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.

***

17th Day of the 13th Moon

Cortnay Penrose, the Kingswood

Their camp was a mess, but they had won the battle. At the earliest estimate, fifteen hundred were dead, but the enemy had lost nearly twice as much, and many more had been captured. A good chunk of the second were Essosi sellswords, which would hang by noon.

"Don't move, Ser," Maester Lymon shuffled around Cortnay's left, wrapping around Penrose's broken forearm. The knight could only grit his teeth at the slivers of pain jolting down his body, but the worst had passed; the bones were set, and the fracture had been splinted with pieces of wood. After a painful minute, everything was done. "You would do well not to use your left hand until the bone knits together."

Slim chance, especially since he had to lead a war. At least it was his left hand. The night attack had caught them by surprise. Even with a half-hour warning from the scouts to prepare, it had been hard to rouse the camp properly and gear up. Many men had fought missing parts of their armour, shields, and such. Penrose had been no different; Jacen, his squire, had failed to find his shield.

"Many thanks," Penrose muttered hoarsely and turned to the second, far younger maester tending to a fallen man covered in blood on a cot beside him with a glistening face twisted in pain. His fair hair was caked with blood and sweat, and his breathing was shallow and choppy. "Is he going to live?"

"Ser Jaime has been grievously wounded," said Daen, an energetic man in his early thirties garbed in a roughspun brown robe, now splattered with dirt and blood. "Ruptured spleen, broken ribs, punctured lung, shattered collarbone, heavy internal bleeding, shattered elbow, broken shin, torn ligaments, and many bruises."

The Kingslayer had been lauded as a great swordsman, and Penrose could see why. If somewhat lacking in honour and common martial sense, the Young Lion had claws - he had been nigh unstoppable in the darkness, cutting through their left flank. Scores of good men had fallen by his sword, at least a dozen knights and two lords. If the enemy foot hadn't broken quickly and the ambush had arrived a quarter-hour earlier, the Kingslayer might have succeeded with his daring attack.

Yet he alone was one man, if too stubborn to surrender, and his bullheadedness galvanised his men to fight to their last instead of surrendering when the battle's outcome was already decided. Even when surrounded and outnumbered, Jaime Lannister kept fighting like a man possessed until they had managed to shatter his sword arm at the elbow with a warhammer and knock him out.

"Will he live?" Penrose asked with a grimace; half his body was bruised black and blue, and he was a young man no longer. A hostage of this calibre was far more useful than a dead man, even if many would be clamouring for his head once the butcher's due was counted.

"It's hard to tell." Maester Daen tiredly ran his fingers through his dark mane. "If we were in a keep, with warm and clean quarters to do my work, I'd say yes, but most likely crippled for life with his elbow. Now? It's for the gods to decide if he makes it to the next morning."

King Renly wasn't going to like this one bit. His grandfather and cousin, Lord Eldon Estermont and Alyn Estermont, had died by the Young Lion's blade, and a one-eyed Aemon Estermont had to be restrained from finishing off the Kingslayer. Sure, they had caught a handful of lords and landed knights from the Crownlands, but most prisoners were greybeards, green boys, and hedge knights.

Even the foe's camp, war chest, and tents were so pitiful that one could barely call it loot. Scarcely a few thousand silver stags and the only thing worth were the horses they had found in the forest and the mules and donkeys left behind. It was a victory, and their foe was routed, but it didn't feel like one to Cortnay.

Penrose hoped Jaime Lannister would placate the king's wrath. As a hostage, if he lived, and his head - should he perish to his wounds.

***

20th Day of the 13th Moon

The Regent

It was rare for Pycelle to request an urgent council meeting because of a raven from Highgarden. Alas, his royal grandnephew had heard about it and decided to attend, and Kevan couldn't dismiss the boy like some errant servant. Whimsical, overproud, easy to anger, and even quicker to take offence, Joffrey was not someone to oppose openly, especially with a crown atop his head. As Regent, Kevan felt like he had to balance on a tightrope; the boy had to be corralled one way or another, but being too heavy-handed about it would see him a head shorter sooner or later.

"What do you mean the Most Devout have proclaimed a second High Septon?" Joffrey scrunched up his nose. "I thought there could be only one."

Kevan had thought much the same, but it seemed that the Faith's displeasure ran deeper than any of them suspected. What had been the final straw, he wondered? The unpaid debt? The Heart Tree in the Red Keep? The sacking and burning of Septs in the Reach? Or the accusations of incest? Even now, Gregor Clegane continued his slaughter through the Reach, killing everything he met and not sparing even the Septons or the Silent Sisters.

Some days, he suspected that Tywin's mad dogs were more trouble than they were worth. Yes, his brother could command them well enough in person, but once they were away, any and all restraint seemed to be lost. 

"A king is supposed to be Protector of the Faith," Lewys Lydden, the new master of ships, muttered. The Lord of Deep Den was a balding man with a salt-and-pepper moustache. "It seems the Most Devout think Renly could better protect them."

"Then why a new High Septon?" Karstark rubbed his greying beard. "Why didn't they just move?"

At times, Kevan forgot that the master of laws was a Northerner down to the bone; he knew little of the workings of the Faith. It wasn't a bad question. Because the High Septon in the Grand Sept of Baelor was in their pockets, fearing for his life. Everyone, including Kevan, thought the Faith was easy to deal with as long as you controlled its head, but it turned out they were mistaken.

For the first time, Varys's face had grown solemn, "But they did move, Lord Cregan."

"Spider," Joffrey, face twisted in displeasure, barked, taking a mouthful of wine from his cup. Lately, scant things pleased the young king, especially since he couldn't hunt in the Kingswood after the banners had been called. "Why are we finding out about this now from the Grandmaester? Weren't you supposed to know things like this?"

"Indeed, Your Grace," the eunuch bowed his head deeply. "But members of the Most Devout oft travel as pilgrims across the Seven Kingdoms from Sept to Sept. They had done that for centuries, and nothing was suspicious about it. Would that I could glean within the minds of men, but alas, I am only mortal."

"The Faith hadn't dared move since Maegor broke them," Kevan sighed. This would stack the odds further against them, and he couldn't even begin to speculate what a schism of the Faith would entail. But there was no doubt in the Regent's mind that things just became… bloodier.

"Perhaps they need to be broken again," Joffrey scoffed. "That ought to remind those dawdling fat fools of their place."

His statement was met with grim silence. Even Cregan Karstark, who harboured no love for the Faith, didn't seem keen on fighting the Reach, the Stormlands, and the Faith simultaneously.

"Let us not be hasty, Your Grace," the Regent cautioned warily. "So far, they have done nought but contest the piousness of our High Septon."

Even the smallfolk knew the Fat One was a corrupt man indulging in vices and baser pleasures. A gift of golden dragons was enough to sway his mind and forgive all sorts of sins. The lords and knights who had the coin loved the man, but the pious and less fortunate… So much for being an avatar of the Seven in the mortal world, a man who abandoned everything, including his name, to devote himself to the service of the gods.

Pycelle looked about to titter but managed to cover it with a cough and hemmed, "The crown should be cautious in involving itself in internal matters of the Faith. Our High Septon will have no choice but to declare them heretics as soon as he hears about it."

"Heretics?" The young king echoed, green eyes finally alight with interest.

"Heresy in the Faith is punishable by death," Lord Lydden said. "The Seven-Pointed Star dictates it's one of the gravest sins that could only be purged by fire in life to avoid an eternal stay in the Seven Hells."

"Very well. We should help our bumbling fat septon," Joffrey declared with a savage smile. "Let it not be said that I fail my duties as a Protector of the Faith. Pycelle, send ravens declaring this impostor and his ilk heretics. And everyone who supports him, too!"

"Your Grace," Varys turned mournful. "This will bathe the kingdoms in blood, for striking down heretics is not considered a sin or a crime."

"It isn't?" Cregan Karstark leaned forward with interest.

The eunuch nervously wrung his hands. "Indeed. It's one of the olden laws before the Conquest to keep the Faith in check. The Conciliator kept it, for there had been no reason to remove it. Most don't know that Jaehaerys instituted peace between the Old and the New Gods along with the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. In return, any signs of heresy would be stamped out, even by the lowliest of peasants, so long as the crown allows it."

Kevan slammed his cup on the varnished table. "Let us not be hasty-"

"Lord Regent," Joffrey's amused voice grew cold. "I am king, and my duty as a monarch is to keep the laws of the realm. Are you suggesting we let those vile traitors run rampant?"

The words made him freeze in truth. Kevan Lannister turned around the table to look for support and found little. Pycelle was most pointedly looking at a blank roll of parchment before him; Cregan Karstark looked ready to sing and dance with joy; Lewys Lydden nodded his head in approval, his eyes burning with passion, and Varys looked sad and would not meet his eyes. Kevan hated it when Joffrey was interested in the small council meetings.

While the boy had only a little over two years before coming of age, he had somehow managed to wrangle control of all the white cloaks and royal household guards. None dared bar his way anywhere in the Red Keep or the city. Worse, any lessons scheduled with the maester or himself were simply skipped.

However, the Grandmaester spoke up, "Your Grace, I believe he meant that such a thing would only make the war needlessly bloodier."

"What good are the laws if the crown is too weak to enforce them?" Cregan tutted, but it sounded mocking to Kevan. "Woes like treason and heresy will only fester the more you leave them alone."

"Indeed, it is our duty as the pious to root out evil from the lands before they take root and allow to grow." The master of ships was quick to agree with the Northerner. Kevan closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

A pious believer in the Seven agreeing with a follower of the Old Gods over matters of heresy. Would the headaches ever cease?

Joffrey clapped eagerly. "Well said, my lords. Pycelle, ink it down. Denounce this treasonous Rose Septon and his ilk. Let the whole realm know - from Sunspear to the Wall, that the crown shall not suffer heretics or the traitors who support them."

***

Kevan could have stopped Pycelle and ordered him not to send the ravens. But such an act would mean treason, and kings were slow to forget defiance and even slower to forgive it. It didn't help Joffrey could bend half the city to his name. Besides, Karstark hadn't been wrong - leaving Renly's move undressed would have them look feeble.

It was not far from the truth, for Joffrey was a mercurial boy with no penchant for ruling or warfare.

The Iron Throne was knee-deep in debt, and they were outnumbered greatly unless Daven Lannister somehow wrangled Lysa Arryn to raise her banners. But according to Varys, she seemed content to barricade herself in the Eyrie and decline all visitors. The Northmen were far, far away and would take half a year to muster and arrive. A chunk of the Riverlords had yet to declare for Tully either, and Kevan suspected they would try to stay neutral or declare for Renly.

It didn't help that Lord Oakheart was marching on Crakehall with nearly twenty thousand men, and Tywin was forced to leave a part of his force to defend the Westerlands before marching down the Gold Road. Renly and Mayce Tyrell used their number advantage quite well, for Kevan felt Joffrey's forces were too spread out.

Even King's Landing had grown silent. The war and the new taxes and customs had made traders and merchants from across the Narrow Sea hesitant to visit the city, and the streets were not as full as before Renly had crowned himself. The gold cloaks had doubled to just shy of five thousand, but the treasury could not allow more. Yet those were not soldiers raised for war but a handful of low-born men who had to chase street rats and thieves, most only skilled with crossbows, iron cudgels and spears.

Yet Kevan felt pulled in several directions. As a standing Regent, he was left with the duties of the crown, the Hand, and the master of coin until Tyrion returned. His scribes and personal steward could only do so much to help him. Even the city had to be well-defended and kept in order.

At least Karstark and Balon Swann could be trusted with the latter, unlike a big part of the royal court, which bordered on incompetence. He cursed his niece for filling the court positions with useless lickspittle who could barely read, let alone fight—insolent sycophants who fled at the earliest signs of trouble.

While Tywin had cleared many of them in his short stay, the rest were no less troublesome. With the war raging on, he had no pool to recruit from besides the Crownlands and Riverlands.

Cersei had failed her son in the most terrible ways, for even Kevan could see he was not the stuff of kings, aside from charisma. Worse, Joffrey had no desire to learn, and Kevan lacked time to wrangle with the overproud and short-tempered boy, who shirked any scheduled lessons with him or Pycelle.

While working in the Hand's solar, Kevan's eldest requested an audience.

"Father," Lancel's face was heavy with worry. His heir was his pride and joy with the classical Lannister look - handsome, strong, with gold hair and green eyes, if a bit eager for glory and battle. Kevan lamented the naivete of youth; his boy would soon have his fill of blood and death. "The Queen has requested my presence."

Kevan twisted his moustache in confusion. "What would Myrielle want with you? And why would you come to me with such?"

Though, it wasn't as surprising. Stafford's daughter was slowly trying to pull a group of courtiers into her influence.

"No, not that Queen. The king's mother," he muttered.

"And how did Cersei manage to contact you?" the Regent hissed.

"A serving girl."

With a sigh, Kevan Lannister rubbed his brow. Cersei, oh foolish Cersei. If only she could sit still and not make trouble for once. More problems were the last thing he needed.

Yet, such disobedience could not be allowed, for if you allowed his niece a finger, she would bite off your arm.

"You have done well bringing this to me, and any future attempts are to be reported to me immediately, Lancel," Kevan ordered. "Come. Show me which servant girl."

Half an hour later, they were in the yard in the Red Keep, and two serving girls were tied to a post while a red cloak was lashing their bared backs in full view of all the household who attended to Cersei's needs in the Maiden Vault.

"Is this necessary, father?" Lancel grimaced, nervously tugging on the red sleeve of his doublet. "Lord Lannister instructed me to listen to my cousin's every order."

"That was nearly two years ago. Now, the Hand has ordered that the Queen receives no visitors during her mourning period. Open disobedience shall not be tolerated."

The Regent watched as the maids were stripped naked and thrown out of the Red Keep, trembling, bloody, and bare. Unless treated by a maester or a very skilled physician, the wounds would probably kill them within three days, and they had no one to blame but themselves, for they could have brought Cersei's orders to him or his knights. The other servants would now know obeying the Queen over the Hand or the Regent's orders would mean slow, painful, and humiliating death.

Gods, this whole thing only meant more trouble. Some of the serving girls had to be replaced, and Kevan was tempted to send more Septas to keep Cersei company. She would chaff under it, but learning the virtues of patience and self-reflection would serve her well.

Just as he was returning to his tower, a runner came to inform him that the Gallant Men had just landed at the docks and wanted to complete the negotiation with him in person. At least Tyrion did his job properly, not drowning himself in wine and wasting away in those bloody brothels.

On his way to Fishmonger Square, Kevan was met by a worried Balon Swann escorting what looked like a haggard hedge knight ready to fall off his horse.

"Lord Regent," the knight's voice was raspy as if he hadn't had a drop of water for days. "We were defeated."

"Who are you, my good man?" Kevan asked evenly while trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut.

"Ser Terrence Thorne," the man wheezed, and the royal Regent finally noticed the dirty-red flail brooch pinning his cloak. "We fought against Penrose, but we were routed."

At that moment, the newly arrived sellswords were forgotten altogether. "Tell me everything."

***

Joffrey was wroth to be called for another urgent meeting, and so were the other councillors. Black words were hard to swallow, let alone twice a day. The Thorne knight had been sent off to rest and had fallen asleep as soon as he touched the feathered bed.

"What of my uncle?" Displeasure and disbelief thickened the young king's voice. "How did he lose my whole army against some paltry castellan!?"

"Fighting in the dark of the night is risky," Karstark explained. "If successful, he could have routed the Stormlords."

"Cortnay Penrose is an experienced veteran and commander," Kevan sighed. Oh Jaime, what did you get yourself into? How hard was it to follow orders? Foolish, hot-headed pride he would have expected from a boy of six and ten, not a knight over thirty. "

With a grimace, he continued, "He fought and won smaller battles in the Greyjoy and the Rebellion and made a name for himself in the Free Cities before. Your royal father had him leading his left flank in the Battle at Summerhall, and he managed to retreat in good order in Ashford. He was nominated for the kingsguard but unwilling to forswear women."

After Aerys had fallen, many had been put forth for the white cloak with five open slots. There were better knights than Penrose, but a defeat looked less bad if your foe was skilled.

"We have no word of Jaime Lannister yet," Balon Swann reported stiffly. Kevan understood the man; soon, he would face his brother and father on the battlefield. There was nothing as woeful as bloodshed between a family.

"He led his men ahorse into the forest through the night." Karstark took a swig of dark beer from his tankard. The Northman had brought barrels of the stuff and had his squire carry it around, refusing to drink any of the so-called southern swill. Kevan was unsure if the man was paranoid or just picky. "He's doubtlessly captured or dead."

"Let us not be hasty, my lords, Your Grace," Pycelle cautioned weakly. "It is possible that Lord Commander Lannister has managed to retreat in good order."

Varys piously clasped his hands together. "We shall pray for his successful retreat and return."

"I shall have Penrose's head," Joffrey hissed. "Right on a spike above the Red Keep's gate. Renly and Mace Tyrell too."

"We cannot depend on the chance the Lord Commander managed to retreat. We ought to ride out and rally the routed forces first," Karstark cautioned. "Allow me to do it, Your Grace."

"See to it," the boy king waved him away and looked around impatiently, anger quickly forgotten. "Anything else?"

"Many things, Your Grace," Kevan sighed. "But we shall deal with them all."

With a bored yawn, Joffrey stood up and excused himself from the meeting, doubtlessly rushing to visit some whore or another. If Varys was correct, the young king already had three favourites in a different brothel.

"We should start digging a ditch, or maybe even a proper moat, around the city wall," Lydden proposed. The discussion continued for hours.

While the defeat was a terrible setback, it was not fatal. Kevan had to pull off all the ferries, barges, and other boats to their side of the Blackwater, and Penrose would be forced to march over thirty leagues to pass the river at the bridge where the Gold Road passed.

But doing so would make him unable to flee when Tywin arrived. Still, such an ugly defeat would be a blow to the city's morale and only make his job far harder.

Kevan just prayed Jaime was alive or had managed to retreat. Hostages could be rescued or exchanged, while death was so final… unless you found yourself North of the Wall fighting grumkins and snarks.

His niece would not take the news well either, and Tywin… Kevan sighed, trying to ignore the painful pulses in his temples.

***

4th Day of the 1st Moon, 299 AC

The 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch

Being Lord Commander of the Night's Watch was cumbersome. Even his old black cloak felt heavier upon his shoulders. The voting had swung his way, even with all the recruits. Now, Mormont's big old raven followed him around everywhere. The duties were heavy, but at least the quarters were far better than the small room awarded to the First Ranger.

Yet now, the lives of nearly eight thousand black brothers rested upon his shoulders. Every move had to be made with slow and cautious consideration. Hotheadedness would be fatal. Ser Waldon Stone, the new commander of Woodswatch-by-the-Pool, had found out by paying with his own life and the lives of his men. Nearly three hundred had perished in his decision to try and charge the wights sieging the wooden fort below the Wall.

In contrast, Denys Mallister of the Shadow Tower had sallied out twice at night and managed to repel the assault on their wooden forts successfully, with eleven slain Others by him and his men.

Their recruits had dwindled to a trickle with the war openly declared. Worse, the word of Ned's demise had been a heavy blow. Lost at sea… like Brandon the Shipwright. The gods were oft cruel.

It was not all bad, though.

With Alysanne's Gift returned to the Northern Lords and the Watch's castles manned tightly, smallfolk had begun to flock to Brandon's Gift. The building of a fledgling town two leagues south of Eastwatch and another at the shore of the Bay of Ice attracted even more men. Manpower, gold, food, and other resources no longer seemed to be a problem. Almost all the dues were paid in kind, which had attracted a flock of merchants and peddlers.

Surprisingly, the pyromancers had arrived here in force. Benjen had expected an acolyte or two, or even a Wisdom, but received a delegation of nearly half a hundred, all bright-eyed. As soon as Benjen promised them to open a new chapter for their Guild in Castle Black, they said vows and became black brothers.

Now, every opened castle along the Wall had a Wisdom and two acolytes, and a new underground vault was being constructed in Castle Black for the Alchemists. The headquarters of the Watch were beginning to grow into a small town as Benjen decided to add more towers and halls to increase the number of available beds. Naturally, the Alchemist chapter would be at the furthest point from the Wall, lest a mishap occur.

"So, what exactly can you do aside from the green piss?" Jeremy Rykker coughed. Benjen had promoted the knight to his First Ranger. A capable veteran, even if bereft of any cheer. But cheer and joy were hard to find on the Wall.

Clad in a black robe, Wisdom Thoren was a squat, bowlegged man with a shaved head and burned eyebrows.

"The substance can scare the Cold Ones, by your own words, Ser."

"Doesn't mean it kills them," Alliser Thorne reminded thinly. "Normal fire does nothing against the Others. If they shy away from the jade demon, it only means they have a lick of sense and cunning, which we already knew."

"Wildfire is too volatile, and every Watchman is too precious to risk handling too big amounts," Marwyn noted, earning himself a scowl from the pyromancer.

The Archmaester remained here, to Benjen's joy, taking his sweet time to read through Castle Black's library. His advice and insight were quite sharp, and his services were almost as good as Aemon's. The two acolytes he brought were also put to good use, copying the ancient tomes in the vaulted library so they would not be lost.

If only the two scholarly orders didn't squabble like little children…

"That's on you," Thoren raised his nose at the two maesters. "We make the substance, and it's up to you to figure out how and where to use it!"

"Indeed," Benjen inclined his head. "But we need slightly… safer options for our men. Perhaps it is an easier or faster way to make tar. Or even a flame that burns for hours, if not as hot?"

The wisdom rubbed his brow.

"I… suppose it can be done. We will need more wood. Far more. Human and animal refuse, more oil and fat…" The list made Benjen's head spin, but a terse nod from Bowen Marsh told him everything required was either in inventory or easy to procure.

"You mean to dig a ditch around each fort," Rykker was the first to realise. "A ring of fire that will last for hours will cut off the endless horde of wights. Or, well, roast it."

Benjen nodded grimly. "I was planning to do something similar with seasoned firewood, but if Wisdom Thoren can provide a more effective solution…"

"It shall be done by the end of the moon, Lord Commander." Thoren bowed deeply immediately, then turned to Marwyn and Aemon with a challenge in his green eyes. "The Guild will never disappoint!"

"How about we make a jar or a thin pouch with obsidian shards?" Aemon proposed, seemingly oblivious to the pyromancer's posturing. However, Benjen noticed the blind old man's lips twitched with amusement. "They can be flung at the Others. Their swift blades can strike away an arrow, but small shards and dust are another matter."

"We certainly have plenty of those," Rykker scrunched his brow. "Can it bring a Cold One down, though?"

"Dragonglass is sharper than valyrian steel, my good Ser," the old maester chortled. "If a single cut is good enough to vanquish our foes… does the size matter?"

"It certainly doesn't hurt to try," Benjen decided.

"How about we do it in a jar of the substance?" Thoren proposed, a savage smile spreading across his lips.

***

6th Day of the 1st Moon 299 AC

Command sucked away your time. So many plans and things to do, even after you delegated much of your tasks to trusted subordinates. Benjen struggled to find an hour or two in the yard to keep himself sharp with the sword. It was the Stark way; his father had taught him never to give orders he would not be willing to follow himself. Every self-respecting Northman was expected to lead in person one way or another.

"So, Thoros," Benjen grunted, waving a rolled-up scroll like a bludgeon. "I have a raven from Cotter Pyke saying hundreds of red-robed priests have disembarked at Eastwatch and are coming here for some bloody reason."

The raven had arrived this morning, though he was unsure when the priests had arrived, for it was not mentioned in the letter.

"I… haven't been in contact with the Red Temples or other priests of my order in years, lord commander," Thoros shrugged nonchalantly.

The myrish priest was liked well enough amongst the rest of the Brothers, but probably because he drank, ate, and fought beside everyone else. Nobody had heard him preach even once, which must have endeared him to the brothers.

"Other, other," the Mormon's raven cawed, perching himself on Benjen's shoulder. "Fight!"

The Lord Commander fished a kernel of corn from his pocket and fed it to the gluttonous yet too uncannily smart bird.

"That sounds good, but I thought it was rare for a priest to pick up arms and fight."

"Aye, you'd be right," the priest agreed quietly. Now his robes were all black… and again wine-stained. He had managed to talk poor Donal Noye's ear off until the blacksmith forged him a flame-shaped black pin to display his supposed devotion to R'hllor. "But… those trained in the red temples acquire many other abilities, which are not to be underestimated."

"Yet you've never shown anything but your swordskills," Benjen noted. "And the ability to outdrink others twice your size."

Thoros laughed heartily, "I did tell you I am not a good priest."

For the next day, Benjen's mind was weighted by indecision, but he managed to push it down while he dragged himself through all of his duties. Finally, Ronnel Harclay knocked on the solar's door to inform him the red priests were approaching.

Wisps of snow danced in the sky again, yet the yard was filled with clamour; many rangers had gathered by the wooden stairway, and even the recruits had stopped training to look on curiously.

"Back to training," Benjen commanded, and the captains and Thorne finagled their charges to the sparring yard.

The Lord Commander stood atop the stairs and raised his hand. Midnight padded over to his right, and the rangers and stewards quickly arranged themselves behind him in an orderly line.

A long procession of men streamed towards Castle Black; his eyes counted over three hundred. They were not Westerosi men; most had olive complexions like Dornishmen or darker skin nearing soot like Summer Islanders, but there were quite a few pale ones if exotic-looking.

Clad in scale armour and red robes, many held spears with points shaped like writhing flames, and almost all of them had red flames tattooed on their cheeks. At least two dozen priests, all men, walked at the front.

At the head was a monster of a man - half a head taller than Benjen, twice as wide in the shoulders as a normal man and with skin as black as pitch, dressed in scarlet robes embroidered with orange flames.

The bright clothing looked incredibly out of place in the snow and the dark garb of the black brothers, yet the priest did not seem too bothered by the cold.

Like the rest of his face, his had flame tattoos, but instead of a single cheek, the red and orange flames were far more intricate and interwoven on both sides and his forehead. In his hand was an impressive iron staff as tall as he was, with the top shaped like a dragon's head.

The Lord Commander felt all the men behind him tense.

"Welcome to Castle Black," Benjen greeted, his gloved hand resting on Longclaw's hilt. "What brings the red faith to the Wall in such numbers?"

"I am Moqorro of the Black Flame," the massive priest inclined his head, his shaggy mane of white hair rustling in the wind. "The Great Other is stirring again, and we are here to fight against the coming darkness!"

"Slavery is forbidden on the pain of death in Westeros," Benjen motioned to the tattoos emblazoned on the many faces.

"What you see here are now free men coming out of their own will," Moqorro rumbled. He spoke common tongue well; his words had only the barest trace of accent. "The red faith has splintered since the Lord of Light grew silent. Some stubbornly cling to the old ways, but many headed to the Five Forts to assist there. Few have decided to search for Azor Ahai in vain. The rest are headed here. Only we arrived first."

Somehow, Benjen suspected that the mentioned splintering was not as easy or simple as it sounded. Disagreements over godly matters oft ended only with plenty of woe and bloodshed.

"Holy men are not allowed to bear arms in the Seven Kingdoms."

"But black brothers are?" The massive priest tugged on his white beard ponderously. "Fear not. We shall say your vows and don your black cloaks!" 

"Once the oaths were said, you shall be under my command, beholden to the laws of the Realm," Benjen warned. "The Night's Watch does not tolerate disobedience or desertion."

Moqorro laughed hoarsely, "You have fought against the Others, have you not? Struggled against the dark terrors of the Night and even lived to tell the tale. Slain them, even!"

"Aye. What of it?"

"Then we shall follow." The massive priest slammed his staff on the wooden staircase, and a belch of green fire erupted from the dragon-shaped mouth. Then he knelt, and all his followers followed suit in unison, looking like a crimson river amidst the veil of white snow covering the land. "Our only request is to give our vows before the open flames under the night sky."

Could Benjen decline? Did he want to decline? He glanced at Thoros, who seemed stunned still, watching his fellow priests with incomprehension. Many of those before him looked like warriors. The red priests were said to be masters of flame magic, and he wondered what they could concoct if they worked together with the Pyromancers.

A new sub-order of the Watch…

Would the Others show that same fear again?

"Rise," Benjen commanded. "Here, you only kneel before your liege lord and the king. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch holds no land, wears no crowns and wins no glory."