Melisandre I

She stared into the flames.

"Speak to me R'hllor. Lord of Light, show me the way," she muttered softly.

The pirate's screams as the flames ate away at his flesh had finally subsided a few minutes before. And still she waited for her Lord to speak to her. As she peered intently into the flames, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh filling her nostrils, the flames appeared to dance before her eyes. She stared deeply into the flames, watching the vision that R'hllor had sent her. A pack of wolves stood clustered before a gate, a white wall behind them. One wolf was black as night and as wild as the sea in a storm. One was grey and dainty but with a core of iron. One was silver and ancient with a wise look in it's eyes. Another was lithe and powerful and seemed to slip in and out of the shadows with a practiced ease. All that she saw in a glance. It was the last wolf that drew her in.

Massive and powerful, it was white as new fallen snow. It moved on silent paws, its jaws uttering not a sound, despite it's lips pulled back in a snarl, its teeth on display for all to see. The silence of the wolf making it all the more menacing. As she watched, the white wolf reared up on its hind legs, standing as tall as a man. And then it turned its head and looked directly at her. Its eyes, as red as burning coals, seemed to bore straight into her. And then the white wolf did make a sound. A single huff, barely audible to her. But the wolves heard. And the wolves turned and began to circle around her. Each wolf growling deep within it's chest, the individual growls combining until they made but a single sound. The last thing she saw was the wolves lunging at her, faster than any viper, jaws open and ready to tear into her flesh.

With an explosion of sparks, the vision from R'hllor dissolved. There was little that she saw in the flames that could shake Melisandre. Even visions of her own death would not perturb her. When it was time for R'hllor to end her service and call her to him, she would willingly answer his summons. This vision though did disturb her. It was far different from what she had seen before. She had seen the King fighting below The Wall, a great victory. She saw him march on Winterfell. But never had she seen a pack of wolves.

As Melisandre returned to her quarters from the beach at Dragonstone, she pondered what the vision meant. The wolves she was certain meant the Starks with their direwolf banners. But Robb Stark was dead. His brothers were dead. One of his sisters was missing or dead, the other was a hostage in King's Landing. Certainly nowhere near The Wall, which she was sure is what she saw rising behind the wolves. Ahhhh, Robb Stark's other brother. Jon Snow. Jon Snow was a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. That would explain why the vision was of The Wall. Jon Snow was the white wolf. Could this vision perhaps mean that his half siblings were still alive and would one day reunite with him in the North?

But Jon Snow was a bastard. Why was he the leader of the pack? The answer came to her as she sat before the brazier in her quarters. With Brandon and Rickon Stark believed dead, Robb Stark's heir was his sister Sansa. Who had been forcibly married to a Lannister. Robb would be desperate to prevent the Lannisters from ever having a claim on Winterfell. He would have named his brother as his heir. A white wolf leading the pack indeed. Her King needed to know this.

Rising from her seat, Melisandre made her way through the halls and corridors of Dragonstone to the King's chambers. Despite the guard posted at the door, Melisandre eased open the door and slipped inside without even a knock, the only person on Dragonstone to have that privilege. Not even the King's wife could enter his chambers unbidden. The fact that she alone out of all the hundreds in the castle was allowed this boon was a display of her true power and influence.

Melisandre took in the King's chambers with a glance to ensure they were alone. But her gaze lingered on Stannis Baratheon. Stannis was a tall, powerfully built man. The true heir to the Iron Throne and Azor Ahai reborn. He was the man to lead them through the Long Night in the battle against the Great Other. As she walked towards where the King stood, Stannis didn't even acknowledge her presence in the room. Instead he remained motionless, standing by the fire, one hand on the hearth, supporting some of his weight as he stared into the fire, lost in thought.

Reaching the King, she gently touched his shoulder and Stannis finally turned his head to look at her. Looking him in the eye, she said, "My King. I bring news. A false King rises to oppose you."

Stannis turned back to stare into the flames and uttered a single word, "Who?"

"Jon Snow, my King. I have seen it in the flames."

"Jon Snow is a bastard. He has no claim to the North."

"He has the blood of Eddard Stark in his veins, my King. That will be enough for many in the North."

"Use another leech then. The Lord of Light has killed two of my enemies already. What's one more?"

"R'hllor has already provided his proof to you, my King. He will not do so again unless you commit fully to him. More is required."

"Edric..."

"He has King's blood. Already the false kings Robb Stark and Balon Greyjoy are dead. You have seen the power his blood holds. Just a sample and your enemies fall before you."

A long silence fell between, broken only by the sound of Stannis grinding his teeth as he mulled over the implications of what she wished him to do. Finally Stannis told her in a low voice and without turning from the fire, "Make the preparations."

Nodding her head, Melisandre left the King's chambers. She had to prepare not only the pyre, but the boy as well. Behind her, Ser Davos Seaworth knocked and entered the King's chamber. Unseen by her, he left but scant minutes later, his skin white as new fallen snow. On his face played a range of emotions. Chief amongst them anger, fear, concern and finally, resolve. For Melisandre, she had no need to see those things. The flames had already shown her how Ser Davos would react. Her faith in the Lord allowed her to stay above the petty spying and skullduggery of those around her. R'hllor would always show her the truth of matters.

She would prepare the pyre for young Edric this night. And early the next morning, she would spend time with Robert's bastard. Like a sheep led to the slaughter, he would never see the blade coming until it was far too late to stop it. It was a small mercy, but it was a mercy. The lad would not be tortured by thoughts of what awaited him. His blood would be all the more powerful because of it.

_

Marlon I

They had been lucky so far. The Seven Who Are One had blessed their passaged up the White Knife and hidden them from the preying eyes of the Bolton and Ironborn scouts. That fucking traitor Roose Bolton's bastard son held the Dreadfort and he daily sent messages to his cousin demanding the surrender of Hornwood and the submission of House Manderly to the Boltons. Marlon wanted nothing more than to gut the little cunt where he stood. But Wyman was very clear. The mission they were on was not one of conquest. Their mission was far more vital. They were charged with bringing the King to White Harbor so they could properly plan the recapture of the North, the extermination of the fucking Boltons and the breaking of the Lannisters.

Silence, vigilance and lethality were his watchwords. Already they had killed several Ironborn scouts that had come just a little too close to their camp. The Ironborn may be great pirates and rapers, but they were shite at moving through the woods. Each and every one of his Northmen were worth ten of the fuckers. And not one of the Ironborn had uttered a sound as he died, their blood spilled by the blade of a Northerner.

Not that it would have mattered anyway. Between the men his cousin had given him and the men that the Smalljon and Dacey had brought, they had nearly one hundred and fifty men. More than enough to deal with any fucking cunt who got in their way. And no one would get in their way. No one would be allowed to get in their way.

Glancing across the small boat, the moonlight just enough to see by, Marlon saw the Smalljon standing like a statue, arms folded across his massive chest, staring off into the woods along the riverbank. There was a dangerous man. But he couldn't decide who he was more dangerous too at the moment, his enemies or himself? The boat was small enough and the Smalljon loud enough that he had overheard snatches of the conversation between Smalljon and Dacey. The man was beating himself up inside for not being by Robb's side when Robb was killed at The Twins. So far, all of Dacey's attempts to reason with the man had been met with curt refusals and stony silences. And a quiet Umber was a sight to scare any man. For a family known for their boisterousness, his eerie calm and quiet was disconcerting to say the least. He honestly feared that if they were called into battle, Smalljon would go berserk and throw himself into the fight with reckless abandon and get himself killed.

Sighing softly, Marlon resigned himself to the fact that Smalljon's fate was entirely up to him and that nothing he could say or do would change that fact. Idly, he did wonder whether the Greatjon was still alive or not and whether the Smalljon was still the heir or if he was the Lord of Last Hearth now. Knowing his father's reputation, he wouldn't be surprised to learn that he had died fighting. And likely taking twenty men out along with him. That would be like the Greatjon, to go down fighting. Or drinking come to think of it. The man had a thirst on him and a nearly unmatched ability to drink more wine and ale than any three other men combined. A fact that he had proven on several occasions.

As dawn approached, his men nosed the handful of small boats they were traveling in into shore near a stream that offered some concealment. It twisted his gut and filled his mouth with bile to have to sulk about their own lands like some Gods begotten poacher and move only at night. But Wyman was insistent. Stealth was more vital than valor. He had plans to put in motion. Plans that required keeping the Ironborn, the Lannisters and that rigid asshole Stannis in the dark. So they bellied up during the day, moved only at night and slit the throat of anyone they came across. All in all, it was an efficient arrangement.

Days later, as they landed on the far shore of the Long Lake, Marlon found himself eternally grateful of their efficient arrangement. That cunt Ramsey Snow had led a scouting party within five hundred yards of their camp the day before. He still wasn't sure if they had actually been seen or not. Those fucking hounds of his seemed to be on to them at one point. Not that it would have mattered. Snow only had twenty men with him, not nearly enough to take them. But he wouldn't put it past the fucker to have more men hidden just out of sight.

The close call had seemed to light a fire under everyone's arse after that. They were already pushing hard, but now they would move with a speed that would have impressed even Ned had he been there to see it. They would swap horses at every inn and at the Last Hearth before riding hard for Castle Black. It was not a ride he was looking forward to. His wife had given him a goodly supply of liniment to help with the sores and bruising, but this ride was sure to bring him a great deal of pain.