SoulMore: Thank you! I hope that you'll continue to like the postings.

I.C.2014: Could not agree with you more.

Kababaka: I'm trying! And I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to pick up where I last left our hero. I want the story to pick up its pace a little—but, dude, do nearly-dead men (and their stories) move slowly. Hopefully, I have written myself out of my last slow chapter, I've got some action planned.

Please let me know what you think-the good, the bad, and the ugly. I love reading your coments/reviews :)

Chapter 4: Slow Fizzle

Her eyes pierced him from across the room. Ser Davos Seaworthy could feel them even through the thick blanket of ale-her gaze chilled him to the bone. Davos had wholly committed himself to one of the oldest, most noble tasks: finding solace at the bottom of a tankard. It seemed the best and only course he could take, stuck as he was in Castle Black. Winter had settled in the North, holding everyone in her icy clutches.

After each cup was emptied of its contents, he did not feel the lightness of heart for which he had set out in search. Instead, the ale sloshed and settled heavily in the pit of his stomach. And, to make matters worse, the priestess's shadow doggedly persisted the corners of his vision. He wanted to leave this place, just as surely as the Stark bastard had crawled from the fire. In his mind, the hall's fire seemed to stir in its hearth, taunting him with its powerful, all-consuming flames.

In his mind's eye, he saw the fearful, twisted face of a little girl in a larger fire, replacing the inert body of Jon Snow; only, in his daydream, nothing was left alive to crawl from the ashes. If the Red Priestess was to be believed, her god was a greedy one who stole too many lives. He knew to his very soul that the princess was no longer of this world, and it broke him. For this, Davos would never forgive Stannis Baratheon. He had always been shrewd, scrupulous, and proud—but his pride had become tragic in the light of his new god's fire.

"What have ye' done to her?" Davos's voice was husky with unshed tears, his eyes still closed to the imagined horrors inflicted on Princess Shireen.

"I was wrong," the woman's confession was ripped out of her quietly, the source of her apparent shame unknown—was it a child's needless murder or the mere fact that she was wrong? A silence that settled over the hall, filled with questions and fear.

I was wrong to think that Stannis Baratheon was the king the Lord of Light wanted," she now looked toward Jon Snow, "that the House Baratheon would remain in its seat of power in Westeros."

"You're mad," Davos told Melisandre, slowly standing to face the depraved woman head on, "Can't ye' see how mad ye' are? Leave this man alone. Leave us all alone and go be with your precious god."

Jon Snow watched carefully, weighing his need for information against his distaste for the Red Priestess Melisandre. Something about her raised his hackles. Fortunately, the boy he held in his arms kept Snow from doing anything rash.

"Mad?"-she squared off, ready to face Davos's challenge—"Did he not crawl from his grave? Did I not kill the pretender, Renley, from leagues away?"

"What do you want from me?" Jon Snow interrupted before either Melisandre or Davos could continue their loud show down. They were only throwing words now, but Jon could feel the tension in the room crackle with pending violence. There had been enough of that in Castle Black.

"The Lord of Light has anointed you in the fire," she proclaimed softly, "you are alive for a reason."

"You said you had nothing to do with it," it being Jon's brush with death and subsequent survival. His heart raced at the mere thought of Melisandre and her Lord meddling with his life.

"I did nothing, but that does not mean the Lord of Light did not spare you—there is power in King's blood."

"Enough with your riddles," Jon was weary, but the weight of his brother's still sleeping form anchored him, "I have no more king's blood than Rickon. We are of the first men, but many Northerners share the same heritage. What does your Lord want from me?"

"You have walked away from your own funeral pyre," she looked at him with curiosity, "and yet you still insist that you are who were raised to be. Tell me, Jon Snow, when were you born?"

Desire and suspicion precariously balanced his thoughts as he stared at the Priestess. The rest of the hall stared at him. Could she really know who his mother was? Could she try to manipulate him, when even his Lord Father had obstinately refused to answer this most important question?

Jon stood slowly, careful not to wake Rickon. He looked to Osha, who was more than ready to leave Castle Black—let alone the great hall. Without so much as a word, both Jon and Osha stepped away from both the table and the Priestess. The Dire wolves rose in unison, flanking their humans. As the small party exited, the hall began to smolder with whispers.