The castle was in uproar.
Black brothers swarmed the steps and courtyard, chasing vainly after shadows they would never catch. Others were more purposeful, marching from room to room, their eyes dark beneath hooded brows. Melisandre didn't know what they searched for; no one did. The flames would not tell her. Once, a huge watchman, tall and dull, burst into her own chambers. Her door flew open so suddenly that she feared her fire would die. R'hllor shall not abandon me. The man had grunted, then stomped away, and the fire blazed once more.
Out in the yard the freefolk huddled beneath patched quilts, fighting for the meagre warmth that shone from the braziers and torches hanging from the castle walls. It would be bitter cold for them, the priestess reflected, though the Red God protected her from the Other. Where is the nightfire? But for the sparse torches no flames billowed to keep the cold and dark at bay. Her own fire must serve for the time being. Pray that it is enough.
And the boy… Of Jon Snow there was no sign. The Lord Commander was not to be found in his chambers, nor in the mess hall. Her own leal men had searched for him, at her command. So far none had found him, and neither brothers nor wildlings knew where he'd gone or what had befallen him.
The bastard boy had not been seen since his show at the Shield Hall. Melisandre had not been present, no more than Queen Selyse and her men, but she had watched from the flames and the window. The cheer could be heard in Asshai. And yet Snow was a fool, if he had truly meant to lead an army forth to battle. He had forgotten the war; the true war. The enemy was at the Wall, not at Winterfell. She had even warned him of the danger that awaited him. Ice, and daggers in the dark. Blood frozen red and hard. To march south would be to march to his death.
Snow is dead or gone, Melisandre decided. Should she need to know more, R'hllor would have blessed her with a vision in his flames. Of late he had been silent. Many a night Melisandre would squat next to her fireplace, watching the scarlet tongues of flame as they danced over the coals, but no more appeared to greet her. "Daven!" she called. "More coal for the fire." There was no reply. That in itself was strange. The onion knight's son would usually leap at the chance to be of service to her.
Quickly, Melisandre crossed to her door and tried it. She found it locked. By whom? Without fuel her own holy fire would soon perish, and the night would sweep into her chambers.
Her chest lay bolted in the corner, fit between her bed and the rough stone walls. The key, wrought in Asshai, was tucked into her bodice. She gave me a key but no door to open. That was one of the first things the red priests taught them; nothing was ever as it seemed.
She heaved the heavy box onto her bed, taking care not to jolt it. That would not do. Her key, as usual, fit perfectly.
Inside her bottles awaited her, all her powders and poisons and potions. She selected a vial, full of powder thick and red. When she sniffed at it, the scent of blood filled the stuffy room. Satisfied, Melisandre padded to the fireplace and dropped a pinch of ruby spice into the grate. A pinch, never more. Immediately, the flames roared upwards, tall and greedy. That would take her till morning, at least. There was power at the Wall, power old and strong.
The wind outside her window was blowing harder now, as if in answer to her flames. Mel crept closer to the fire once again. Deep in the beating heart of the embers something flickered. The god blesses me. She leaned in, so close that the flames almost licked her face. The flickering stopped, solidified.
A man strode deep inside her nightfire, wreathed in black sticky tendrils. They wrapped about his neck and his chest, his legs and his arms. As he drew his axe and charged into the night they left him, squelching to the ground. The sea was churning, she realised. The figure ran onwards regardless, heedless to the danger that stared at him from the depths. It swallowed him up, a thick ruby tide. A sea of blood.
And then the waves washed over her flames, and they wavered and died. An angel flew above her, a tall figure made of fire whose wings scraped at the sky. As Melisandre watched he tumbled from the clouds and crashed down to the earth. He was only a statue, and shattered on the cold rocks of the earth. A golden crown rolled from his broken body to her feet.
Melisandre stooped to take the crown, but before she could a third man took it and rested it upon his head. Stannis. His face was cold; his eyes iron. Her king drew his sword and its fire lit up the night, and yet she was cold. So very cold. She had never been cold before, not since… What was happening? The night opened beneath her…
"My lady! My lady!" Melisandre woke with a start. Daven knelt over her, a candle in his hand. Ser Lambert Whitewater and Ser Perkin Follard stood behind him, wearing ringmail and anxious glances. "My lady, you must come with us!"
Unsteadily, she climbed to her feet. Daven tried to help her, but she pushed him away. It would not do to show weakness in front of her believers. "Sers." The knights bowed respectfully.
"Lady Melisandre, you must come with us. The tower is not safe." As he spoke, Whitewater glanced uneasily at the door.
"Have you any news of the Lord Commander? What of the rest?"
"He is nowhere to be found, my lady. Still, you must come with us. They'll be here soon."
"Of course. Allow me a moment to—"
An axehead erupted from door, showering splinters over them. "Open up, in the name of the Watch!"
"Wait here, my lady." Follard drew his sword and started forwards, but before he had taken two steps the door flew open, sending him reeling into Lambert's arms. Othel Yarwyck stood in the doorway, a newly-forged axe held tight in his hands. "Which ones are you?" he bellowed, shouldering past Daven.
"We are king's men, and friends to the Night's Watch. You have no reason to harm—"
"I know who you are, witch. What about these three?"
"I have the honour of being Ser Lambert Whitewater, and here is Ser Perkin Follard."
"And him?"
"Daven Seaworth."
The builder considered them. "Good. Come with me."
"To where?"
"Somewhere safe."
"Where is the Lord Commander?" R'hllor might not see fit to tell her, but she needed to know.
"Lord Commander's dead. Buggers killed him. Come with me!"
The boy is dead. "Dead by whose hand?"
"Marsh, Whittlestick… I don't know! There's too many of them. Come with me, or die."
Melisandre glanced back at her chest. "We shall follow you."
"Good." Yarwyck peered around a corner, keeping his axe close. "This way."
Where it had been in chaos before, Castle Black was now eerily quiet; even the courtyard. "Where are the freefolk?"
"Keep moving," was the only reply.
They saw no black brothers on the steps, nor in the winding corridors. The yard was full of mud and trampled straw, yet no wildlings were to be seen. The Other is here. The freefolk had been subjects of Stannis Baratheon and followers of R'hllor; no godly man would wish them harm. And yet there was no sign of them.
Lights flickered in the windows of the Shield Hall, mixing with the sound of voices and stamping. Whether the sound was one of agreement or argument Melisandre could not tell. "Keep quiet," hissed Yarwyck.
They made their way towards Hardin's Tower. It, alone of all the buildings that stood sentinel around the yard, showed a wan light through its windows. "There are others up there," he told them. "We'll be safe, so long as we aren't found." The builder seemed unsure of the words he spoke. "Follow me."
Cautiously, Othel swung the door to the tower open. "Othel!" A callow boy stood in the door way, silhouetted by the flickering torchlight. "Come and 'ave a drink!" For a second, Melisandre took him for Snow, but he was shorter and stockier, with brown hair in place of black.
Othel cursed under his breath. "Tim, we can't drink. We have to pass."
"S… Sorry, Othel. 'Ave to guard the door."
"By who's command?"
"Marsh, course. Lord Commander or summit. I think. The others said so."
"Stone, let us pass. Marsh has no right to lead the Night's Watch."
"Who else?" A frothing tankard swung loosely in his grasp. "Old one ran off."
"Jon Snow is dead. I saw it with mine own eyes."
"Come off it, Othel. They—"
"We don't have time for this." Whitewater barged past Othel, sword in hand. "Let us pass, or die defending this god forsaken ruin."
"Sorry, Ser. No—" Lambert's sword flew upwards through the soft leather protecting the boy's belly. With a choked gasp the tankard dropped from his hand; ale washed over Melisandre's feet. "You…"
And then he screamed.
"You fucking fool." Othel Yarwyck pushed past the knight once more. "We're bloody done for, now." Whitewater was struggling to pull his sword from Tim Stone's entrails, which squelched sadly. His blood mingled with the ale. "Leave your sword. Run!"
Melisandre stepped gingerly over the corpse on the steps. His eyes looked skywards, unseeing. They were a startling blue. In death, the boy almost smiled. "Come on!" Men were scrambling from the Shield Hall, swords and shields at the ready.
They hurried up the slick stone steps leading up the tower, the two knights, the boy and the builder. No more black brothers assailed them, but the thunder of footsteps followed them higher and higher up the tower. "This one!" Othel pushed open a thick oaken door, and held it open for them.
Inside Val awaited them, with thick golden hair and thicker lips. She wore white, only white, like the snow swirling in through the window. Her eyes were a pale blue. She was a pretty maid, as Daven oft reminded her, but cold as well. Like ice. A baby gurgled in her arms, wrapped tightly in swaddling clothes. Val smiled as they entered. "Lord Crow send you? If he's to steal me he's to do it himself."
"We did not come to steal you, my lady," gasped Othel. "And the Lord Commander didn't send us either."
"I am but a prisoner, lonely in my little tower." The princess seemed amused. "I can't help you with—"
"We do need your help, princess. Lord Snow is dead." For an instant, Val did not move… And then, quite suddenly, she passed her babe to Melisandre. "Hold him. You won't be much use otherwise." From nowhere, a bone knife appeared in her hand. "Block the door," she commanded. The men hastened to obey. "How many are there?"
Too many. "The fires have told me naught."
"Gone blind, have you?" Someone was banging on the door, yelling at them to open. Val crossed the tiny room and kicked her door in. Howls rang down the stairs, fainter every time, until the princess closed the door again and muffled the curses. "We'll need every god we can get."
"Of late R'hllor has been silent." The vision she saw in her flames could not come from the God. It was a lie sent by the Other, to dupe her.
She sighed. "For once. How many loyal men have you?"
"I know that neither. Not enough."
"Can you get a message to your southron king?"
"Stannis Baratheon is too far to be of aid. And a message would never reach him in time."
"You can try, at least."
"A raven would never reach him in time, with this storm."
"Storm? You know less than I thought, witch."
Melisandre glanced at the babe in her arms. "There is power in king's blood."
"Less than you think."
"It may be our only hope." There were more men at the door, screaming and shouting.
"I will not allow it."
"R'hllor is life and flame. No servant of the god shall wait patiently for their death."
Val paused, a bow in her hand. Where it had come from Melisandre did not know. "We wait. We wait and we fight."
Next up: Samwell