only his eyes visible.

The sight unsettled Renly.

"I’m sorry, Loras. After we defeat Viserys, I’ll pay to build a new sept—one even greater than the Great Sept of Baelor," Renly promised.

Loras remained silent, knowing Renly wasn’t joking. Building a sept of such grandeur wouldn’t come cheap, but as the Lord of the bountiful Stormlands, Renly had the resources to make it happen.

Seeing that Loras wasn’t responding, Renly glanced around in frustration. He was startled to notice that many others had covered their heads in a similar gesture of mourning or protest. Among them were familiar faces: Ned’s wife, Catelyn; the brothers, Edmure Tully; Brandon Tully; Ardrian, Montford—and many other nobles in their fine attire and gleaming armor. At least a third of them had veiled their faces.

Some of the faces he knew, others he didn’t, but the sight left Renly uneasy.

Yet, not everyone shared that discomfort. Many were visibly excited—particularly those who had converted to Stannis’s faith early on. Most of them came from his wife Selyse’s family, House Florent. It was said that Selyse herself had introduced Stannis to Melisandre.

And then there were the atheists, like Tywin Lannister. He couldn’t care less whether they worshiped the Seven or the Lord of Light. As long as it meant crushing his enemies, Tywin would bow to any god, even if it were a pile of dung.

Amid the tension, a soldier with a red flag came forward, bowing to Robert. "Your Grace, Viserys’s fleet has been spotted—100 nautical miles from us. Melisandre recommends waiting until they’re within 50 miles, so her magic can have full effect."

Robert grunted, his mind already turning. "Bring them within 10 miles," he said, relishing the thought of watching Viserys’s fleet get swallowed by the storm, just as he had once watched the ships in Blackwater Rush burn in wildfire and dragonfire.

But after much persuasion from his advisors, the range was settled at 30 nautical miles. That way, if Melisandre’s spell failed, they would still have time to retreat.

Robert nodded in agreement, deciding to wait until Viserys’s fleet came within 30 leagues of Dragonstone before beginning the sacrifice.

...

Out at sea, a dark mass of sails loomed on the horizon, slowly closing in on Westeros. Viserys had brought 700 warships—enough to carry not only soldiers but also horses, supplies, and provisions for an extended campaign. He had even brought minor officials from the Hopeful Lands to oversee his new holdings.

Above the fleet, seven dragons wheeled in the sky, roaring as they unleashed bursts of black and red flame, their fiery display striking against the pale heavens.

On the deck of Viserys’s flagship, a group of red-robed priests gathered around a small altar. In the center of the altar was not a statue, nor a living person, but a pool of warm blood—freshly spilled.

It was king’s blood. Viserys had just released it.

Now, under Daenerys’s watchful care, he sat nearby, gulping down food as the color slowly returned to his pale face.

"Your Grace, don’t worry," Benerro said confidently. "With this altar and the king’s blood, Melisandre’s magic will pose no threat to you."

As a dark arts practitioner himself, Benerro had been battling Melisandre’s influence from afar, and he felt confident in their preparations.

As the fleet drew closer, Viserys could see the dragon-shaped towers of Dragonstone rising on the horizon.

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