Miracles and Oaths

The appearance of Miracle nearly made Ronan laugh.

A power that could heal, purify, and raise the dead would have made any priest terrifying. No wonder the red faith could spread like fire where weaker gods offered comfort and little else.

Yet the skill sat inside him like a blade without a handle. Ronan could sense the shape of the miracle, not its limits, and that made it dangerous to trust.

The Faith of the Seven had wealth, septons, pageantry, and centuries of habit. The old gods had silence and memory. R'hllor, by contrast, could place a dead man beside a flame and send him back breathing.

Most people did not choose theology with reason. But when the choice stood between a sermon and a miracle, only fanatics would fail to understand the difference. Ronan disliked that.

Religion could bend men too deeply. A ruler did not need another voice beside his throne whispering what the gods desired.

He could build a cult of his own if he wished, but spending too much strength on invisible doctrine struck him as a fine way to dull ambition. He preferred things that could march.

The gold cloaks were proof enough.

Leaving the miracle aside, the other gain mattered as well. The Varangian Guard had appeared as a new repeatable unit, and this one carried fewer limitations than the summons he had relied on before.

Heavy infantry. Norse in look, brutal in bearing, and built for close war.

They carried axes, shields, and hard discipline, the sort of men who could hold ground in Westeros better than light horsemen ever could. Their weakness was less mystical than practical: by reputation, they drank like men trying to empty the world.

Still, a flawed weapon was better than no weapon.

The cost was the uglier part. One hundred fifty Divergence Points per man. With his current balance, he could call only a little more than three hundred. Useful, but not enough to change a war by themselves.

He needed more points. The coming struggle among Stannis, Renly, Robb, Tywin, and Joffrey would provide opportunities. Ronan intended to harvest them carefully. Beric woke with a rough gasp.

The gold cloaks recoiled despite themselves. The brotherhood men, meanwhile, looked almost proud, as if they had personally dragged their lord out of death.

They missed the important detail. Thoros looked exhausted. Whatever had happened, he was in no condition to repeat it at will.

Beric sat up and looked around. Confusion gave way to understanding. He was alive, but not safe. His men were surrounded, and Ronan had allowed the resurrection to finish.

That unsettled him more than the wound had.

"You will let us go?" Beric asked.

Ronan looked at Thoros. "You are not true outlaws. If I learn any man among you has innocent blood on his hands, he will not live long."

"Do not look down on us," Beric snapped. "We were wronged. Joffrey is nothing but a Lannister puppet."

The brotherhood muttered agreement. Thoros did not. Instead, the red priest lowered himself before Ronan. "Lord Ronan, I will follow you. From this day, my life and service are yours."

Beric stared at him. "Old friend, have you lost your senses? Is he threatening you with my life? I would rather die."

"It is the Lord of Light's guidance," Thoros said. "You know me, Beric. I cannot ignore R'hllor."

"That is madness."

Beric was not afraid of dying again. He was afraid of watching a friend give himself to a man Beric had called a dog minutes earlier.

Ronan had no interest in debating faith with a man who had just returned from death.

"Leave, or come back to King's Landing in chains."

Beric looked at Thoros, then at the bodies of his men, then at Ronan. Pride fought with loyalty and lost.

"If we go with you," he said, "it will not be because we are bought."

"No. It will be because your priest has better instincts than you."

Beric's mouth tightened. "I know you will not stop him from saving me again."

"Why would I not?"

"Because a man who has sworn to you is still useful while I live."

Then, with a stubbornness that somehow made the kneeling worse, Beric Dondarrion bent one knee. Ronan opened the panel again. Beric Dondarrion had appeared among his followers. For a moment, Ronan's face went cold.

Thoros hurried to explain. "He meant no mockery, my lord. Beric wanted to know whether you were truly the butcher the rumors named, a monster serving only the Lannisters."

"And did he learn?"

Beric's answer came reluctantly. "You are violent. But not against the innocent." Ronan saw something red flicker behind the man's eyes and vanish.

"Let it be the last test."

"Understood, Lord Ronan."

The hunt had become an incorporation. Tyrion would likely find that difficult to enjoy.

Ronan returned to the western barracks with Beric, Thoros, and the surviving brotherhood under guard more ceremonial than hostile. He had barely taken his seat when Rovyn appeared again.

This time, the man's expression made the visitor obvious before he spoke. A woman in deep red waited outside. Her robes hid little of her shape and somehow made the secrecy around her feel deliberate.

Ronan had not expected her. Melisandre of Asshai inclined her head.

"Lord Ronan."

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