"Believe it or not, I put my faith in Martin—the new god of humor," Desmond quipped, shaking his head.
Riding beside him were Patrick, Arthur, and their companions, the hooves of their horses kicking up dust as the Red Keep finally began to rise on the horizon.
Everyone except the usually humorless lord of the Moulin Rouge chuckled.
You couldn't blame them. Arthur's latest ramblings about the so-called "God Martin" were undeniably ridiculous—even by Westerosi standards.
The man had conjured up a new deity seemingly out of thin air, complete with dogma and doctrine, all from behind a crooked smile. Anyone else would have been dismissed as mad—or worse, a jester.
For the past two days, Arthur had kept the group entertained—or perplexed—with cryptic allusions to what would soon unfold in King's Landing.
He used beasts as metaphors: the wolf for House Stark, the lion for House Lannister, and the stag for House Baratheon. Everyone grasped the meaning easily enough.
But few believed any of it.
Most took his words as a traveling bard's tale—meant to pass the time, not be taken seriously.
Arthur grinned, pointing a gloved finger at them. "You country lot who've never left the Riverlands—how can you dismiss the god Martin so easily? Don't you know there are gods far to the east that no maester in Oldtown has ever written of?"
Patrick grinned, sensing a chance to keep the farce going. "Name one, then. Enlighten us. Let's hear what else the great Hammer God has to share today."
Desmond and his attendants leaned in, their curiosity piqued more from boredom than genuine interest.
On the long Goldroad, past the Mander's offshoots and into Crownlands territory, amusement had been rare.
"Alright, you want the truth?" Arthur smirked, inhaled deeply, and prepared to summon nonsense as though it were sacred knowledge.
"There is the revered Namo Gatling Bodhisattva, whose divine weapon spins three thousand and six hundred times with every breath—bringing peace to those fated and devastation to those who resist. Or the fearsome Faraday, god of thunder and lightning, who delivers justice with bolts of a hundred thousand volts to villains. Or how about the mighty Fire Cloud Evil God Nobel, father of Yuan Zhou and Zu Chongzhi, who once wrestled dragons on the slopes of the Shadow Lands?"
The others looked at one another uncertainly. What had started as a joke now sounded just plausible enough to sow doubt.
"Desmond… I wasn't exactly the best student, but… are these real?" asked the heir of Seagard, scratching his head.
Desmond looked puzzled too. "Maybe? I mean… who really knows what the maesters keep hidden in their dusty vaults in Oldtown?"
There were, after all, gods in Qohor, and shadowbinders in Asshai. There were R'hllor and the Many-Faced God. The idea of some foreign deity bearing a Gatling pole didn't seem completely outside the realm of possibility now.
Yule, Arthur's uncle, frowned. "I've traded across Braavos, Lys, and Meereen these past twenty years, and I've never heard of these so-called gods."
Arthur scoffed. "You? You've only circled the coast of Essos. Do you have any idea how vast the Dothraki Sea is? It's larger than all of Westeros. And beyond that lies the Grey Waste, Asshai by the Shadow, and further still—Ult.
"Qarth alone has wealth enough to shame even Lannisport. And you think a man can live his whole life and claim to know the world? You must carry awe for the unknown, or you'll forever be blind."
That silenced them. Nineteen riders, now unsure whether they were in the presence of a madman—or a prophet.
They nodded, some in mock reverence, others with growing unease.
"Do you believe in the god Martin now?" Arthur asked.
Desmond laughed. "I'll believe it if your wild predictions about the lion and the stag come true. One or two, maybe—but not all of them. Your tales are too outrageous."
Arthur feigned offense, clutching his chest as though his heart had been shattered. "How could you mock a man of faith? My fragile spirit is wounded!"
Patrick, still smiling, raised his hand in solemn jest. "Very well. I, Patrick Mallister, swear that if even one of Arthur's visions turns out to be true, I'll heed your counsel above all others."
"Be serious. This is divine truth," Arthur snapped, though the grin never left his face. "If I can't even fool—ahem—convert a band of Riverland bumpkins, then what's the point of my sacred mission?"
What are you saying, teaching me how to be serious?" Patrick scoffed with half a grin. "If something as absurd as Lord Eddard Stark's execution really happened—if the Hand of the King was beheaded in broad daylight at Baelor's Sept—then that would mean the god Martin's power isn't just real. It would mean his divine will is interwoven with the workings of the world itself. That his imagination could alter the course of history. But really—do you think that's possible?"
Arthur let out a theatrical sigh. You've accidentally caught a glimpse of the truth, he thought, grumbling to himself.
Though he still wanted to continue spinning the myth and drawing the others deeper into his ruse, Arthur was too tired to keep playing prophet. He slumped forward slightly, letting his thin horse carry him through the dust in silence.
The group fell quiet too. The usual banter faded as the looming silhouette of the Red Keep appeared in the distance, its towers catching the dying light.
As dusk spread like a red banner across the sky, the company finally reached King's Landing—capital of the Seven Kingdoms, seat of the Iron Throne, and second only to Oldtown in maritime trade.
To their surprise, it looked much like any other city from the outside: slightly more gilded, slightly more armored. The residents wore richer fabrics, and there were more knights, gold cloaks, and nobles lining the streets. But otherwise, it lacked the grandeur expected of the city that ruled over the realm.
Except, of course, for one very noticeable thing—there were simply too many people.
The streets swarmed like a beehive tipped over. People rubbed shoulders and heels, shoved and stumbled, cried out for wares, shade, or space to breathe. Sweat dripped freely. Fabric sleeves became makeshift parasols. The sheer crush of humanity made it clear: they were no longer in the Riverlands.
Arthur felt a sudden pang—one that reached across worlds. Something about the noise, the chaos, the filth—it reminded him of another life. The life of a dragon's heir… or at least someone who once lived where dragons were still carved on stone and spoken of as symbols, not monsters.
Even entry required a queue. A line of carts and riders stretched back along the road, guards checking permits and weapons at the city gate near the Dragonpit ruins.
"They say King's Landing stinks to the heavens," Patrick muttered, pulling a sachet from somewhere within his cloak and pressing it to his nose. "And gods be good, they weren't lying."
The stench was a violent brew: human waste, urine, rot, unwashed bodies, rotting fish from the harbor, and stagnant ditchwater. To newcomers like them, it struck the senses like a mailed fist.
Even worse, the summer heat hadn't broken. It clung to the cobblestones like a curse.
In the original histories, Arthur recalled, Tyrion Lannister once tried to overhaul the city's entire sewer system during his brief stint as Hand—but it came to nothing. Not even the Imp could untangle that mess.
"This place smells worse than our stables back in Shire," muttered Medan, Arthur's personal squire, waving his hand before his nose like a fan.
But all he succeeded in doing was wafting more of the foul air toward himself.
Arthur tried to console him. "You're thinking about this the wrong way. Our stable has reached the level of King's Landing. That's progress, isn't it?"
He chuckled—but the next breath nearly undid him.
He gagged, reeled, and groaned. "Patrick! Any more sachets? Give me one!"
Patrick gave him a smug look, shaking his head slowly. "Nope."
Back in Seagard, he'd thought the little perfumed pouch his mother had pressed into his hand was an annoyance—now it was a lifeline. He wasn't about to give it up so easily.
"I said give it!" Arthur growled, moving to Patrick's side and snatching the sachet straight from his friend's face.
He shoved it under his nose and inhaled deeply—sweet mercy. Lavender, sage, and dried citrus peels. Like being kissed by a Septa after months in the battlefield. The world grew bearable again.
Patrick blinked, stunned for a second. Then sighed. "You brute."
Arthur ignored him, savoring the temporary reprieve. He glanced sideways to see Patrick suffering behind his sleeves, expecting a grimace.
But instead, Patrick casually reached into the saddlebag behind his horse and pulled out another sachet—this one tied with a green ribbon. He held it to his face like a nobleman at a feast and inhaled calmly.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You had two?"
Patrick smirked without saying a word.
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