Chapter 248 - Sacrifice of Reek

The sky had already darkened.

On the beach beneath the western cliffs of Dragonstone, the pyre had been built.

Three bundles of dry wood stacked crosswise, waist-high, topped with a layer of twigs and dry moss.

Theon was bound to the stake at the center.

His hands were tied behind his back, the rope biting deep into his wrists, leaving bruises that had gone purplish-black. His ankles were bound too, two thick hemp ropes wrapped around each one and fixed to wedges driven into the sand on either side of the stake.

The wind swept across the beach, carrying the briny smell of seaweed. Waves struck the rocks, one after another, the rhythm monotonous and relentless.

Theon did not cry. He was only trembling.

His lips were cracked, blood seeping from the splits, dried by the wind to a dark red.

He stared at the wood stacked before him. Chest height. Once lit, the flames would come from below first, licking at his ankles, then climbing his shins.

He had seen people burned to death. It was not over in an instant. It was a slow way to die.

He tried to scream. When he opened his mouth, only a hoarse rasp came out, like a chicken with its throat crushed underfoot.

"Please..."

The sound fell apart.

He dropped his chin and pressed his forehead against the stake, shoulders twitching.

His ear was still missing a piece. The notch in his right ear stung sharply in the sea wind, but he had no attention left for that ear.

His whole body hurt. Every old wound was reminding him. He had been flayed. Had his ear cut off. Had his fingers broken. Had his toe bones crushed underfoot.

He had survived. Again and again, he had survived.

He didn't know if he would this time.

Drogo stood a few paces away, hands crossed before him, watching the pyre.

The sea wind ruffled the fur at his shoulders. His face held no expression.

"A pet, barely acquired," he said, his tone carrying a faint trace of regret. "And already to be burned."

Melisandre stood beside him.

"The blood in him doesn't count as king's blood. The Greyjoy rebellion was put down quickly. They were never true kings. Burning him will only yield very limited power."

She didn't wait for his reply. She turned and walked toward the pyre.

Theon saw her coming.

"No no no no." His voice wrenched itself out of his chest. "Please, I don't, please."

Melisandre didn't look at him.

She walked to the pyre, pulled a small leather pouch from her robes, uncorked it, and poured the dark oil over the dry wood. It soaked into the grain. She tossed the empty pouch aside, then drew a piece of tinder from her sleeve.

"Please. Lady Melisandre. Khal." His voice was thinning, going sharp. "San — Sansa."

He turned toward Drogo, but tears and sweat had blurred his vision. There was only a vague shape standing beyond the firelight.

"I am Sansa's brother." His voice broke into a different register entirely, hoarse and desperate, straining with everything he had left. "I am her brother! I am the ward of Winterfell! I am, "

The tinder caught. Melisandre dropped it into the wood.

Flames shot up from the base of the pyre.

Small tongues at first, yellow-orange, like a snake's tongue testing the air.

Then the oil-soaked wood burst open and the fire leaped 2 feet high, the heat wave slamming into Theon's shins.

He felt it. The skin didn't hurt yet, only burned, the way you burn when you've stood too close to a stove.

He looked down. The fire had already reached his ankles. Flames were licking at his bare toes.

"AAAAAHHH!"

He finally screamed.

The sound wasn't human anymore. It was sharp and cracking, ripped raw from somewhere deeper than his throat.

His whole body snapped taut. Muscles bulged beneath his skin. His back arched, his hands wrenched at the ropes behind him with everything he had. The rope cut into his wrists, splitting them open. Blood ran down his fingers.

The fire climbed higher. It reached his knees.

His trousers began to char, curling into dark-brown fragments that peeled away piece by piece, exposing the reddened skin beneath. His calves cramped. His toes curled and splayed. His toes had already gone black in the fire.

"Sansa, Sansa!" He was sobbing and screaming at once, his voice wrecked by smoke. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I — I'm sorry—"

The flames surged to his chest.

He stopped saying he was sorry.

His mouth was open, but nothing came out. Only the dry, convulsive heaving of someone choked beyond the point of sound, each spasm like his body trying to cough out his lungs.

His hair began to curl. The stench of it drifted across the beach.

Drogo watched.

The firelight played across his face, flickering light and shadow, the angles of his cheekbones sharp in the glow.

Daenerys stood not far behind him. She had turned her face away.

Melisandre had stepped back several paces. She stood on the stretch of sand between the pyre and the tideline, both arms raised above her head, the sleeves of her red robes falling back to reveal slender, sinewy forearms.

"Lord of Light," she began, her voice resonant and clear.

"You are the light in our eyes. You are the fire in our hearts. You are the heat in our bellies. Your light is the sun that warms us by day, your light is the stars that keep watch over us by night."

Her voice rolled across the beach, filling it, drowning the crackling of the wood, drowning the surge of the waves, drowning the sound of Theon's breathing as it faded.

"Lord of Light, defend us."

What came from Theon now was barely sound at all. Broken, intermittent, barely a whimper.

The fire had reached his shoulders. His hair was gone entirely, the scalp showing charred black beneath. The skin on his face had blistered, burst, oozed clear yellow fluid, then dried again in the heat.

Drogo stepped forward 2 paces.

He didn't look at Theon. His gaze was fixed on the sky above the water. The clouds were still thin. The moon's outline was faintly visible, a sliver of silver-white showing through the gaps.

He stood beside Melisandre and began to chant, words she had never heard before.

"You are the lightning, you are the light, you are the only myth."

"You are meaning, you are the sky, you are the earth, you are the will of heaven."

"There is no truth but loving you."

Melisandre turned to look at him.

The firelight fell on her face. Something moved in her pale eyes. Surprise.

She didn't interrupt him.

When the last line was finished, she withdrew her gaze, turned back to face the sea, and made a final gesture, crossing both hands over her chest.

"You are the most devout king I have ever known. Such beautiful words of devotion. The Lord of Light has heard your voice."

Inside the pyre, Theon had gone still.

His body was curled. His limbs had burned into twisted, charred shapes, like a snapped branch.

The flames still climbed, reaching the stake he was bound to. The wood at the top had already begun to carbonize.

Grey Worm crossed the sand at a quick pace, reached Drogo's side, and gave a slight bow.

"Khal, the message has been sent. The army outside the city will attack when the clouds cover the moon."

Drogo kept his gaze on the sky.

The clouds were thickening. A grey layer was slowly swallowing the moon's outline, the silver-white edge narrowing, little by little.

"Good," Drogo said.

Daenerys came up from behind and stood at his side.

The sea wind came over them, catching the smoke rising from the top of the flames and carrying it northeast.

The clouds kept closing. Only one last sliver of silver remained, like an eye slowly shutting.

Then it closed.

The beach went dark. The torchlight remained, but the sky above was completely sealed. No stars. No moon. Only the shifting light of the fire moving across the sand.

Grey Worm glanced up at the sky, gave Drogo a single nod, and left the beach.

The army was waiting outside the city.

Drogo turned and walked toward where the dragon lay.

As he climbed the stone steps, the wind kept blowing. Behind him, the pyre still burned, still burning into the body of Theon Greyjoy.

That body no longer held the shape of a man.

➤ Next: Green Fire Shoots Into the Sky