Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

9th Day of the 11th Moon

Garlan Tyrell, somewhere on the Rose Road

"The Lannisters are not our foes," his father pointed out righteously. "Eddard Stark is an honourable man. He would never conspire against His Grace."

Garlan had to give it to the Lord of Storm's End; he knew how to stay composed, although the knight could feel Renly's patience was dwindling. Loras and the king's youngest brother had caught up to them yesterday, just a few days from Bitterbridge. Now, they were resting under a green pavilion. Margaery and her companions were sent away on a walk to the nearby small Sept, and all the servants were out of hearing distance.

"That man is a grasping deceiver, and the Queen is just a cheating whore." That was the wrong thing to say, and Mace Tyrell's jaw visibly tightened, for his father held Lord Stark in great esteem. Yet Garlan didn't like Renly much - while he had turned Loras into a proper knight, their relationship felt odd, and not in a good way. Why was his youngest brother standing with the Lord of Storm's End instead of with them?

"A bold claim to make when you'd be the next in line," Mace Tyrell observed coldly, finally shedding his jovial veneer.

"I've shown you the proof," Renly inclined his head, the book of great lineages in hand.

"Indeed." His father took a heavy gulp of wine from his flask. "I read through it well, and it means nothing."

"It means nothing?!"

"Just like Baratheons have black hair no matter their spouses, the Lannisters always have golden locks. There have been two Baratheon marriages to Lannister bearing only four children." His father leaned forward, making the makeshift chair groan under his weight. "Two of them died in the crib, no hair grown. You didn't see that one Baratheon married into Casterly Rock, and all her children had golden hair. Same with the three recorded Durrandons from the last millennium who wed into the lion's den."

Renly's broad shoulders were stubbornly squared. "Ser Loras investigated my brother's bastards and the death of Lord Arryn. Do you not trust his word?"

Loras stood to the side, silent as a grave and looking mighty uncomfortable. Garlan couldn't help but curse the Lord of Storm's End inwardly once more for trying to use his brother against the family; Squiring Loras to Renly had been a mistake.

"Of course I trust my son," Mace Tyrell scoffed. "But did it ever occur to you that you only managed to find black-haired bastards because the others simply do not take after their father?" To Garlan's amusement, Renly opened his mouth to retort, but no words came out. "As for Lord Arryn, King's Landing is but a pit of vipers, and relying only on your eyes can be… deceiving. A highlord is not so easily assassinated, Lord Baratheon."

"Yet Lord Arryn and both of my brothers died within a year," Renly's voice was as quiet as a whisper, and his face grew unwilling. "Something is amiss."

His father laughed. "Something always is amiss in that city, for schemers and plotters are hiding under every floor and behind every wall. I will be honest with you, Lord Baratheon. House Tyrell shall not fight all the kingdoms on its lonesome for such a fleeting claim."

"Not all," the Baratheon interrupted. "Dorne and the Iron Isles will never support Joffrey or Tywin Lannister. And Lysa Arryn is half-mad and half-craven woman with a sickly boy." 

"Perhaps," Mace shrugged. "But it matters not. Despite his reputation, Tywin Lannister is a reasonable man who would be amenable to making my daughter the next queen without pulling the whole realm into war. Sansa Stark can be the next Lady of Highgarden - I only need to send my eldest to visit Winterfell with gifts and promises and help the Watch with their latest woe."

"Cersei would rather let the realm burn than let Margaery marry Joffrey, and she is the sitting regent until the old lion arrives." Renly shook his head. "Her golden son will be wed to some simpering chit she could control long before her father sets foot into the city."

"Should such a thing come to pass, even my support has a price, and you know it."

At that moment, Margaery and her gaggle of ladies and cousins finally returned, and his father's serious face disappeared, replaced by the broad, jovial smile as he stood up with a flourish.

***

Magister Zaphon Sarrios, Tyrosh

The Purple Swan, his mentor's ship, was spotted in the docks, and the magister ordered his steward to prepare a welcoming feast. Alas, poor Lazos looked tired and not enthusiastic, which did not bode well.

"Stark refuses to promise anything without his son present. Something about Beyond the Wall being dangerous. Dead men walking, giant spiders, and ice necromancers."

"Of course it's dangerous," Zaphon scoffed. "But those things can be killed, no? Jon Snow is the danger! That's why I want him. With him as my good son, I can easily push Arvaad's men out of the city guard. The damn pest has been sending his men to extort my dye works for protection money now."

"The sunset king enfeoffed Jon Snow for his feats of bravery," Lazos bobbed his head humbly. "The boy is to take a choicer pick of any empty castle or land he desires once he returns south of the Wall. But none can say when that will be, not even his father."

"Bah, the gods are conspiring against me. I don't like this." Zaphon slapped the table angrily. Everyone knew it was nigh impossible to tear a sunset lord from his fief. Even if his daughter wed Jon Snow, she'd go to live in his castle, completely ruining his plans. "I don't like this, especially with the red priests making trouble. They keep killing each other and dragging others into the slaughter. Just last night, a smithy on the Merlen Square was set ablaze by those zealots."

Worse, the Archon was a pious man and had decreed the city would not interfere in the affairs of the clergy, letting the madmen run rampant.

"I knew there had been some… woes in the Red Temple for moons, but it wasn't serious." Lazor took a bite from the roasted golden duck. "They had quarrelled a few times before, but nothing bloody. Why now?"

"Pah, the fools claim the Red God has abandoned them. Their infamous fire visions work no longer. The Volantine Highpriest claimed it was a punishment for their sins, and they needed to discard worldly comforts and pray harder. It didn't work, and the voices saying the end was nigh and the Great Other was stirring grew louder and louder. Some want to go and fight it, more want to search for Azor Ahai, and those under the High Priest urge caution and prayer."

"There are… tales of old, ancient foes returning from Beyond the Wall from the sunset lands and the Grey Waste," his teacher's face turned grave. "The Great Darkness come again."

That phrase he had heard spoken in fear, be it by other magisters or some red priests preaching in the streets. End of the world, eternal night, and all that horseshit. How terribly dreadful.

"Pah, old wives' tales and mummer's farce," the magister snorted and waved for Velyna to come and feed him grapes. "Superstitious lot to the last. Still, these problems with the city guard and the red priests must be addressed."

"Perhaps purchasing another two centuries of Unsullied to alleviate the burden?"

"A sound idea." The magister took a sip of spiced summerwine. "Make it happen."

Deliana came over, and her soft hands skilfully eased the tangled knot that had formed in his shoulders, making Zaphon sigh with relief.

***

10th day of the 11th Moon

Tyrion Lannister, King's Landing

Just when Tyrion thought Joffrey wouldn't make a too-terrible king, his nephew found a way to surprise him.

"Your Grace," Pycelle coughed, nervously pulling on his beard. "The High Septon might be… unhappy if the ceremony takes place before the Heart Tree instead of the Great Sept. The Old Gods cannot see there anyway, for the Weirwood had been cut down and roots dug out during the Blessed's reign."

"A terrible travesty," Joffrey declared. "This is why I ordered Trant and Moore last week to go and get me a weirwood cutting from Rosby. They should be back before sunset. There cannot be a godswood without a proper Heart Tree."

Tyrion scratched his head, and he wasn't the only one confused - Varys looked like he had just heard the sky had gone red, Cersei was looking at Joffrey as if seeing him for the first time, and Barristan had grown even stiffer than usual. He knew Joffrey had shown mild interest in the Old Gods before but never managed to inquire Lord Stark about it. At least that explained the mysterious absence of Moore and Trant.

His sister managed to gather herself rather quickly. "These are old, abandoned customs from a more barbaric time, sweetling. One afternoon at the Great Sept, and we can all forget about this… nonsense."

"I'm the King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men. If there's a Sept in my city, there must be a proper Heart Tree, too. My sister wed before the weirwood, and so can I!"

"Indeed, Your Grace," Varys was the first to recover, with his high-pitched voice. "But planting and growing a weirwood into a proper Heart Tree is said to take a lot of time… and effort. It's an obscure, forgotten skill."

"The Northmen know how, I asked. And there are books on the subject in the royal library." Tyrion stood there, stunned. This was the first time he ever heard his nephew even mention reading.

"Very wise, Your Grace," the Grandmaester flattered with a strained smile. "Yet tradition dictates a king to wed in the Great Sept of Baelor. All the rulers before you have done so and have been crowned by the High Septon."

Joffrey's face scrunched up with distaste. "All must serve at the pleasure of the king."

"Yet a king has always been crowned by the High Septon, Your Grace." Tyrion felt like reason slipped between his fingers. Gods, why did his nephew have to be so stubborn? "Even the Conqueror flew with his sister-wives and three dragons to the Starry Sept for it. Besides, the masses must witness the royal coronation, and we cannot let in all sorts of strays in the Red Keep for it."

"It is a one-time show of grace and dignity, sweetling," Cersei cajoled at the frowning boy-king. Her motherly smile looked rather stiff and completely out of place on his sister's pretty face. "After that, you can ignore the fat septon as you wish."

"Very well," Joffrey stood up, looking bored. "I am a generous king and will grace those bumbling fools and their stuffy Sept with my presence just this once. But it will be a double ceremony - the High Septon will later wed me in the Godswood." And with that, his royal nephew decisively marched out of the room, shadowed by the silent Barristan Selmy.

This was the second time his nephew had attended the small council meeting, and it was no better than the last. Joffrey was stubborn and whimsical, and only foolish flattery worked… sometimes. Tyrion couldn't help but ask himself what his sister had been doing for years because his nephew had no idea how to be a lord, let alone a king. Gallantry and courtesies came quickly enough to him, but everything else…

Worse, Joffrey had simply wrestled control of the kingsguard and the red cloaks with laughable ease, and nobody managed to stop him. Not even Cersei. And now, the new boy-king was doing whatever he wished, whenever he wished. Which, thankfully, meant hunting and whoring, as Joffrey was dead set on outdoing his father, at least for now. Cersei looked quite tired, with dark bags forming under her eyes.

It was no wonder since his sister had insisted on doing everything herself or having a say in the smallest matter as if she were the ruler. Presiding over the court and petitions every day, dealing with royal issues, big or small, and preparing for the wedding and coronation took a visible toll on Cersei.

"Convincing the High Septon to do this might prove… difficult." Varys's cautious words finally broke the silence.

"He better do it, or I will find a new one who will," Cersei scoffed.

Pycelle hemmed and feebly ran a hand through his wizened beard. "Should we… finally announce the royal wedding?" Truth be told, Tyrion had been baffled at first when his sister had ordered to keep the whole thing under wraps, but after a few days, things finally made sense. Cersei feared her father finding out and rushing to the city to thwart her plans. Now, Tywin Lannister would hear of this long after it had happened.

And a consummated union between Myrielle Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon bound by the High Septon would not be something their father could contest. The girl was kin, a lion of Casterly Rock, if from a lesser pride, but she was not so easily removed as Tysha, and even Tywin Lannister would not stoop to something as low as kinslaying.

"It is time," Cersei unsurprisingly agreed, and the Grandmaester bobbed his head and took out a quill and a roll of parchment from his robes.

Varys, smiling gently, clasped his hands with a flourish. "The small council has grown even smaller of late. Perhaps some new, leal councillors might alleviate our burdens?"

"Renly still has to return to the city and explain himself," his sister replied icily, the rest of the threat unsaid - declining royal summons was treason. "I have decided Cregan Karstark shall be our new master of laws, and Lord Lewys Lydden shall become the new master of ships."

Cersei's challenging gaze roamed the table, and none of the remaining councillors dared to comment. If his sister wanted to appoint a pompous fool who had probably travelled by boat no more than twice in his life because she thought him loyal, who was Tyrion to argue? Varys and Pycelle seemed to be of a similar mind, and for good reason - Cersei had shown that she considered disagreement to be defiance, if not outright treason.

"What of Ser Barristan, Your grace?" The eunuch asked.

"What of him?"

"The king died under his watch." The spider's words grew heavy with regret. "A terrible tragedy, to be sure, but it only shows our gallant Lord Commander has grown too old to do his duty."

Which was… true. Someone had to take responsibility for Robert's death, and Selmy had been there, unable to do anything, the perfect target.

"The white cloaks serve for life," Pycelle reminded gruffly as he finished inking the wedding announcement.

"But… what good are old men if they cannot guard their king?" Varys shrugged innocently. Tyrion somewhat agreed. Only, the question was if Barristan Selmy had grown too old or if a few more years of service were left in him. "Of course, leal service has to be rewarded. Perhaps a nice plot of land and a few servants to care for the old knight's needs?"

"Such matters can be deliberated after my son's wedding," Cersei decided, but her face had grown thoughtful. "Council adjourned."

The meeting predictably ended, and Tyrion made his way out.

There were quite a few more positions to be replaced; Littlefinger had filled half the lower court with his men, and now it was Tyrion's turn to do the same - see who could be bought and replace the rest. Besides, his newly recruited assistant, Lothor Brune, a skilled and honest free-rider from the Clawmen, was now searching for Baelish's last hideouts in hopes of finding a stash of dragons. Being the master of coin was lucrative, giving him the power to regulate tariffs and set taxes, especially in the city. There was a hefty amount of dragons pocketed after purging Baelish's men, and many wealthy merchants were overly generous with their gifts to cultivate a good relationship with the master of coin.

The best thing? All of this was within the powers of the post. After all, if Baelish could get rich from every change in the tariffs and prices of goods, why wouldn't Tyrion follow in his footsteps? Now that he could visit the royal brothels for free, his purse grew heavier.

Tyrion had already purchased four warehouses and a run-down inn for himself.

They were small and not significant in any meaningful way. Tyrion had seen many others, all better and more luxurious.

But these five were special. They were his, his alone - the fruits of his efforts, not some pittance his father had allowed.

***

11th Day of the 11th Moon

Tyrion couldn't help but note that his sister was almost as big a spender as her husband. Joffrey often rode across the city, basking in the adoration of the masses, taking a liking to the cheering of the smallfolk. Besides that, his nephew spent most of his time hunting and gracing the city's brothels with his presence, which cost little coin because the crown now owned most of them.

However, the madames did not look very happy after Joffrey's visits.

At least Tyrion was left to his own devices as long as there was gold to spend, which suited him just fine. A ridiculous amount of gold and silver flowed into the treasury every year, and without Robert to splurge it on whatever whim, tourney, or feast, the coffers were no longer completely empty. The gold cloaks had become far more effective in keeping the peace and order under Balon Swann. The merchants and traders had a noticeably increased presence in the city; the tariffs from King's Landing brought over ten thousand golden dragons more per moon.

Still, as Lord Stark had set the course, the debt repayments to the Iron Bank were ongoing, and within a year, the Iron Throne would no longer owe them. There were only the Faith, the Tyrells, the Tyroshi cartels, and his father to repay. If things were good and peaceful, within a decade or two, the crown would no longer be in any debt.

Shaking his head, he looked at Myrielle Lannister, sitting on Joffrey's left on a smaller gilded chair, on her back clasped a new cloak - the black Baratheon stag on gold on one side and golden lion of Lannister on crimson on the other. Upon her brow stood a golden crow encrusted with two lions facing each other at her brow, with red rubies for eyes. His cousin looked quite happy, for she was officially the new Queen. Tyrion couldn't help but wonder why Cersei chose the uglier of Uncle Stafford's daughters. Myrielle wasn't hard on the eye, but Cerenna was the fairer sister.

Predictably, the High Septon wasn't overly happy, but he reluctantly did a second ceremony before the new weirwood sapling. The cutting seemingly took root, sprouted overnight, and was as tall as a man. The event had the Northmen in a joyous mood, but Tyrion couldn't help but feel eerie about the whole thing. Others seemed to have similar qualms, but Joffrey took that as a sign that his marriage would be a blessed one. Needless to say, the crown's debt from the Faith had been recalled, and Tyrion now had more trouble on his plate because neither Cersei nor Joffrey bothered much with copper counting. Such dull things were for dwarves like him.

The Throne Hall was lined with long tables heavy with various dishes and men, but it didn't feel as boisterous and joyous as Myrcella's wedding had. Of course, a feast was a feast, and Tyrion had filled a generous serving of everything he could reach while enjoying the bard's performance. Even his sister looked… happy and content with Jaime standing like a golden shadow behind her. Tyrion snorted; his siblings had grown less subtle after Robert passed.

He had been seated on the edge of the high table between the New Commander of the gold cloaks and the new Master of Laws. It was a petty insult by Cersei, no doubt, but Tyrion couldn't find himself to care right now.

"Our new queen looks happy," Karstark noted from his left after taking a large bite from an auroch steak slathered with dark mushroom gravy. Then, he grabbed a horn of dark ale and raised it high. "May the royal union be fruitful!"

Many echoed his toast with a roar of approval, and even Tyrion raised his cup of wine and took a generous mouthful afterwards. Though, it would be amusing when his father arrived. Would his beloved golden sister finally get scolded for her folly?

Shaking his head, Tyrion forked a piece of honeyed pheasant and turned to the left. Cregan embodied the typical hardy Northman that people in the South imagined. With a rugged face, hardy smile, and broad shoulders, he could be mistaken for a wildling if it wasn't for his neat beard and silken tunic. His brown hair was streaked with grey, but his moustache and beard were well-trimmed, and he looked lively for a man in his fifth decade.

"So, Lord Karstark, how is married life treating you?" Of course, Cersei had not missed out on tying the leader of the Northern forces in the city with another marriage to yet another lioness of Lannisport.

Cregan Karstark's smile widened at being called a lord. It was rare for a cousin of the main branch to rise as high as the small council.

"Jenelyn is happy. I can't help but wonder how such a comely lass would come to me a maid at such an age."

"Well, four years ago, her betrothed fell from his horse during a hunt just before their wedding and died when the stallion kicked him in the head," Tyrion explained. "Suffice it to say, some jealous maiden spread rumours that the gods cursed poor Jenelyn for her vanity, for she was very proud of her beauty." Jenelyn was a very buxom woman and loved comparing herself to others, provoking the ire of many cousins and other ladies around Lannisport. Still, four years of loneliness seemed to have mellowed her out, for she appeared content with the marriage to the much older widower.

"Superstitious lot," Karstark snorted, taking another gulp of ale. "Wide hips and a generous bosom are never a curse!"

"Hear, hear!" Daven Lannister hollered across them, eliciting cries of approval from half the table, and the ale and wine began to flow like a river.

Indeed, Tyrion found this spot at the table far more to his liking than the stuffy Lord Royce or the pompous Lewys Lydden. Another generous gulp of wine had him turn to the man on his right.

"And you, Ser Swann? How fares your marriage with our fair Jocelyn?"

Even Cregan leaned over to hear the answer, for Jocelyn was the younger sister of Jennelyn, and the Swann knight had become his kin, if indirectly.

"It fares well, my lord," Balon replied modestly, but the smile on his face spoke volumes. It was hard to get the taciturn man to talk much, and it seemed that that was all the reply Tyrion would get. But it was enough.

Tyrion waved over a serving wench to bring over a new cask of wine. In a few heartbeats, his cup of wine was full once more, and he raised it high. "Well then, to new alliances and friendships!"

The toast was again met with a heavy cheer, and the bards began singing louder and louder. It wasn't long before Whoresbane Umber stood up, half a head taller than everyone else, and hollered for the bedding.

Alas, a poor dwarf's stubby legs could not keep up with the others, nor could he reach to get a good feel of the new bride, so Tyrion remained on his seat, pouring himself more wine. Perhaps it was time to retire to his chambers and call in one of his favourite whores for the night.

***

16th Day of the 11th Moon

Melisandre of Asshai

Ribbons of snow drifted into the air as a thick veil of white covered the land as the sun hid behind the mountains to the west. The cold dampness seeped through the thin silk of her dress, but the priestess shrugged it off.

The budding town had grown solemn after the ambush, with two warbands completely snuffed out and the Warg Lord almost slain. Yet, Jon Snow was not so easily broken. Despite his vehement refusal and denial of being Azor Ahai come again, he was everything the Last Hero was supposed to be and more. A steadfast bastion against the darkness, standing stalwart against all adversity and cutting through the cold and heavy fear with deeds and steel in hand. They were all wrong; Lightbringer was not the fiery red sword of heroes but the dark steel of the Freehold, forged with dragonfire and blood. Dark Sister was a special blade amongst the myriad produced by the Lords of Fire, having been quenched in the lifeblood of many a kin and foe, both mortal and not. Even now, the sword pulsed hungrily for more.

The wildlings looked at Jon Snow with hope, warmth, and even devotion.

Already fully healed, he walked through the slushy, narrow streets, resolving disputes or joining the training, showing moves, encouraging men and women and sparring freely. For three days now, he had ridden out during the day to hunt down and clear lingering wights in the nearby forests, accompanied by not only half a hundred riders but a large pack of wolves and direwolves.

After the Longhall atop the hill had been built, more wooden houses had sprung up, and now the tents were slowly becoming rarer and rarer.

Yet here Melisandre was with her small tent, lost all favour and chance to guide the prince that was promised. No amount of trickery, powders, smoke, and petty magic would impress someone who had no desire to look. How… how was she supposed to guide anyone when she could not even guide herself? The Great Other was stirring, his cold children walking through the snow, sowing terror and death with their crystalline blades and dead thralls, yet R'hllor… remained silent.

Slowly walking by the bonfire, she gazed into the flames and prayed like the previous two hundred and forty-six days. And just like the last two hundred and forty-six days and tens of thousands of prayers, she only got silence, an empty flame, and the mocking crackling of the burning wood.

Hands clasped and head bowed, she prayed and prayed for anything, just a small sign, a vision. Anything.

Deafening silence.

Why was R'hllor silent? Had she not sacrificed enough? Was there even anything left to sacrifice?

There was nought to see, nought to hear, for R'hllor had abandoned her.

Melisandre wanted to deny it, to cry out to the heavens with the searing anguish running through her flesh, yet no words came out. She refused to believe it for so long, but… the silence had chipped away at her denial, little by little, day by day. Now, nearly two hundred and fifty days later, she had no more strength to deny it.

Feeling foolish, lost, and alone, Melisandre gazed angrily into the flame as if she were Melony of Lot Seven once more.

Familiar soft footsteps crunching through the snow approached, and the priestess twisted her neck only to see Leaf's petite form approaching, the crimson cloak of red leaves fluttering behind her. The Singer could traverse the forest and the snow without making a sound, yet for some reason, Leaf always signalled her approach in some way. She was the only one willing to come to Melisandre once Jon Snow had made his displeasure known openly.

Without saying a word, the Singer sat beside her. The red priestess would not admit it, but Leaf's presence lessened the looming gloom. Humans were not meant to be alone; even one like her could feel the strain.

"Of all the deities, true and false, across the world, only the Old Gods lack a priesthood to serve them," Melisandre observed, not tearing her gaze from the fire, hoping to see something, anything. Yet the orange petals danced their empty but fiery dance, uncaring for her wants. "Why?"

"There was something you might have called priesthood once." Leaf shook her head. "There's no word in the common tongue for it… but I suppose you can call them green ones or druids. A time long forgotten by men, when the children of summer still herded sheep, and the Andals were nought but a handful of squabbling savages in a small corner across the sea. Full devotion to the gods had always been arduous, and the Old Gods had always been particularly demanding. From every five pupils, barely one could survive to ascend to priesthood."

"Cruel," Melisandre hummed.

The Singer chuckled. "All gods are so, and the Old Gods care little for mortal matters. What good is devotion to the divine without a sacrifice? Coming before the Heart Tree and praying is not enough."

"I can see how they dwindled into nothingness."

"While they were few, they survived well enough. But as mortals always do, they grew… foolish and arrogant for thinking the gods were always on their side, thinking that their words alone were divine, and made the wrong choice."

Melisandre tore her gaze from the flame and gazed at the now silent Leaf, who was looking at her expectantly. "And wrong choices can oft be fatal."

"Indeed. When the Long Night was still fresh in the minds of men, when the North was still torn between a myriad of petty kings, the Singers, Greenseers, and much of the green ones supported the Warg King in a savage war against the Stark of Winterfell. It was a more brutal time, and the Kings of Winter had no mercy in their cold hearts. The Warg King lost his life, his sons, greenseers and beasts, and the Starks left no foes alive, not even the foolish green ones who had decided to back the wrong king."

"Yet here is Jon Snow, a son of Winterfell, being called the Warg Lord once more."

"He has the blood," Leaf laughed, a pleasant sound like a soft tinkle of bells. "The Warg King's daughters were taken for wives to the Starks, as was the fate of many foes later vanquished. The Kings of Winter knew the power in the blood and were not afraid to grasp it with both hands. There were more green ones south of the Neck, but those who survived meddling with the affairs of men were slain by the Andals. Only the green men on the Isle of Faces remain, a shadow of a shadow from what had once been, but they have learned to stay away now."

Such a dreadful end. Even the red priests often vied for the favour of monarchs and princes, yet picking wrongly could turn lethal. However, the Old Gods were not without power; Melisandre had seen it. Again and again, in Jon Snow and the Singers. First, she thought it the darkness of the Great Other, but it was not bereft of warmth or… malignant and cold in a way that sought to envelop the world.

There was a streak of cruelty there, but greatness, glory, and victory were not grasped with a velvet glove but an iron fist. It was stormy, cold, whimsical, and fiery in a primal way, like everything between heaven and earth.

And they were here, blessing and backing the Last Hero, with a blade of fire and blood in hand, striking against the encroaching darkness. Ghost's enormous form made its way silently through the snow, fur as pale as the bone of the weirwood bark, eyes as red as the five-pointed leaves.

Where was R'hllor?

Where was the Lord of the Light to give guidance and shed a path when the Great Other was slowly stirring in the night, filling it with darkness and terrors?

Melisandre of Asshai looked at Leaf. Despite her child-like stature, the Singer was old and full of wisdom and knowledge. So much knowledge. She would have discarded such a notion before, but now she knew better. "Are you a green one?"

"Nay, I don't have what it takes. As our twilight approached, the few of us who had the talent and dared to become such went mad with grief or died in their ascension. But we, the Singers, remember and know how to listen." At the words, her large ears twitched. Melisandre always knew they could hear better than men, but it seemed they could also hear more.

"But you know how to become one."

"Yes," the Singer freely admitted, gazing at her unblinkingly, slitted eyes glistening like gilded emeralds.

Could Melisandre stay here, wait blindly, and do nothing as the Great Darkness gathered? What of all those years of promises, of prophecies, of fighting the coming Night? Had the High Priests been deceiving them all along?

"Show me," Melisandre of Asshai demanded, nay, implored.

"It is likely you shall perish or go mad." The Singer's sad smile betrayed the ominous warning, but her decision was made. It was as if a burden she had never known was there had been lifted from Melisandre's shoulders.

The Great Other had to be stopped, and the Last Hero had to be aided. Her whole purpose and being, centuries of fervent study and travel, had been devoted to this end, just like every other priest of R'hllor.

"How can one show devotion if they are unwilling to pay the ultimate price?"

Leaf jerked back for the first time, dappled face twisted in surprise. R'hllor was a jealous god, Melisandre knew. Yet an absent shepherd could not guard his flock, just like an absent king could not lead his armies. While her powers remained, even with R'hllor gone, it was far from enough, as the blindness and silence slowly chipped away at her very being.

"Come before the heart tree in half an hour," Leaf muttered and dashed into the darkness.

Melisandre's mind turned blank. After what felt like a lifetime, she stood up from her seat and slowly walked towards the small remaining grove with the carved weirwood. Her legs turned as heavy as lead, and her heart thundered like a war drum, but the red priestess continued dragging her legs forward, ploughing through the knee-deep cold snow.

A heathen, they would call her. Heretic. Traitor.

All true, and the words stabbed in her chest like cold knives, yet Melisandre welcomed the pain, for one could only feel pain while they were still alive. There was always a price to be paid. True words, coming from Seryna, the second High Priestess after the Doom.

Melisandre could no longer stand the creeping silence, the emptiness, and she was willing to pay everything to make it go away and find a way through the looming Night.

Finally, she reached the Heart Tree; its carved face and weeping slits seemed to be looking at her with… curiosity. On the sides, the trees were heavy with Singers, all watching solemnly from the branches above. The shaggy, large shadows of scores of direwolves slowly emerged between the twisted treeline, their eyes shining like lanterns of gold, green, grey, and blue in the darkness. Her gaze settled on the sole pair of crimson eyes, easily towering over the rest. So, even the Warg Lord had come here to observe.

Just by the heart tree, Leaf was waiting, standing solemnly, and Melisandre stopped before her.

"Shed all your mortal possessions." The singsong voice had turned… eerily solemn.

Without blinking, Melisandre shrugged off the thin silken gown and unclasped the belt with pouches and powders, returning to her maiden-day dress. A cold gale made her shiver, the cold finally seeping deep for the first time. Her hand reached for the ruby choker and hesitated. It was the focus of her power, the agglomeration of her study and efforts, originally a gift from the Red Temple for her ascension to the priesthood.

There's always a price to be paid.

Steeling herself, Melisandre unlatched her red-gold ruby choker and tossed it aside into the night. Her strength and warmth began to seep away slowly, and the chill assaulted her with a vengeance. The priestess collapsed on her knees, shivering like a leaf in the storm, looking straight at the fierce face in the bone-like bark glaring at her. The snow was so cold it burned on her skin.

Melisandre endured, for pain was like an old lover.

A cold, wooden bowl was shoved into her hands. It was a heavy, dark crimson liquid with a single drop of white in the centre. Sickly sweet… weirwood sap. A poison so pure, it was said it could fell a dragon grown, and even the most devoted Red Priest had not dared drink it to test their devotion. But it was too pure, too easily spotted with its eerie presence, and too hard to preserve for use by the masses.

"Say your prayer, and drink."

Melisandre closed her eyes, let go of everything and prayed in her mind. She prayed for the future, for the fight against the Night, against the silence. Most importantly, she prayed for a way forward, for a purpose.

Her limbs had grown numb from the cold, and with a titanic effort, the priestess forced her trembling hands to move and poured all of the crimson liquid straight into her throat, and then she knew pain.