Book II – Chapter 19: The Breaking of the World

Fires of R'hllor

"You can't be serious!" Stannis exclaimed, folding his arms across his chest, staring at the one called Littlefinger as if he were a piece of manure scraped from the king's boot.

"It would send a powerful message," Baelish countered, lounging in a lavishly carved oaken chair padded with cushions he'd apparently had brought down with him from the Eyrie. A short distance away, chained to the ruined wall of the old inn, were the leaders of the so-called 'rebellion' – Tytos Blackwood, Jason Mallister, Barbara Bracken, and the Warden of the West himself: Tywin Lannister.

A glorious day. The Lord of Light was with them.

Stannis snarled. This was more emotion than Melisandre had ever seen from him. The Lord of Light's chosen was utterly furious. Good. Anger burns all the brighter. Her king would need all his strength to fight the agents of the enemy. Even now, they moved against her, thwarting her plans and escaping her grasp.

Three. Three different reports of Shapechangers in the Riverlands, and Melisandre had witnessed one with her very own eyes. A girl with stringy brown hair controlling a dozen direwolves. Then, her southern host reported a flock of birds coming alive to attack the encampment, two captured spies escaping in the chaos. Now, her forces chased a red-head with another direwolf protecting her – a Stark girl, apparently. House Stark, descendants of Brandon the Betrayer. Of course, they would be servants of the Great Other; their refusal to follow the king made perfect sense in light of such knowledge.

"It is barbaric and sick!" The king rounded on Melisandre, and she kept her face blank and serene when faced with his fury. "You are lucky I don't have you hanged this minute for what you've done. I ordered you not to burn anyone! And now I learn you've been torching entire villages across the Riverlands? How many allies have we lost and alienated because of your actions!?"

"How many more have you gained?" Melisandre said, gliding closer to him, red silk fluttering along the grassy ground. She had taken to going barefoot since arriving on the Westerosi mainland. There was just something about the earth. It hummed to her, whispered to her, in a way she'd never quite experienced before. It was intoxicating. And the further north she journeyed, the stronger the feeling became. It was not nearly as strong as the presence one felt standing at the edge of the Shadow, beyond Asshai. But it was similar enough for Melisandre to recognise the feeling.

Magic. Pure and untainted.

Long had the Shadowbinders in the service of R'hllor hunted for other sources of the magic bestowed upon them by the Lord of Light, yet their many expeditions and conversions had always been for naught. For all their claims of superiority of blood and mind, the Golden Empire of Yi Ti were no mightier than anyone else. The 'great power' their emperor claimed was simply a relic of long-forgotten days. A golden throne that compelled obedience to anyone who sat upon it. Helpful certainly, but only a tool. In Valyria, they had hoped to claim a new well of strength. But by the time the Lord's servants reached the Fourteen Flames, the Doom had come and gone, and the pits beneath the mountains were tainted and accursed.

Could what her people had searched for be hidden here, in this land of heathens? R'hllor had sent her here. Guided her to Stannis, to Azor Ahai Reborn. Melisandre had spent the moon turns since her arrival searching for a hidden purpose behind the prophecy she had been given. For surely, there must be a reason the Lord of Light had chosen to reveal this place to her now. Melisandre believed her prophecy had come to fruition when Stannis claimed his kingship, and the Lord destroyed the petty lords of Westeros with his holy fires. Now… now she wasn't sure. She sensed a greater purpose ahead of her. Shapechangers… Demons inhabiting the forms of men and beast. The Binders of Asshai had driven them from the east a millennia ago. Their presence here, when the earth thrummed with power untapped, was no coincidence.

"It is my work that has united the Kingdoms under your command," Melisandre explained. The king still wore her Lightbringer at his side, pulsing jewel set in the pommel. Good. The weapon had not been easy to craft. Fortunately, the caverns beneath Dragonstone were extensive and screams easy to conceal if you travelled deep enough.

"The Vale of Arryn does fealty to you; the Riverlords pledge themselves in droves. The men of the Narrow Sea are yours, and the city of Maidenpool rises as a new bastion of faith. The Lord of Light is merciful and powerful, and you are His champion. But He requires sacrifice. You did not think your holy work in the Reach has remained concealed through your hands alone, did you? It was the Lord of Light. For every sinner I purified for you, He extended your time under His guiding shadow. There is always a cost, your Grace. Always. Such is the way of things."

The king's anger tempered slightly while Littlefinger rolled his eyes.

"I don't know about magical gods," the slippery man said, "but I can tell you what I've seen, your Grace. The Knights of the Vale are loyal to your cause in a way I had not expected, and with every new house and new land, the greater your army grows. Fear is a weapon. Use it, like you would any other."

"And what does Lord Arryn say our next move should be then?" The king demanded. "I have heard little from him in the past few weeks."

Now it was Melisandre's turn to roll her eyes, though she did it with far more elegance and secrecy than Littlefinger did. The man caught the gesture, though, as she'd known he would. Then he turned back to the king and wove some tale Melisandre didn't bother listening to.

Melisandre was confident that Jon Arryn, Lord Paramount of the West and Head of House Arryn, was long, long dead. Dead by his wife's hand or Baelish's – which were one and the same. Littlefinger was Lord of the Vale in all but name now, for he had young Robin Arryn and his bride to be, the king's daughter, under his thumb in the great fortress of the Eyrie. The 'messages' the king and others had received from the man had been written by Baelish himself.

She didn't particularly care. Arryn had been a threat to her work, his death nothing but an advantage, and Melisandre could easily reveal Littlefinger's treachery when he was of no more use. For now, however, he was useful, unsettling as that reality was.

A simple glance around the banks of the Red Fork and the ruins of the inn revealed why. Hundreds of soldiers in the livery of House Frey of the Crossing rounded up the few surviving Lannister, Blackwood and Bracken troops. At the same time, Melisandre's own men held the perimeter against the expected Lannister counterattack. Only through Littlefinger's bribes and promises had the Knights of the Vale finally gained passage over the Green Fork at the Twins. They'd ridden south with the greatest speed they could muster to reach the ambush site on time, arriving just as Melisandre's own force had – which the king had joined after his own hard ride from Highgarden. And Baelish's network of spies was considerable. Of that, there was no doubt.

"Time passes like the river, your Grace," Melisandre declared, approaching her king and pressing a warm hand to his stern face. "We do not have long before the enemy attacks. If we are to deal a crippling blow to your traitor niece, it must be now."

It was unfortunate the Stark girl had escaped, though Melisandre's forces continued to pursue her rescuers as they fled north. With the Lord of Light's blessing, they would find the girl alive. If she was a Shapechanger, Melisandre could begin a purification rite and bring her back to the Light.

"This is the moment," Melisandre whispered, tinting her words with the sweet essence of power and persuasion. "Pledge yourself to the Lord of Light, and He will favour you. He will bring the Stark girl back, giving you your weapon against the North. And He will continue to shield the Tyrells from your holds in the Reach. Or reject all that He offers and watch His support fade away. You are His Champion, His chosen. He trusts you to choose correctly. Do you not love your people, as He does?"

The king flinched away from her hand, and Melisandre cursed within. She'd made a mistake. He sucked in a heavy breath, and his face returned to stone – fury and anger retreating back into his mind. No! She'd been so close!

"You will end these burnings, or I will have you executed."

Someone had gotten in his head; she could see it in his eyes. But who? A person in Highgarden, one of those pathetic Septons of the Seven? Or, no. Seaworth. Yes, that must be it. That man was nothing but a perpetual thorn in her side. At least he was far away now, unable to corrupt the king any further. And perhaps it was time for Melisandre to take matters into her own hands.

The king turned to Baelish. "Tell Bolton he has our support, but he is to keep the deaths to a minimum. If I learn he has even laid so much as a hand on the youngest Stark, I will descend upon him with all the wrath I possess."

Baelish rose to his feet and bowed low, sweeping his arms out to the side.

"Of course, your Grace." He straightened once more, then looked towards the prisoners. Tywin was staring straight at the former Master of Coin, the fire of hatred burning pure within his eyes. A dull rumbling thrummed through the ground, river water lapping at the banks, and Melisandre furrowed her brow, attention pulled towards the sky. The storm clouds blanketing the continent for the past few days were beginning to churn.

"What will you do with them?" Littlefinger asked, though Melisandre was only half listening now.

"Blackwood, Bracken and Mallister go to the headsman. Their heirs have the choice to bend the knee to me or join them. As for Tywin Lannister…" The king trailed off, following Melisandre's concerned gaze towards the sky. A forked arc of lightning lanced through the clouds, humidity thickening on the air. Hairs at the back of her neck rising on end, Melisandre bent down and pressed a hand to the ground, muttering a prayer to the Lord of Light.

Thu thud. Thu thud.

Something was happening. The power beneath was writhing and twisting, like a river in the throes of a hurricane, being pulled… pulled towards the north.

"What is it? What's happening?" The king demanded, a slight trembling beneath the stern tone of his voice.

"This storm is not natural." Melisandre declared, opening her eyes and staring into the king's face as fear began to gnaw at his carefully controlled visage. "Some force has disturbed the balance of the world."

She rose to her feet, staring in awe as a bolt of lightning struck a tree not a metre away from them. A heaviness grew thick upon the wind, and Melisandre's heart thundered in time with the clouds above. Warmth and power pressed against her skin, pouring into her bones. The strength… it was incredible. Men cried out in fear, horses bolted from their handlers, and the banks of the river began to overflow. And with each moment, fire-filled Melisandre's soul with a blend of euphoria and agony she'd only ever experienced once before.

When she'd stepped into the Shadow and looked upon the Eternal Flame.

BOOOM!

A concussive echoed out across the world, deafening any sound that dared to compete. The above flared with light, and Melisandre, Baelish, and her King watched in abject awe as the golden visage of a man formed in the sky, a great hammer held over his head.

The Hammer of the West. The lost weapon of the dawn... It had been found.

Amidst the chaos and the screaming, earth rolling beneath her feet, Melisandre, Shadowbinder of Asshai, beamed.

Lord of Light, oh creator of the world, deliver us from darkness and fear! Bless me with your holy fire so that I might continue your great work for eternity!

"Do something!" The king shouted, and Melisandre grinned.

Yes. Yes, she could do something.

Melisandre sucked in a long breath, wind whistling past perfect teeth, and she could almost see threads of golden light in the air drawn into her fire-blessed soul. Flames scorching in her veins, energy eddying around her as the man above brought his weapon of light arcing towards the ground, Melisandre thrust her hands to either side, bracing her legs apart, toes digging into the dirt.

"Lord of Light, shield us from your power, for we are but mortal and not fit to stand witness!" Melisandre cried, voice exploding with the fury of the storm itself. A lightning bolt crashed into the ruined inn, splintering the earth and setting the building ablaze

The hammer struck the world, somewhere in the far north, a wave of vibration threw all except Melisandre to their knees, the image vanished, and Melisandre cast a shield spell. A great wall of fire erupted in a circle around the camp, rearing high into the air, climbing, climbing until it formed a perfect dome. The clouds opened, and torrents of rain sleeted down upon them, but her lord's fire burned the deluge to nothing. The rumbling and thunder deafened all, the scent of ash and flame thick as the magic around them.

The ground began to still, the river calmed, and Melisandre held back a deep, throaty moan as the fury of her God roared within. Even as she held her spell, power-draining as quickly as it came, it fused her body and cleansed her very being. The aches in her bones from days riding soothed away, the cut upon her thigh from a knife vanished, and all traces of age – both physical and internal – were banished. The burden of her last hundred years of living, all brushed away. A sweeping and uncontrollable surge of pleasure ripped through her body, and it took all her will not to cry out in ecstasy.

The flames surged as the aftershocks faded, but Melisandre's gaze was fixed on the wall of fire and the images that danced within. Three Dragonlords soaring across green plains, a red-haired man and a golden-haired woman clinging to a shelf of ice. A woman in rags standing before a city of white curtain walls. An archipelago being swallowed by the sea, desperate ships attempting to flee the onslaught. A city of canals and temples sinking beneath the waves as its inhabitants cried out in terror.

The strain finally grew too great, and Melisandre lost her grip on the spell. The wall of flame collapsed apart to ash and smoke. The soft pitter-patter of rain began to fall on her head, by the lightning was gone, the rumbling of the earth reduced back to a tremble, river water sloshing back into its banks. Melisandre had never been so tired in her life.

And everyone was staring at her in divine awe. Even the king. Especially the king.

Regardless of the consequences, who the man who dared wield the power of the gods might be, or what he had intended to do, his actions were going to make Melisandre's task in Westeros much, much easier.

The World of Dreams

"ARYA!"

Arya vanished from Sansa's arms in a puff of snow, a bitter cold wind snatching her sister away and freezing Sansa's arms to the bone. Jon was there a second later, hands flailing through nothing but empty air. The figure in the sky stumbled, and the man in black howled. Eyes wide in panic, he threw his arms above his head as if warding off some danger. Then he too burst into snow and faded away.

Sansa had no idea what was happening… she'd been falling, now she was here. Was she dead? Was this one of the Seven Heavens? But then why was her family here? Who were all these people she didn't know? What was the golden figure? The great hammer came hurtling to the ground, heat prickling and against her skin.

"Where did she go? Somebody tell me what the fuck is going on!?" Jon demanded, the crown of light above his head flaring with power. Everything about this was unreal and unexplainable. The ground was twisting and ripping itself apart; the wind tore at her, trying to pull her away.

Nothing made sense.

But Jon was right there, and if Sansa could not make sense of the world around her, she could only believe the man before her was really her brother.

She grabbed Jon's shoulders and forced him to look her in the eye.

"Listen to me now! Tywin Lannister, Tytos Blackwood, Jason Mallister and Barbara Bracken are all Stannis' prisoners! The Red-Witch is going to burn them alive! The Freys sided with Stannis and let the Knights of the Vale cross the Twins, and the road out of the Neck is being watched!"

The golden hammer struck the world, and a blast wave of snow and ice detonated in the north. A wall of white sped towards them, consuming everything in its path. A great crack split the ground between them, tearing Jon and Sansa apart. Everyone was thrown in different directions, landing on separate islands. Jon maintained his footing barely, staring around him in horror. Then his face hardened, his back straightened, his shoulders broadened.

He became a king.

"Rhae! Daenerys! Storm's End! Find me there!"

Rhae and Daenerys stood on the same island, clutching one another for dear life. A crown of flames danced over the silver-haired woman's head.

"We will! We're coming, Jae! We promise!" Rhaenys screamed.

"Robb! You hang on! You don't give up! Keep fighting!" Jon yelled, but Robb and the Wildling girl, Val, were already drifting away.

"Jon!" Their island crumbled, and they fell into the abyss. Jon turned to Sansa, panic heavy in his eyes.

"Sansa! Find your sister! Help her!"

The wall of white slammed into them, Sansa was blown off her feet…

And she hit the grass in the Riverlands.

She'd never left.

Rain exploded from the sky, crashing down on the entire company as the ground continued to tremble. Riders desperately tried to keep their horses under control as they shrieked at the sound and the rain. Sansa locked eyes with Meera. She alone sat astride a perfectly calm horse. But her face, warped into an expression of awe, spoke the truth.

She had seen, just as Sansa had.

That… that whatever it was…

It was real.

The God's Eye. Arya and Bran were at the God's Eye.

That wasn't far from here.

Sansa glanced to the east as Theon pulled her upright, and she desperately tried to get her pounding heart under control.

"Sansa! Are you okay!?"

"I know where we have to go!" She told him, face breaking into a brilliant smile even as the rain drenched her to the bone.

"I know where Arya and Bran are."

Heads of the Dragon

"AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Daenerys snapped awake, wind billowing all around her as she plummeted from the sky, the ocean below hurtling towards her at high speed. Rhaenys was a little below her, flapping wildly in a vain attempt to balance herself.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!"

Dany quite agreed.

"DROGON!" She screamed, flattening her body out, arms and legs extended in a desperate attempt to control her fall, heart hammering in her throat.

Below, the fleet of House Targaryen blotted out the ocean with hundreds of ships with black sails. Horns were blowing – they'd seen the plummeting Dragonlords.

What… what had happened?

A vision of some sort. She and Rhae had both been pulled into a magical dream. Jae… she'd seen him. Hugged him. It felt… it felt so real.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!

Even as she plummeted to her death, Daenerys could see the wave of vibrations that surged through the ocean, watched as it rocked the entire fleet. In the distance, a wall of storm clouds blotted the entire horizon. Had for days, as a matter of fact. The sailors had been getting nervous about approaching the continent before it broke. But they were still over two weeks from Westerosi shores, and that was only if they weren't delayed passing the now pirate controlled Stepstones.

The ocean drew closer, blood thundering in her ears, head spinning. THIS WAS NOT HOW SHE DIED!

Drogon shot beneath her, and a whoop of relief tore free of Daenerys throat. She grabbed black scales and hugged his warm body as tight as possible as the dragon roared into the sky. She crawled into riding position, whole body trembling with adrenaline, and spotted Rhaenys clinging to Viserion's tail, climbing up the spines.

"Vlah!" Daenerys cried, and Drogon banked just before they hit the ocean surface, soaring above the crystal blue as their speed bled away. She should report to her flagship, tell everyone she was fine… yet she just kept staring at the northern horizon. That hammer… it had ripped apart the world. The little girl torn from the vision. The Others? The monsters of Northern legend? And 'Robb', the man about to die… that had to be Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell and eldest Stark sibling.

It all came crashing down on her, and Daenerys realised in her gut that something catastrophic had happened in Westeros. Something far worse than the Burn.

She couldn't wait two more weeks to reach the mainland.

Rhaenys and Viserion drew up on Daenerys side, but Rhaegal… Rhaegal was flying straight for the wall of clouds as fast as possible. Jaehaerys needed his help.

Daenerys met Rhaenys eyes and shouted over the beating of the dragon's wings and the rushing wind.

"How far to Storm's End?!"

"Maybe a day on dragon back? Weeks with the fleet," Rhaenys answered.

Well, Arianne and the fleet would just have to continue to Sunspear without them.

A Targaryen alone was a terrible thing. Jae had sent Rhaenys to her in Meereen, revealed everything he wanted to do to her, trusted her. Now, she paid that forward.

Daenerys clutched the dragon pendant at her neck.

We're coming, Jaehaerys. We won't let you down.

Avalanche

Robb pulled his head from the snow just in time to watch the golden silhouette of his brother smash the Hammer of Waters into the dense forest to the north.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!

A tremor blasted through the ground, throwing everyone and everything in a random direction. Val crashed into Robb, and they both struck the ground, rolling as the very earth reared up like a panicking horse. Grey Wind howled, thrown in the opposite direction as the Greatjon vanished beneath the earth, and Robb just caught sight of Dacey screeching as she careened into a Wildling tent. The ground beneath the giants crumbled, and they cried out, terror infusing their deep booming voices.

"AVALANCHE!"

A wall of white snow and ice blasted through the Wildling camp, and Robb's vision was consumed by glare and pain as shards of flying snow and ice pummelled him from all directions. The cold was all-consuming, freezing his arms, his legs, his hair. Everything was exposed to the crushing force, then it penetrated his clothes, and the frost burrowed deeper still. He clung desperately to Val, his only source of warmth and heat. She wrapped her arms around his body, burying her head in his chest as Robb pressed his face into her hair, just breathing in the fresh scent of her as his heart thundered as loud as the all-consuming snow.

They didn't scream; there was no point. They just clutched each other in a vice as ice swallowed them from every direction, blanketing the world in white. The ground exploded and shattered, men and women and children shrieked in terror, lightning cracked above, flashes reflecting off the snow. Chaos. Complete and utter chaos.

The debris and snow continued to pile atop their bodies, light growing further and further away. Robb thought he felt the earth beneath them begin to crack and drift, but everything was so cold, and he couldn't move.

Bran…

It was him. He'd done this. To kill the Others…

If… if it worked… if Bran had killed them…

It was worth it. Robb would sacrifice himself to stop those things and protect the North. It's what his father would have done. He could feel Grey Wind a little. He was still out there, trapped beneath something thick but soft. A tent, maybe?

Val's teeth began chattering, and Robb knew he was trembling too, though he was growing numb to the sensation. He just gripped her hand and held to her as tight as he could, as the white turned to dark, the cold pressed ever deeper, and his eyes fluttered shut.

Bolton

Roose Bolton couldn't help the grin that spread across his face as Winterfell faded into sight ahead of his army, two thousand soldiers marching in formation. Pillars of black smoke towered from Wintertown, shrouding the castle of the Starks from the sun as it finally pushed through the storm. No doubt, several lanterns and candles had been knocked over during the earthquake. The White Knife, a river that as far as Roose knew had never flooded before, had surged past its banks, going so far as to drown the Kingsroad under several inches of water. He couldn't imagine how bad the Long Lake Valley must be.

Whatever caused the great thundering quake had been in the far north, exactly where the idiot boy-lord Robb Stark had gone to deal with some upstart Wildling clan. With any luck, he'd get himself ran through by one of his 'Others', or maybe even just fall off the Wall. Roose wouldn't be surprised.

The boy was weak and useless. The opportunity to create a name for himself and enforce his supremacy over the North had been right there for the taking. Instead, he'd whinged about the past, then put the kingdom's fate to a vote. A vote.

Let Robb Stark have fun playing Wildling slayer. Roose would be fighting the real war. And when the snow settled, House Bolton would be Warden of the North. That would teach Stark for thinking he could just stick his head in the snow, like his father.

"Come on," He ordered, and his force started marching towards the heart of the North. After all, a man wasn't much of a lord if he couldn't hold his own keep.

Notes: Bloody hell Melisandre is hard to write. Her mind is just so... warped. And religion=magic! Sigh. It would be so much easier if she was just a firebender.

Hmmm...

One chapter to go! Jaime and Tyene confront Cersei, and Margaery has a date with Checkov's Gun.