Arya

It was snowing the morning Jon came home.

The sky was grey, like the Stark colors, and Arya watched her breath billow out in front of her as she stood in the courtyard of Winterfell. Jon was coming home. It was no longer some far off concept, an abstract wish or hope, but an inevitability. The party was due to arrive in only a matter of moments, Jon with the Dragon Queen, the Imp and all her men.

It had been seven years since Arya last laid eyes on her favorite brother. She wondered if he would even recognize her – the last time Jon saw her she was eleven, a skinny little thing with two braids, scabby knees and a tomboyish streak. Though she was still quite short and slim, and her hair was almost back to its old length, her skill with a blade would surely take him by surprise. He was the one who gave me Needle, the last time I saw him…

In the years since she left Winterfell, Jon was the one she missed the most. She and Sansa had nothing in common and Arya had thought her sister wouldn't miss her at all. She'd worried that her family resented her for not acting like a proper lady, that she'd only be a hindrance to them. She'd felt like an outsider in her family, but Jon – Jon was an outsider too. He was the one who always understood her, who accepted her for who she was.

Sansa appeared by her side then, looking like a proper northern lady in a dress with a direwolf sewn on the front. Her red hair burnt bright against the darkness of the morning. A queen without a crown. "What have you heard about this Dragon Queen?"

Arya shrugged. "She birthed dragons for the first time in hundreds of years, freed the Unsullied, united the Dothraki…They say she is a great liberator."

"She's a conqueror." Sansa said. "That's what Targaryens are."

"Targaryens can also be great kings – and even better queens." In truth, Arya thought of Daenerys Targaryen with a degree of fascination. Growing up she had idolized the Targaryen queens of history – Aegon's sisters Visenya and Rhaenys on their dragons, Good Queen Alysanne who believed in equality for women, Rhaenyra the Half-Year Queen who started a war for the crown she'd been denied – and Arya wondered what this beautiful warrior queen would be like. Jon approved of her, and that was enough for Arya. She trusted his judgment and knew he wouldn't align himself with someone if he didn't think it was for the best.

They were interrupted by the sound of Bran's wheelchair, pushed by Samwell Tarly, whose cheeks were flushed from the weight of carrying Bran's chair down the stairs. "Sam," Bran said, before the former Night's Watchman could move away. "When Jon arrives we must speak to him as soon as possible. You'll be ready?"

Sam glanced at Arya and Sansa, his face red, and forced a nod. "Of course. Excuse me." He scurried off without another word, and Arya found it odd - you'd think he'd want to stay and greet Jon, especially since they were supposed to be best friends...

She looked at Bran. "What was that about?"

Bran did not meet her eyes. "You'll see."

She didn't know what that was supposed to mean. Bran had been acting so cryptic since his return to Winterfell, and Arya knew he had to be hiding something. He wasn't the brother she used to know anymore. He was different now – colder, quieter, and more far away now than he was when thousands of leagues separated them.

For a moment, her heart clenched and she wondered if Jon would be different now. If he wouldn't love her anymore. If he would be disappointed in the person she'd become. But she pushed the fear down, down, down, trying to squash it. This was Jon. She couldn't let herself think like that.

"The King in the North has returned!"

As the guard yelled out the gates opened slowly and Arya stood on her tiptoes, aching for a glimpse of Jon. There were men with long braids on horses who had to be Dothraki, stern looking soldiers staring blankly ahead of them who had to be the Unsullied. Then a voice cried out: "Make way for the King in the North!" The crowds parted as a dark horse rode through the clearing, and Arya spotted a familiar head of black curls in the mass. Around her Northerners dropped to their knees, but she felt frozen in place.

He looked older, tired and scarred, but when their matching pairs of grey eyes met, she swore she saw him smile. He disembarked from his horse and began to walk towards her, and Arya peeled away from the line to meet him halfway. She broke into a run and practically launched herself into his awaiting arms. Jon hugged her and kissed the top of her head. "I missed you, little sister. I'm so glad you're safe."

Arya could not remember the last time she cried, but with Jon's arms wrapped around her again after all these years, her eyes welled with tears. "I missed you too, big brother."

Reluctantly they pulled apart, and she saw Jon smile when he spotted the skinny sword at her waist. "You've still got Needle, huh?"

She nodded. "I'm quite good with it now."

"I bet you are. Perhaps we'll spar later."

"I'll go easy on you."

Jon laughed at that, and kissed the top of her head again. She had a feeling he would be in for quite the surprise when he actually saw her in action. He still thinks of me as a little girl playing at war, but I'm not. I haven't been for a long time.

Now, Jon's attention turned to Bran and he went to give their brother a hug. "It's good to see you, brother."

Bran lifted his arms and weakly hugged Jon back. "Welcome home." His voice was devoid of inflection, and to Arya it was almost infuriating. This is the first time he's seen Jon in years. Doesn't he care at all? The Bran she had once known now felt lost to her. She just wanted him to feel something.

Jon moved to greet Sansa with a peck on the cheek, but Arya was distracted when she saw the Dragon Queen disembark from her horse. There were no dragons in sight – though surely they couldn't be far off – but there was no doubt in Arya's mind that the beautiful, silver-haired woman was the Daenerys Targaryen. Dressed in grey and white damask with tall boots and hair tumbling down her shoulders, she walked towards them with all the confidence and grace befitting a queen. Jon extended a gloved hand towards her and pulled her closer to him, so that she was standing directly in front of Arya, Sansa and Bran. "May I present Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. Your Grace, may I present my sister, Lady Sansa Stark…"

Sansa curtsied politely. "A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace."

"…my brother, Lord Brandon Stark…"

Bran bowed his head. "Your Grace."

"…and my other sister, Lady Arya Stark."

Arya met the Dragon Queen's eyes directly, grey meeting violet. The corner of the Targaryen woman's lips turned up into a smile. "Your Grace."

They held each other's stares for a few moments before Daenerys turned away, looking back to Sansa. "Thank you for welcoming us into your home, Lady Stark. Jon has told me so much about each of you." She looked at Jon and that was enough to make him flush pink as a maiden. Not only had the queen addressed him by his first name, but now they could barely meet each other's eyes without blushing. He fancies her, Arya thought. And she may fancy him as well.

Looking at Sansa, Arya could see the same suspicion lurking beneath her tight-lipped smile. "Winterfell welcomes you, Your Grace."

Jon did not let go of the Dragon Queen's arm as they walked inside led by Sansa, Bran following behind them with a servant pushing his wheelchair. Arya hung back a moment, her eyes scanning the Dragon Queen's retinue. She would be lying if she said she was not intrigued by the stories she'd heard of Daenerys Targaryen's adventures in Essos. There were Dothraki bloodriders with arakhs strapped to their hips, Unsullied soldiers in their armor. One man had a bear sigil on his leather that Arya recognized as belonging to House Mormont. Her gaze drifted down the line, but then she did a double take when she caught sight of a certain scarred face. "Hound?"

Sure enough, the man turned to look at her and grunted softly when their eyes met. "Thought I finally shook you when you left me on that mountainside."

Tentatively, Arya walked towards him and started to raise her hand, then dropped it. She didn't know if she wanted to slap him or hug him. "You're not dead."

"I see that." Sandor Clegane retorted with a roll of his eyes. "You're not dead either." He paused, looking at her from head to toe. "How you doing with that damned list of yours? Those poor sons of bitches know what's coming for them?"

Arya shrugged a single shoulder. "Most of them are dead already."

He laughed. "Serves 'em right."

Arya smiled at him, and tilted her head. "…I'm glad you're not dead." She confessed quietly.

The Hound held her gaze for a moment – Arya swore she saw the ghost of a smile on his lips, if only for a moment – and then turned to look over his shoulder. "Brought a surprise for ya." Before she could ask what that meant, he stepped aside and when Arya turned her head, she momentarily forgot how to breathe.

At first she thought her eyes were deceiving her. He was dead – she'd watched him be dragged away from her, mourned for him, and then swore to avenge him. He had to be dead, but yet just a few moments ago she thought the Hound was dead too. Looking at him, she could see differences, proof that he was not a ghost but a living human being, aged and weathered. He'd cut his hair, had a shadow of a beard, and his arms were stronger and more toned. He was alive. Gendry was alive.

But despite all that had changed, when he looked at her he smiled that same stupid smile. "Hello Arry."

Arya opened her mouth, desperately searching for something to say to him, but her words escaped her. So instead she stepped forward –

- and kicked him in the shin.

Gendry yelped and grabbed his leg, while out of the corner of her eye Arya could see the Hound chuckling to himself. "Hey! What was that for?"

She smacked him in the chest with both hands. "That was for trying to join the Brotherhood and leave me, stupid!"

Gendry's expression softened and his eyes met hers. His eyes were so, so blue. "Well, we finally made it to Winterfell. Only took five years."

Arya's heart was pounding in her ears. Now she felt like the stupid one. She didn't lose her composure over a boy – not even a boy who she may have, once upon a time, been infatuated with. "I thought the Red Woman killed you."

"She tried." Gendry said. "But she failed. You don't have to worry about me, Arry. I'm a survivor. I learned that from you."

She couldn't stay mad at Gendry for long - she'd missed him too much. Before he could pause to take a breath, she practically jumped on him, her arms wrapped around his neck as she pulled him towards her into an embrace. After the initial shock wore off, Gendry wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, Arya burying her face into his shoulder and closing her eyes. "Don't ever leave me again."

Gendry's arm tightened around her waist, as if in silent agreement.

Sansa

"The Targaryen girl cannot be trusted."

Yohn Royce's breath was hot in her ear, and Sansa schooled her face into an insincere smile. "The Targaryen girl is very generous to agree to help us with the Night King."

"But my lady," Royce persisted. "The Targaryens! They are madmen! That girl's father killed your lord grandfather and your uncle!"

Sansa's composed expression faltered for a moment as she glared at Lord Royce. The look in her eyes must've been cold as ice, because it effectively silenced him. "You think I don't know that, Lord Royce? I'm not stupid and I don't appreciate you talking to me as if I am. I don't trust the Dragon Queen, but I'm smart enough to know we need her now. The White Walkers are a threat to every man, woman and child who lives, and she's promised to help us defeat them. The Iron Throne can wait until after the Night King is dead."

Lord Royce's face contorted into a grimace. "We don't associate ourselves with madmen in the Vale. Perhaps I'll take the Knights of the Vale and escort them back to safety at the Eyrie."

Sansa glanced around the room. The Dragon Queen was walking through the Great Hall, a man with a bear sigil arm-in-arm with her. Ser Jorah Mormont. Sansa thought. It has to be. There's another reason to regard her with suspicion… She turned back to Royce. "As you wish, my lord. I just advise you to remember that if the Night King marches on Westeros, even the impregnable Eyrie won't be able to stop him. And even if he is defeated without you…well, as you said the Targaryens are known to be unstable. What's to stop Daenerys Targaryen from flying down there on dragonback when she finds out you've abandoned our shared cause?" Sansa smiled at him, showing her teeth. "Enjoy the feast, my lord."

Yohn Royce huffed and climbed down from the dais, muttering something to himself, but even so he took a seat at one of the long tables. Sansa suspected his promise to leave was an empty threat. She turned her attention back to Daenerys Targaryen as she strode through the great hall with Jorah Mormont. The latter had been banished from the North by her father – was this the kind of person the Dragon Queen associated with? Sansa knew Lord Royce had every right to be displeased with the situation, but Sansa couldn't refuse the woman's help – and if that meant biting her tongue and smiling until her face hurt, so be it. She would suffer for the North's benefit.

She watched as a young girl stepped in front of their path, and Sansa had to stifle a giggle as little Lyanna Mormont boldly looked up at her much taller relative. "Cousin, may I have a word?" Ser Jorah bowed his head and whispered something Sansa could not hear, before following Lady Lyanna out of the hall. The Dragon Queen continued on her own, but she was not alone for long – Sansa watched as Jon swiftly excused himself from his conversation with Ser Davos Seaworth and flocked to the Dragon Queen's side. When she saw him, a genuine smile came to her face and Jon threaded his arm through hers, leading her down the rows.

Sansa frowned and picked up her flagon, taking a long sip of wine. Jon is young and unmarried…Daenerys is young and unmarried…Damn Littlefinger, he was dead and she still couldn't get his voice out of her head. And worst of all, she suspected he had been right. The way that Jon was looking at the Dragon Queen was not the look of someone hopeful for a successful alliance. He looked like he wanted to kiss her and marry her and have her babies. Sansa sighed. "Love. It will be the death of us all."

"You always were a smart one."

She turned her head and standing a few feet in front of her was Tyrion Lannister, the Queen's Hand – and Sansa's former husband. "Lord Tyrion," She said. "It's nice to see you again."

"And you, Lady Stark – though I wish we were meeting under better circumstances." He nodded to the empty chair next to her. "May I?"

Sansa glanced back over at her brother and Daenerys Targaryen. She'd saved the head chair for Jon, since he was King in the North, and the chair between herself and Jon for the Dragon Queen out of courtesy – but the two of them were languidly milling about and talking to various members of the Targaryen entourage. It was as if Sansa did not exist. "You may, my lord. I would relish in your company."

The feast began, more wine was poured, and the servants brought out steaming plates of meat. Tyrion Lannister held up his flagon and clinked it against hers. "To the King in the North and the Mother of Dragons."

Sansa grimaced. "Cheers."

The Dragon Queen glided effortlessly from one table to the next, making sure her followers were eating and drinking but taking no refreshment herself. Jon followed her around like a puppy dog and Sansa caught him slide a hand onto her lower back – Daenerys Targaryen shook him off gently and gave him a warning look. Well, at least she has the propriety to be discreet. Sansa thought. Even her full blood siblings seemed to have abandoned her – Bran was nowhere to be found, and Arya had foregone her spot at the high table to chat eagerly with Queen Daenerys. She assaulted the woman with questions about her dragons and her life in Essos, but every once in a while she would cast a wary glance across the room at someone – Sansa couldn't tell who, someone in the queen's party it seemed. Whoever he was, Sansa thought he better cover his neck.

"So Lady Stark," Tyrion said to her, cutting into a piece of meat. "I'm surprised not to see Lord Baelish lurking around here."

"He won't be lurking anywhere from where he is. He's dead."

Tyrion Lannister nearly choked. "Excuse me?"

"He's dead." Sansa repeated, even though she knew he heard her perfectly well the first time. "He was trying to turn me and my sister against each other, just as he had done with my mother and Aunt Lysa. He was a greedy, scheming opportunist with no compassion and no loyalty. People like that will not be tolerated in the North. Not while I rule Winterfell."

Lord Tyrion looked impressed. "Can't say I'm sorry to see him go."

"I don't think anyone is." Sansa cast another glance across the room. Jon had his arm thrown around Arya as Daenerys Targaryen was telling some sort of story – and she was actually smiling. Sansa's stomach churned. "He bent the knee to her."

For once Tyrion Lannister had nothing to say, and that was all the answer she needed.

The servants took away the plates and brought out the sweets. They placed in front of Sansa a tray of lemon cakes, dusted with sugar, but her stomach felt heavy as a rock. "Let me ask you something, Lord Tyrion: I know you're not stupid. In fact, I find you quite smart. What do you see in this Dragon Queen?"

Tyrion paused for a moment. "Lady Sansa…I hope you know that I respect you, and I respect your family. I know that my family has not treated you as you deserve, and I feel guilty for that."

"You shouldn't." Sansa cut in. "You did the best you could. I wouldn't have survived in King's Landing without you."

"Yes, you would have." Tyrion said, his eye glimmering. "My point is, I would not put you in a position if I did not think it best for us all. I know Daenerys Targaryen, better than you. People talk about her like she's larger than life – a dragonrider, a warrior, a conqueror. But I don't like her for any of that. I like her because I think she has a genuine heart. She doesn't judge people based on their lot in life or the status of their birth. Does she have a temper, some impulsive tendencies? Of course – she is the blood of the dragon! But instead of acting on them, like her father would have, she surrounds herself with people who remind her of the bigger picture: freedom for the Seven Kingdoms. Freedom for us all, no matter color, sex or creed. That, Lady Stark, is why I trust the Dragon Queen."

Sansa picked up her cup and took another long sip before answering. "And you think I should trust her as well?"

"I would like it if you would." Lord Tyrion frowned and lowered his voice. "I've heard the stories, about what you've been through since we last saw each other. I am truly, truly sorry. You've endured things which no human should ever have to endure. After everything, I cannot blame you for not trusting anyone."

Sansa smiled, but there was no joy behind it. "I do trust some people. Against my better judgment, Lord Tyrion, I trust you." She plucked a lemon cake from the tray and bit into it. It tasted like nothing. "I'll work with the Dragon Queen, Lord Tyrion. But it's for the North, and my people. It's not for her."

Samwell

"I've brought you some food from the feast."

Sam looked up briefly from the book he was reading about the history of dragonglass as Gilly placed some bread and cheese wrapped in a napkin on the edge of the table. "I'm not hungry."

"Samwell Tarly," Gilly said, her voice dripping with surprise. "Refusing food? Are you ill?"

"I can't eat, Gilly." He said sharply, and he immediately shot her an apologetic look. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just thinking…about Jon."

"What about him?" Gilly asked. She crossed the room to lift Little Sam out of his playpen and picked him up, the toddler burying his face into the crook of her neck.

"You know, about his real parents. Bran wants to tell him tonight. He'll be devastated."

"Why?"

"Because he's so proud to be Ned Stark's son and now, when he finds out the truth about Rhaegar and Lyanna…he'll be so…"

"So what?" Gilly said as she detangled Little Sam's grabby fingers from her hair. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters!" Sam persisted. "Now Ned Stark wasn't his father, just his uncle. And his siblings aren't his siblings, and his life as he knew it will be over…and I have to tell him that Gilly!"

In response, she only huffed indignantly and crossed the room to place Little Sam down on Sam's lap. "I still don't think it matters. Look at Little Sam. Craster sired him, but Craster's not his father – not his real father, anyway. You are. Just like Ned Stark was Jon's father, not Rhaegar. The man who raises you and makes you into who you are should be your father." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Or can you honestly look at Little Sam and tell me you don't love him like he's your son?"

Sam sighed and looked down at the child in his lap, causing Little Sam to smile up at him with a chorus of "Papa, Papa, Papa!" Sam smiled too and ruffled the boy's hair. He couldn't argue with Gilly's logic, but still, this revelation would come with fallout. "I agree with you, but it's more complicated than that. Little Sam's parentage doesn't make him a king."

They were interrupted by a knock, followed by Bran Stark wheeling himself into the room before they could say 'come in'. "Sam, it's time."

He didn't want to have this conversation with Jon, but he had no other choice. With a reluctant sigh, he handed Little Sam back to Gilly and promised her he'd be back later, before pushing Bran out of the room. The feast was ending but he could still hear sounds of laughter and merriment drifting through the halls. Sam picked up Bran's wheelchair and carried him down the stairs. On the bright side, carrying the damned thing was giving him the best exercise he'd had since he left the Wall…

They ran into Jon almost immediately and Sam's heart jumped into his throat. Jon looked relaxed, almost happy, with the Dragon Queen on his one side and his youngest sister on the other. "So," Arya was saying to Queen Daenerys. "What's it like to ride a dragon?"

The Dragon Queen's amethyst eyes sparkled. Sam had heard people describe her as scary, tough, or even mad, but right now she looked so normal, like any other woman: happy, carefree, and flushed from wine and laughter. "It's like nothing else in this world. When you feel that wind in your hair and that magnificent creature under your body, the rest of the world just melts away. It's magic."

"You'll have to excuse my sister's questions." Jon said. He squeezed Arya's shoulder and she playfully swatted his hand away. "Arya would love to ride a dragon."

"Of course I would! Wouldn't you, if you could?"

Oh, Sam thought sardonically. He could…

It was at that moment that Jon spotted them and his eyes lit up. Sam felt like he might be sick. "Sam!" He broke away from the queen and his sister to hug him, and Sam could only weakly squeeze back. "Why didn't you come to dinner? I looked for you. How are you? How are Gilly and Little Sam?"

"They're both well. And I didn't come down because I was, umm…" Sam gulped. "…busy."

"We need to talk to you, Jon." Bran cut in, his voice flat. "It's important."

"Of course." Jon didn't seem to sense the urgency. "I'll come up to your room in a few minutes…"

Bran cut him off. "Jon, it's about your mother."

Immediately, Jon's face visibly paled, and he opened his mouth but no words came out. Sam felt like he might faint. Was this what having a heart attack felt like? The Dragon Queen also looked perplexed, so it was Arya who spoke. "Did you find her?" She asked Bran. "Do you know who she is?"

"Lady Arya," Sam said tentatively. "With all due respect, I think it would be best if we had this conversation with Jon alone…"

Her eyes flared. "Jon wants me here. Right Jon?" When her brother didn't immediately respond in the affirmative, she frowned. "Jon?"

"If Sam thinks it's best that we speak alone, then we'll speak alone." Jon said once he finally found his voice. "I'll find you later, little sister. Enjoy the rest of the feast." Arya still seemed unsure, but she respected Jon's wishes and turned to return to the great hall. The Dragon Queen smiled, tight-lipped.

"I suppose I should take my leave…"

Sam was about to say 'yes', but Bran spoke first. "Actually, Your Grace, you should stay. There is something I need to tell you as well."

Sam's brow furrowed. Something else? Bran hadn't told him anything that Daenerys Targaryen needed to know. This would be a surprise to him as well, it seemed.

Jon placed a hand on Daenerys Targaryen's arm and squeezed gently. "Please, stay." She nodded at him and he let go of her arm to take her hand in his.

Sam felt horrible knowing he was about to shatter both of their worlds.

"My mother." Jon said. "Who is she? Is she alive?" His voice was so full of hope.

Sam wet his lips. "She's not alive." Immediately, he could see Jon deflate. "She died giving birth to you. But she…she wanted you, Jon. She loved you."

Daenerys squeezed Jon's hand, and he took a deep breath. "Do you know her name? What she did, where she was from? Did…did my father love her, care about her, or was she just some…" He trailed off.

Before Sam could speak again, Bran cut him off. "She was no common whore. She was a highborn lady." Sam wanted to be the one who said it – he knew he could break the news more sensitively than Bran could – but he couldn't get the words in fast enough. "Jon, your mother was Lyanna Stark."

The emotions flickered across Jon's face in rapid succession – confusion, bewilderment, sadness, then denial. "No." He said sharply. "No, that can't be…"

"It is." Bran said in a flat voice. "Eddard Stark was not your true father, Jon: he was your uncle. And after your mother died, he took you in and raised you as his own to protect you. He knew that Robert Baratheon would kill you if he found out who you really were. Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon. Your real name is Aegon Targaryen, and you are the rightful king of Westeros."

Jon looked shattered. There was no other way to describe it. The Dragon Queen looked shocked too, her mouth hanging open, and she tried to touch Jon's shoulder but he shook her off, looking directly at Sam. "I need to hear it from you. Tell me it's not true."

Sam gulped. "I can't. He's right, Jon. Rhaegar didn't kidnap Lyanna – they were in love, and they were married. You were never a bastard, Jon. You were their trueborn son."

A veil of silence hung thick and heavy in the air. Jon couldn't meet Sam's eyes and he stared at the floor instead. Slowly, Daenerys murmured his name. "Jon…"

He stepped away from her before she could touch him. "Daenerys, don't."

She looked hurt and confused. "Don't what?"

"I don't want to talk about this. Not now." Sam opened his mouth – he felt like he needed to apologize, or maybe to tell Jon it was all some cruel joke, he would carry this secret with him if it would take away Jon's pain – but Jon only brushed past him as he stormed off, not meeting his eyes.

"Jon, wait!" The Dragon Queen called out, but before she could chase after him Bran reached out and caught her wrist, holding her in place.

"I need to speak with you too."

"Can't it wait?" Daenerys Targaryen said. "I need to go after him, I need to tell him – " She looked over their shoulders but Jon was already gone. In that moment her queenly composure had fallen away and she looked so vulnerable, just a woman desperate to chase after the man she loved…

Bran looked unmoved. "It's about your dragon."

Daenerys Targaryen's violet eyes went wide as they fixated on Bran, and her face turned nearly as white as her hair.

"The Night King has reanimated Viserion. The dead are marching this way."

Melisandre

The boat that carried her down the Rhoyne could only fit two, herself and the man rowing. She couldn't call him a man, in truth, as he looked barely past puberty. There was a tattoo of a wheel upon his cheek that she could see when he turned his head, a mark she recognized and had seen on many other men during her short walk through the city of Volantis.

"How long were you a slave?"

The boy looked surprised by the question. "For as long as I can remember, m'lady. I started driving a hathay when I was eight. Two years ago I was purchased by the Temple. It is because of the one true god, the Lord of Light, that I have been saved."

She smiled and nodded. "The Lord's mercy is great. He saved me too."

"How did you come to become his messenger, m'lady?"

In her mind she could still see it, remember what it was like to be crouched naked in the dirty pen, trembling with fear, the purveyor's voice calling out as she was dragged to the auction block. Melony, Lot Seven. "I was a slave once, too. The Lord of Light freed me from my bondage and now I am his servant, no one else's. He has always had a plan for me, as he has a plan for us all." I owe my life to him. She added silently to herself. And I intend to give it.

When they reached their destination, she exited the boat and crossed the plaza towards the red temple. The temple loomed high and she climbed the great steps one by one, staring up at the massive columns and buttresses that glowed red and gold in the setting sun.

Outside the doors to the temple stood a long row of soldiers, each of them staring blankly ahead. They wore armor painted with flames over their flowing oranges robes and carried in their hands spears that had their points shaved down to look like flames. Tattoos of flames across their faces and cheeks showed their status as Slaves of R'hllor. Two of them silently stepped forward to open the heavy double doors for her.

Inside there were so many candles and fire pits burning that it was impossible to count them all. Her footsteps echoed throughout the room as she walked forward purposefully, past the rows of men in flowing red robes and women in dresses that were the same color as the rubies on their throats.

Kinvara sat on the dais before them all, a great fire roaring before her, and when their eyes met she smiled and stood. "Lady Melisandre," She said in her slow, deliberate voice. "I know you would come. The Lord showed me your voyage in the flames. He has protected you on your journey, I hope?"

Melisandre bowed her head. "Our Lord has been kind to me. I'm afraid I cannot stay long, however – the Lord has shown me my future, and I must return to Westeros as soon as possible."

Kinvara raised an eyebrow. "Then why come here?"

Melisandre turned to address the crowd of red priests and priestesses who were staring at her in confusion. "The Lord of Light has brought me to his champion, Azor Ahai reborn. He has sent me here so that I may call upon the true believers to serve our god's chosen one in his journey."

"His?" Kinvara repeated. "Daenerys Targaryen is the one who was promised. The Lord showed me."

"She has a part to play. As does another – his name is Jon Snow."

"Jon Snow?" someone repeated. A tall, dark-skinned man with a mane of white hair and a large belly stepped forward. "Before you swore that Stannis Baratheon was Azor Ahai. You were wrong then. How can you expect us to believe you now?"

Melisandre turned to address him directly. "I know now, dearest Moqorro, what the Lord has been trying to show me all along. He has given me a vision like no other. I saw a wooden face, corpse white with a thousand red eyes, and a boy with the face of a wolf, servants of the Great Other, our god's enemy of death and cold. I asked the Lord for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, to look into his eyes, and all he showed me was Jon Snow, his face flickering between man and wolf. I saw him clothed in black ice, a flaming sword in his hand." The ruby at her throat glowed bright. "Jon Snow is Azor Ahai reborn, but Daenerys Targaryen has her part to play as well. For theirs is the song of ice and fire."