Kerse did not raise his voice.
For those who knew him, that was always the worst sign.
The messenger finished speaking with a dry throat, cold sweat sliding down his neck as he recounted every word of the red priestess, every glance, every veiled threat. When he finished, the tent was plunged into a heavy, oppressive silence, as if the air itself had grown denser.
Kerse remained motionless.
Then… he smiled.
A slow, dangerous smile that did not reach his eyes.
"An extraterrestrial demon…?" he murmured, bringing a hand to his chin.
"How poetic."
He clenched his fingers.
The wood of the improvised throne's backrest creaked under the pressure of his grip.
"So R'hllor has noticed me as well," he continued with apparent calm.
"It was inevitable."
Memories of his past life—of Pickle, the primitive hunter who had torn the throats out of dinosaurs with his bare hands—overlapped with those of this world. Gods. Prophecies. Manipulators of fate. Always the same pattern: entities playing at being absolute.
And from all of them… he had taken something.
"She dared to enter where my child sleeps," he said then, a note of steel in his voice.
"That is no longer religion. It is a declaration of war."
Jorah, who stood near the entrance, stiffened.
"Should I gather the men, my king?"
Kerse slowly shook his head.
"No."
"If I start cutting down priests now, I confirm their narrative. I become the monster they need to justify their crusade."
He stood up.
Each step he took was firm, heavy, as if the ground itself recognized his authority.
"But I will not allow them to touch what is mine."
He stopped at the opening of the tent and looked up at the night sky. The stars shone with indifference… or perhaps with anticipation.
"R'hllor does not speak through that woman," he said with disdain.
"It is the opposite. She believes she hears the voice of her god, when in truth she only hears the echoes of something that is using her."
His gaze hardened.
Kerse smiled again, this time with naked ferocity.
"I am not here to destroy this world."
A brief silence.
"But demon…" he shook his head.
"No."
He lifted his gaze, and for a moment his eyes seemed to reflect something ancient, something vast.
He paused.
"I am here to conquer it."
He turned sharply toward Jorah.
"From this moment on, no priest of the Red God is to come within a hundred paces of my family."
"If they insist… you expel them."
"If they do not understand… you mark them."
"And if they cross the line again…"
He did not finish the sentence.
There was no need.
Jorah struck his chest with his fist.
"It will be done."
Kerse exhaled slowly, calming himself.
"And send discreet messengers."
"I want to know how many red temples there are in Qarth, who finances them… and whom they truly pray to."
Before Jorah left, Kerse added, almost as if thinking aloud:
"Prophecies are cages for the weak."
"And I was not born to live in a cage."
In the distance, in the darkness, one of the dragons lifted its head and let out a low, uneasy roar… as if something, beyond the stars, had just turned its gaze toward them.