When the Sun Rises in the East
Author's Note: This story takes place shortly after ADwD. And while it is 'technically' going to be a slashfic involving Arya and Dany, I believe one cannot write this world while focusing solely on a handful of characters. So, in summation, this will probably be me trying to finish out the ASOIAF plotline, though some of the paths I think Martin is taking are too long for my tastes so I've altered them, but other than that I try to true to the clues he left. This fic is M rated, since I believe the books are as well and I want the writing to reflect that. Because romance is involved I'm going to go with the HBO series and age everyone three years, making her 12 at the start of the book series and at least 14 when she enters the house of Black and White, since travelling through most of Westeros and sailing across the Narrow Sea can't be done in a matter of months.
Prologue
The red woman watched as the solemn men stood ringed around an oil soaked bier. Despite Lord Snow's preference for the heathen gods of the North, and the Watch's tradition for burying their fallen Commanders in the earth, she was unwilling to take chances where the minions of the Other were concerned. She had prepared the body in the manner taught to her by the Red Temple. When it came time for the final rite, she found herself hesitant and superstitious.
Many myths surrounded the last kiss, most of them relics of ages long past, with heroes rising up from certain death to stave off darkness. She filled her mouth with fire and pressed her lips against his, feeling the cold stillness of them. She exhaled, transmitting the power of red R'hllor into his lifeless corpse. Melisandre found herself holding her breath as she finished, expecting a miracle. A light snow began to fall, as her god answered her with silence.
Bowen Marsh stepped forward into the swirling flakes, clearing his voice as he addressed the huddled brothers.
"He came to us a green boy from Winterfell, wanting to follow in his uncle Benjen's footsteps and become a ranger of the Night's Watch. While he served with us, he became Lord Commander and so much more than he ever dreamed of. His name was Jon Snow, and now his watch is ended."
"And now his watch is ended." The other brothers murmured. Some looked relieved, glad to be rid of the troublesome and possibly traitorous Commander. While those who loved Snow looked on with hard eyes, and nursed grudges in their angry hearts. Melisandre wondered which group was the greater danger.
The mourners looked up suddenly as a flash of dark plumage took wing overhead. Above them, the bird that had belonged to the former Lord Commander circled, cawing "Snow! Jon Snow!"
"I'd mourn too, if I'd lost my personal larder." Quipped Dolorous Edd Tollett, the sour faced brother known for his complaining.
Bowen Marsh took the brand he held in his hand and dipped it into a lit torch. The soaked wrappings flamed to life, and he walked toward the pyre, lowering the brand towards the kindling. The raven took offense to this, swooping down and violently pecking at Marsh's outstretched hand. "End!" It screamed. "Jon Snow!"
Othell Yarwyck stepped in, brushing the furious bird off and snatching Longclaw from a sheath at his hip, he swiped at the air around them, making sure the raven kept its distance.
"And now his watch is ended." Marsh repeated, throwing the torch into the bier and watching it take flame. He held his injured hand tightly as a few errant drops of blood fell to the ground below, freezing as they hit.
The wood caught quickly, and it wasn't long before a thick column of smoke was rising through the falling snow. An unearthly howling split the air, and a sobbing brother bolted through the masses, looking as though he were trying to throw himself onto the flames with his lord. Seized by grief and madness, the brother beat away the burning wood with his bare hands. His tears fell on the scalding ashes, to disappear into a puff of steam.
Edd Tollett and Grenn, the one known as Aurochs, rushed forward to grab him before he grievously injured himself. Together they threw him to the ground, away from the flames, and plunged his hands deep into the freezing snow. Melisandre recognized the one they called Satin, Lord Snow's former steward and squire. His normally glossy hair was tangled and disheveled, and the face of the beautiful boy was blistered and smeared with soot from the fire.
The assembled brothers looked uncomfortable with this display, and a low muttering started among them. Loudest of the voices was the drunken Septon Cellador. "Filthy catamite." He spat.
Othell Yarwyck turned his back to the bonfire as the flames rose higher, shouting down the Septon's accusations. "He is your sworn brother." He turned to the two men helping Satin. "Aurochs, Tollett, have Clydas see to his injuries and bind his hands, he is not to leave his room again this night."
The two men nodded, each placing a shoulder beneath the sobbing Satin's arms. They gingerly lifted him and slowly walked back to the warmth of Castle Black.
Bowen turned and addressed the crowd, "And now, if there are no further interruptions, those who have converted to the Lord of Light have approached me with a wish that the Lady Melisandre speak some words."
The red woman turned toward the flames, her eyes piercing the veil to see the visions R'hllor brought with this fire.
She touched the ruby at her throat. It flared with the power of her god, and the fire burned hotter and brighter in response. Those closest to the flames shied back and covered their faces in fear of being burned. These men knew so little, they should be embracing the flames, for only they could save them from the Long Night and the powers wielded by the Other.
The sun sank below the tall crest of the Wall, plunging the group into the darkness of night. She began her evening prayer. "The night is dark and full of terrors."
"Seven save us!" Burst a voice to her left, startling her.
"Other! It's a wight." Came a different shout. Melisandre turned, confused, in time to see Othell Yarwyck's face freeze into a mask of fear. A figure stepped forth from the flames, charred and smoking. It reached out a hand towards the sword sheathed at Yarwyck's hip. Othell backed away in terror, clamoring for his brothers to come and defend him. The corpse stepped closer, and the burning fingers grazed the smooth stone pommel of Longclaw. Upon touching the hilt, the strength fled the fiery corpse and it toppled to the ground.
Everyone froze, afraid to act. The imminent danger seemed to have passed and no one was issuing orders. Yarwyck started to shout again and Melisandre saw him fling the sword away and into the nearest snow bank. The weapon was hot, and quickly sank deep into the drift. She stepped towards it, curious, and saw that the scabbard had been burned away. The Valyrian steel was afire, the metal burning without being consumed.
The words of the past rang in her ears.
He will be born amidst smoke and salt.
She saw the soot and tears covering the young Steward's face.
I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and R'hllor shows me only Snow.
Had she erred that greatly? Only Stannis had the true blood of the kings running through his veins...
Any cat may stare into a fire and see red mice at play.
Her own words echoed back, haunting her. She remembered the countless number of times she had needed to aid Stannis in his conquest, be it with shadows or glamours, while it had seemed that Jon's conquests had needed no help from her at all.
I've been a fool.
"Stand back." She ordered of the brothers, taking a pinch of powder from within her sleeve and throwing it on the flames. The fire spiked toward the heavens and roared, sending the would be attackers scrambling. She threw herself down near the charred body, needing to know the truth, to see the error of her ways.
"Jon, I am sorry, I could not see before, but my path is clear." Melisandre shook the still body, feeling the residual heat scald her palms.
A moment passed, and nothing happened, and for a brief instant her faith was shaken.
Then a gasp sounded and the corpse's eyes flew open, white pits in a blackened face. The eyes locked with hers, the normal wintry grey of the Starks transmuted into a deep violet. Jon gripped her arm tightly, so much that it pained her.
"She's coming." He whispered.