Chapter 17 – The 10th day of June, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest

The Mistress of Whisperers smiled when she heard the knock.

"Enter" she crooned. Ser Clayton Suggs opened the door. The balding knight stood back respectfully as the party was admitted. Melisandre straightened in her chair, even brushing down her red silks a little. She would never let it show, but she had not been so nervous about a meeting in a long time.

Five red priests filed into the room. Only their leader was familiar to her, though it had been half a lifetime since she had last seen him. Over six feet tall, with a belly like a boulder. His skin was black as pitch and a long tangle of white hair grew from head and neck like the mane of a lion. Like his fellows, his face was tattooed with flames, and like her, his garments were a blood red from neck to toe.

"Moqorro" she said pleasantly. "It has been too long."

The man looked around the room. Her quarters in Maegor's was well furnished. A tapestry over the fireplace depicted Valyria before the doom, great towers of stone rising towards the heavens. By the window slit another showed Volantis, complete with an image of the huge red temple from which they had sailed. There were other objects, more curious, printed books and plastic cups and a globe, trinkets from the flying men which she had been collecting with enthusiasm. In the corner a small refrigerator hummed.

"As long as the Lord wills it" he replied in High Valyrian finally, turning back to her.

"Of course." Melisandre agreed. She looked over the party. "You must be weary from such a long journey, or your companions at least. Please, take a seat."

Moqorro looked on the verge of refusing, but after a moment's hesitation he sat in the offered chair opposite her. The other four took their places around him, subservient. These looked to be younger men, regular men, where she and Moqorro stood alone. Rarer creatures, ones fortunate enough to have been touched by the lord, and now blessedly sustained by his embrace.

"Benerro sent us to investigate the truth surrounding the Lord's Ring. We are anything but weary, Melisandre of the Shadow" Moqorro replied.

Melisandre bowed her head. "It is his doing, I am glad Benerro agrees" she said approvingly. "It is perhaps the greatest of his works. Already we knew he had the power to cross the void between life and death, why not the void between worlds as well?"

Moqorro frowned at her. "It is his doing, of that there is no doubt, but to serve what purpose? Ever since its appearance the flames have burned brighter, but the images within…"

"Grow disordered" Melisandre finished for him, gently. "Chaotic and confused."

"Yes" he agreed. "The lord only ever granted us glimpses, but now things grow ever harder. Why? Even Benerro is unsure."

"The greater the Lord's works, the less mortal men can comprehend them" she declared confidently. "But of their overall purpose there can be no doubt. All he does he does to combat the Great Other. His Ring must serve that purpose, and these flying men have a part to play."

Moqorro looked around at the items she had hoarded. The fridge drew particular scrutiny. "They are men of extraordinary power, wherever they have come from."

"Truly" she agreed. "You have seen their machines, no doubt? Yet of some things they remain ignorant. The old powers…fire and blood and shadow. Of these they claim ignorance."

"If the Lord brought them here, then to what purpose?"

"Why, is it not obvious?" Melisandre said. "They have come to grant their gifts to Azor Azai, gifts of steel and lightning, to arm him against the coming darkness."

Moqorro seemed to stiffen slightly. His companions remained silent. "Benerro does not share your opinion" he said. "This king is not Azor Azai."

Melisandre cocked her head, though she kept her face a mask. Do not show doubt. His scepticism was not a surprise, but frustrating nonetheless. "Benerro is wise, but even he can err."

Moqorro frowned, uncertain. "Then how was this king reborn amid salt and smoke? Where is lightbringer? How has he awoken dragons from stone?"

"The king wields lightbringer, the sword of heroes" Melisandre countered. "He drew it from the flames on Dragonstone, as the red star bled, and now he rides about in a steel dragon of his own."

Moqorro was shaking his head. "I have heard of this glowing sword. The Westerosi I have talked to seem suitably impressed, but that just shows their ignorance. It is but a blade of ordinary steel. You have glamoured it, as any amateur mage in the Free Cities could have…Dragonstone? The name fits, perhaps, or else it is just coincidence, and you think these flying machines are referenced by prophecy? The First Sealord of Braavos has one, and now the Prince of Pentos and others as well. Are they all Azor Ahai?"

"The king had the first, you will note, and by welcoming the flying men Stannis has allowed these machines to spread across the world. He awoke them all, and none of those others have been reborn amid salt and smoke. Only Stannis fits the prophecy."

"Because you have arranged it so" Moqorro said.

"What is the point of prophecy, if is cannot be fulfilled?" Melisandre countered. "If what is to happen is to happen anyway, then what purpose do the flames serve? All our efforts would come to nought. The Lord shares glimpses with us, so that we may bring about the fulfillment his plan, not sit back as mere spectators. Do you mean to simply watch and wait another thousand years for Azor Ahai to emerge?"

"It is just this talk that saw you driven from Volantis" Moqorro declared. "Your impatience has blossomed into arrogance. Thousands of years have past, and thousands more may yet, before darkness once again falls over the world. There is still no reason to believe Azor Ahai will be born in our lifetime, even if one should be so greedy as to live several…"

"No reason?" Melisandre asked, ignoring the jibe. Moqorro looked at her, saying nothing. "If you are so sceptical, by all means board your ship and return to Volantis. Where Thoros failed, I have succeeded. So many converts have become difficult to manage, but manage I shall, even without your help."

"Your success in converting so many…it is to be praised" Moqorro said cautiously. "Long have our efforts on this side of the Narrow Sea proven futile. But you have done so by proclaiming that of which you have no proof. What happens when your claims do not eventuate?"

"But I am not wrong" Melisandre said confidently. She gave Moqorro a look of her own, then with all the elegance she could muster rose from her chair and walked over to the corner of the room. She opened the bottom door of the fridge, extracting the jar she had placed there. She had moved it from the 'freezer' last night, following the defrosting guidelines so usefully provided in the manual that had accompanied it. Previously she had packed it in ice to preserve it, but the device of the flying men was far more convenient, another blessing of the lord. The other priests' eyes followed her as she returned, placing the jar on the table. The hand was pale and decayed, but still recognisable. Moqorro and his companions stared at it. Nothing happened. Their eyes wandered back to Melisandre, impatient. She frowned, giving the jar a sharp tap.

The hand flickered to life. Its movement was slow, still half frozen, but then the fingers contorted like the legs of a dying spider. Bone and nail scratched against the glass in a way most men would find eerie, but she found almost comforting. Here is our foe she thought. Here is our proof.

Moqorro's eyes widened. One of his companions visibly jerked back in his chair. They beheld the hand in wonder. "How is this possible?" he asked.

"It is possible, because already our foe marshals his forces" she proclaimed dramatically. "You must look to the north, beyond the great wall of ice, where his armies are moving…" she went on at some length about her encounter with the officer of the Night's Watch, leaving out the grislier details, and of the attack months earlier at Castle Black. "Ravens have flown whilst you were sailing. The Lord Commander has grown weary of losing his scouts as of late. Already he has ridden out, an expedition of three hundred men, to combat this menace."

"Three hundred men will not be able to fight the foe" Moqorro protested.

"Of course, but perhaps by their sacrifice we can learn more. In the meantime, Stannis must unite his realm. The Lord is guiding his victories, and I will make sure the whole world sees his glory. Perhaps you do not yet believe him Azor Ahai reborn, but regardless, we must support him in this fight."

The priests opposite still looked uncertain, glancing at their leader. Moqorro gave her a searching look, as if seeking some sign of falsehood. She returned the gaze, red eyes against black. Eventually he broke first, to look back at the twitching hand.

"What of the flying men?" he asked.

"They remain ignorant of this as well" Melisandre said sadly. "The struggles of this world are unknown to them, for all their power. I have dwelt on it often. Possibly, theirs is a world where R'hllor has triumphed, and struck down the Great Other for good, but so long ago even memory of the struggle has faded."

"So this, you have not showed them?" Moqorro asked, gesturing at the twitching hand.

"The Great Other harnesses this power…as does the Lord" she said gently. "They would fear us, perhaps even see us as the enemy, if they knew of our true nature. We cannot afford for them to oppose our efforts. No, when the time is right, when the foe reveals itself to all, we will reveal ourselves as well, then they will have no choice but to fight alongside us…I have seen it" she added quickly.

Moqorro stayed silent for a while. Watching the hand in quiet contemplation. His companions did not say a word, waiting for the decision to be made.

"You must be aware" he said finally "the triarchs of Volantis plot against these flying men, and by extension your king. The masters are in a panic. The Tigers have seized control and are marshalling for war."

"I am aware, of course" Melisandre said. "But these are but petty struggles among men. Should the Great Other triumph, all of us will be reduced to less than the meanest slave. There is no crueller master. Even death will not free us then."

Moqorro looked uncomfortable. She would almost have preferred him shouting and spitting defiance, but she could see doubt seizing hold of him. "Perhaps something does stir to the north" he said eventually. "If what you say is true…We will spread the Lord's word in these lands. It is our duty."

"And Stannis?"

Moqorro shifted in his seat. "The Sunset lands are fractured. It is best if they unite under one king, and one who has embraced the true god…We will pledge our faith in him, so long as he fights this coming darkness. Though should another emerge…a true Azor Ahai…"

Melisandre considered him a moment. Very well, it will have to do. She addressed her brethren as a group. "Then I welcome your support, and hope your faith grows quickly. Do not be ignorant of the dangers here. Our power is growing, and that creates fear. Why, just recently, poor Marenno was torn to pieces…" she said, referring to the red priest who had attended to his modest flock down in Sunspear.

It had been a rocky few months for her crusade. Prince Doran had written his apologies and pledged to prevent further violence in Dorne. Other lords were not so cooperative. Upon the ascension of the new High Septon in Oldtown the local red priests had been expelled at the point of a spear, and their modest temple burned down by the faith. So far only the Gulltown chapter remained untouched. Its priest had declared for Stannis, but also written to her of his nervousness. The Vale lords were a pious sort and the Faith Militant were forming their own branch in the city.

She had not been idle however. The High Septon had his army, and Benerro his Fiery Hand, why shouldn't she recruit her own protectors of the faith? Beric and Thoros had returned to the Riverlands, but Ser Brus Buckler had sworn himself to her as the leader of the King's Flames. Fifty others had joined him so far, including six knights. They guarded her growing congregation in the Red Keep as she led prayers to the nightfire each evening.

Other congregations were forming however, and fresh temples rising to serve them. Along the Street of Silk and the Muddy Way and even Pisswater Bend. The remaining septs in King's Landing were swiftly being burnt and in their place Queen Selyse had commissioned hundreds of builders to erect new houses of worship. She had even been receptive to the notion of building a grand new temple over the ruins of the great sept on Visenya's Hill. Most welcome, a few septons and septas had sworn off their faith completely and agreed to become her acolytes, praying to the glory of R'hllor instead of their false Seven. The city was turning to her, she could feel it. Shock and awe had played their role, but even she could not attend to half a million new converts. All she needed were the priests to attend her swelling congregations.

She smiled sweetly at Moqorro, as Ser Clayton re-emerged to guide the priests to their new quarters. "I hope you are not deterred from your duties, ser" she cautioned. "Many will recoil in fear from the true light of the Lord. Some will refuse. They will resist to their dying breathe…but still we must show them the way."

######

That evening, three hundred miles away…

Qyburn watched in fascination, as the dead man stared down at his dying opponent, the latter still crying out in fear and helpless rage.

Ser Willas Wode had been bedridden for a day and a night, but finally his cries were weakening. His brother was at his side. Before he had been offering words of comfort, but now he just wept silently. It was clear there was nothing to be done. Lord Beric looked down on the pair. There was no smile on his lips, no smug sense of satisfaction, just a cold look, dispassionate, oddly disappointed, like the brothers Wode were naughty children in need of discipline.

"You must embrace him" Thoros, the red priest, declared nearby, as the knight whimpered. "There is still time brother, to find salvation. I daresay I cannot bring you back, but we will burn your body, for fire is the purest of all deaths, and thereafter your spirit will roam free."

More whimpers. At first Ser Vickon had screamed and shouted at him, but now he seemed lost to despair as he watched his brother die. Over the scene, the air was heavy with the scent of burning. The Godswood had been set afire the previous evening. The heart tree was already gone, the other twenty acres now following.

Harrenhal belonged to the Red God now.

Extraordinary Qyburn thought again. The events of the past few weeks…despite the surprises, he felt a certain sense of vindication. Those fools in the Citadel have no idea he thought. The world was far stranger than even he had long suspected.

Lord Bolton's reign over the castle had been swift and bloody. Most of the Lannister soldiers had survived, the highborn taken for ransom, the common man-at-arms pardoned and sent home, after being stripped of their weapons and armour. A handful had refused to bend the knee to the new king, and some wandering crow had already stopped by to escort them to The Wall.

The Brave Companions had not been so fortunate. Where there had been a hundred, maybe a dozen survived. Vargo was dead, as were Urswyck and Utt and all the other lieutenants. The lucky had been slain in battle. A few had still been alive when Lord Bolton began skinning them. Their flayed corpses now decorated the castle walls on either side of the great breach made by the flying men. And they are by far the less frightening omen Qyburn reflected. Try as he might, even the Lord of the Dreadfort could no longer inspire a fraction of the terror that went before this American president. Some men were still afraid to go outside in light of day, for fear that the Stranger's fire would descend on them once more.

Bolton had gone west, leaving a small garrison under a captain named Steelshanks. Lady Whent had only returned to her seat a few days prior. The crown had restored her lands to her after the Lannister occupation, but embracing the new faith seemed to have been a condition of that promise. She had returned all dressed in red, the bats of her house sigil wreathed in flames, escorted by Lord Beric's Red Brotherhood. She had officially approved the burning of the sept, and the Lightning lord's men had already been gathering wood and oil when a party of local knights had turned up.

The standoff had lasted two days, until Beric accepted Ser Willas' offer of single combat to decide the issue. The two men had met in the yard, with hundreds looking on. They had slashed at each other for a good half hour. Lord Beric managed to wound his opponent under the arm, before Ser Willas had found a weak spot and stabbed the lightning lord clean in the chest. The blade had gone straight through the ribcage and almost out the other side. Beric had collapsed and bled out within minutes. The faithful had cheered, offering up thanks to the Warrior and the Father and the Maiden.

Then Thoros had kneeled over his charge, uttered the words…and Beric rose again.

That had been three days ago. Ser Willas had seemed fine at first, but the wound had quickly festered. Maybe the flying men could have saved him, but they were hundreds of miles away, at King's Landing or Riverrun, and the brothers Wode trusted them little more than this new Red God.

Among the onlookers however, most had converted on the spot.

Half of Lady Whent's household knights were dying their coats red, while hedge knights and freeriders from miles around had gathered to swear themselves to Beric and Thoros. Qyburn had no hesitation in joining them. His skills as a healer had saved him so far, but he dared not push his luck. He still wore the plain grey robes of a maester, but had at least found a red woollen scarf to wrap around his neck, a modest sigil of his new faith.

He had little to treat the dying knight. Cups of boiled wine had not stopped the corruption. There was no milk of the poppy available, and now he had only a damp cloth to ease his passing. Qyburn wetted it again, squeezing it carefully and laying it back over the knight's forehead. Ser Willas murmured incoherently. Beside him, Ser Vickon was muttering something that sounded like a prayer.

"There is nothing more to be done for him, my lord" declared Harwin, the Northerner. "Night will be falling soon."

"Aye" Thoros agreed softly, when Beric did not reply. The red priest gave the dying knight one last forlorn look, before turning and leading the group from the room. Qyburn followed in quiet supplication.

Out in the yard, men were piling the last branches onto that evening's nightfire, even as the massive, ruined towers above glimmered orange with the glow of the burning Godswood. Qyburn took a place as close to Lord Beric as he dared. His fascination with the man was already bordering on obsession, he knew, but he simply had to know how such a thing could be done. He had examined the lightning lord's wounds himself. The fresh hole in his chest had already scarred. Why, for such a terrible wound, it had barely even bled. Where once rich red blood had flowed, there was now something of a black ooze. He had taken a sample and held it now in a jar. He was itching to examine it more closely. What properties could such a marvellous substance hold?

As Thoros began to speak, welcoming the lord's embrace and pleading for rescue from the coming darkness, Qyburn looked around for the surviving Brave Companions. Luck, deceit and treachery had all played their part. The Dothraki Iggo and Aqqo had turned on the garrison as it fell, slaying a pair of Serrett knights and presenting their heads as tokens to the Northmen. Togg Joth and a few other Ibbenese had pretended to be simple, and had been put to work burying bodies and other grisly tasks. Timeon the Dornishmen had fallen prostrate before the attackers and pleaded mercy, then claimed he was a bastard of a prominent noble family and could be held for a generous ransom. Qyburn wondered how long it would take for his captors to realize the lie.

Now they stood around the nightfire, mumbling along with Thoros' preaching. Qyburn suspected his own devotion was realer than most. Any god that can resurrect a dead man I have no problems praying to. The red priest told the tale of the long night, of a darkness that would not end until the return of Azor Ahai, wielding Lightbringer, the red sword of heroes. That the virtuous needed to rise up, to burn all false idols, and unite behind the one true king.

Ser Willas died that night, but despite the red priest's urging his body was not given to the flames. In the early hours of the morning Ser Vickon was spotted with a handful of retainers, exiting via a postern gate, his brother's corpse loaded in a wagon. No one stopped them as they fled to the north.

When dawn broke a few hours later, more than two hundred riders had gathered in the yard, all dressed in varying states of red. Qyburn was not the most practiced rider, but he joined them all the same. Before their departure Lady Whent emerged from the Kingspyre tower. She blessed Lord Beric, champion of R'hllor, and prayed him good fortune on his crusade to spread the light of the lord far and wide.

Their preparations complete, the riders followed their leader as he trotted out the main gate, then headed west in a long column. The lands sworn to Harrenhal were broad and green, encompassing most of the God's Eye and stretching as far as the border of the Crownlands well to the south. Hundreds of villages, scores of septs, septries and motherhouses, mills, mines and plantations, pastureland and forest, river and hill, and humble little farms beyond count where the smallfolk toiled away their days.

Soon, all of it would belong to the Red God as well.

Qyburn kicked in his spurs, and despite everything found a smile on his lips.