In the Dark

"In the dark, I am the Knight of Flowers."

George R. R. Martin, A Storm of Swords, Chapter 68, Sansa VI.

The Eyrie

Lysa sat on her throne in the Eyrie, her son, Sweet Robin in her arms, his head buried in her shirt like a small babe, her eyes transfixed on Petyr Baelish as he knelt before her. "I've heard whispers, Petyr," Lysa said, her voice sharp. "King Robert is unwell. I have heard whispers of Joffrey Baratheon's true parentage. What do you know of this?" She leaned forward now, her eyes a question. Petyr's lips curled into a smile, "My lady, I have sources everywhere. And those sources tell me that Joffrey is not the true-born son of Robert Baratheon, but rather a bastard born of incest between his mother and her brother." Lysa's eyes widened in shock. "This is treason, Petyr! We cannot spread such lies without proof." Petyr found it hard to speak with the distraction of Sweet Robin. Sweet Robin was small and sickly and weak, and he still suckled his mother's teats like a babe. The sickening, gentle sucking sounds of his mouth seemed to permeate the air during their conversation. "Ah, but my lady, the proof is there," Petyr said smoothly. "I have letters, witness accounts," he gestured with his hands, "all pointing to the truth of this matter. How is it that he would come to have three golden-haired children? Lysa, think of the power we could have. The North, the Vale, the Stormlands, all could rise up against the Lannister's and their false king."

Dragonstone

The night air was filled with smoke and haze. Melisandre stared deeply into the flames. She stood at the precipice of a large cliff that jutted out from the jagged landscape. The wind whipped her long flaming red hair as she gazed out at the turbulent dark sea below. Waves crashed against the rocks rhythmically as she chanted, throwing herbs and powders from her pouch into the flames. Her crimson-colored robes billowed around her like a sail in a storm. The ruby at her throat glowed like a star in the dim light of the dawn. She had come to this desolate place because she had seen it in a vision. She had whispered her secret prayers, closed her eyes tightly, emptied her mind and allowed the warmth and the heat to fill her. She opened herself to it. The flames whispered to her. They whispered in a chorus that got louder and louder until suddenly a voice broke through the silence. "Lady Melisandre." Davos approached her, his face etched with concern and no small amount of fear. "Lord Davos," she acknowledges the former smuggler, one of Stannis Baratheon's most trusted advisers. "What brings you to this place?" she asked him, the red ruby glowing at her throat now pulsing with a hypnotic rhythm like a heartbeat. "I came to find you, my lady," Davos said simply. His eyes darted nervously around the rocky outcropping like a frightened rat, before resting back on her face. "We need your counsel. Stannis is preparing for war, and we can't do it without your guidance." Melisandre smiled knowingly, "I have seen the flames, Lord Davos. The Lord of Light has revealed to me what must be done. Tell Stannis that he need not fear, for victory is within his reach." Davos bowed his head, "Thank you my lady," he said, concern edged in his voice, "We are all in your debt." Melisandre watched him walk away, her gaze lingering on him. She knew that her words may have given him hope, but prophecy was a fickle thing. The Lord of Light had shown her many visions, but she could never be sure which ones would come to pass. All she could do was put her faith in her god and trust in the power of the light—the power of the flames. She turned back to the fire raging behind her, and began chanting in High Valyrian, her voice rising and falling in a hypnotic cadence. With her words the flames danced, they jumped, they grew brighter and higher. Her chants became more frantic. The fire grew, it swelled, it jumped and danced, and the smoke rose in tendrils making curious shapes against the night. Soon, she began to see visions. She saw a great battle, with armored knights clashing on a blood-soaked field. She saw a castle, frozen, its walls breached, and banners torn down. She saw a girl chased by shadows. She saw a raven with the head of a wolf. and a man, with eyes like emeralds embracing a girl crying tears of blood. She saw a figure looming beyond that was cloaked in shadow. The shadow seemed to be watching her. As she looked towards the shadow, eyes as blue as ice stared back. Melisandre gasped and stumbled backwards. Her heart raced with fear. Once the vision faded, she found herself lying on the cold ground. Her eyes wide, her pupils as black as night. The Lord of Light had revealed something important to her, but she was not sure yet what it meant.

The Eyrie

The sun set over the Vale as Littlefinger made his way up to one of the highest towers in the Eyrie. With careful steps he climbed the steep stairs to the top where a lone figure was waiting for him in the darkness. It was one of his most trusted spies, a young woman, red of hair with sharp gray eyes. She was dressed simply, her small frame swallowed by her simple tunic. He motioned towards her. "I trust that you have news," he said stepping forward. The spy nodded eagerly, "Yes, m' lord. Lord Royce is calling a meeting of the Vale lords. He believes that you are plotting against him and wishes to discuss the matter with the others." Littlefinger watched her face, thinking to himself that Lord Royce was smarter than he appeared. A brilliant smile illuminated his face, but his eyes were hard and impenetrable. "Interesting," he replied, "and what else have you learned?" The spy hesitated a moment before speaking. "I have also heard rumors that Lady Lysa grows increasingly suspicious of your activities m' lord. She asks questions about your plans and—your loyalty to her." Littlefinger's expression darkened. "Is that so? Well, I have work to do," he said, giving her a pouch full of coins. He held out the pouch to her, making sure to emphasize the weight of it in his hand. "Thank you for bringing this information to me my dear. You have served me well." The spy bowed in acknowledgment, and Littlefinger continued his ascent up the stairs. His mind raced. He knew that he could not let Lord Royce or Lady Lysa get in the way of his ambitions. He would have to act quickly and decisively. If he wanted to consolidate power in the Vale, he had to secure his place at Lysa's side. After a long climb up the tower, his legs aching, he emerged onto a small terrace, and stepped out to feel the cool evening air. He smiled to himself. Lysa craves me. It would be a small thing, he thought, to secure her affection. He made up his mind to approach her. Lysa's chamber was opulently adorned with silk drapes, and plush velvet cushions, embroidered with the symbol of her house. In her room, he made himself comfortable, seating himself near her as she sat composing letters at her desk. "Lysa, my dear," he began, his voice as sweet as honey and as smooth as a Dornish red, "I couldn't help but notice how vulnerable you seem without your dear departed Lord Jon Arryn by your side. You must feel quite alone in this world, with no one to turn to for support, or" he drew out the last word, "guidance." Lysa shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her gaze downcast. Littlefinger separated the distance between them, pressing his body closer to her, leaning forwards, his breath hot against her neck, his voice low and soothing, "But fear not," he said, softly stroking her hair. "Fear not my lady, I am here for you. I can provide the stability, the security you need. Both as a friend," and he tilts her face up, cradling her jaw in his hand, lifting her face towards his own, "and as a partner." Lysa Arryn shivered at the touch of his hand. Littlefinger's mouth curved gently in a smile, and he continued, "Together, we can rule the Vale. Imagine the power we could wield together. With you by my side," he continued, "I will be a God among men, and you, my Queen, of love and beauty." He wondered if that last bit was too much, but the softness in her gaze comforted him. She was his as always, he thought. Lysa wanted to believe his words. "Petyr," she looked at him with desperation, "have I not done enough?" Littlefinger knew that he had her now, he only needed to apply a little bit more pressure. Littlefinger knelt before her, looking up into her face, softly caressing her hands, "As for your own, desires," he let the last word linger on his tongue, "my dear Lysa, do not forget that you are a woman of great strength. You were never meant to be content being simply the wife of a lord," he scoffs, "Were you? With me, you can have more." "Petyr," Lysa said with breathy apprehension. Littlefinger took Lysa's hand in his, feeling the warmth of it, and seeing victory just within his grasp.

The Crownlands

The snow drifted lazily down from the gray sky and coated everything in sight with a blanket of white. Jon Snow stood on the ramparts at Winterfell, staring out into the vast expanse of the North. Tyrion felt the cold creeping into his bones. It seeped through the layers of fur, the leather armor. He felt colder than he had ever felt before in his life. In the distance he saw what he thought was swirling snow. The snow seemed to be alive in the distance. The blanket of white seemed to move closer. Seemed to seek them. Seemed to seek their warmth to extinguish it. He was urged to go to the crypts. He could not draw his eyes away from the swirling snow in the darkness. "Was it snow," he thought. But it was moving closer. Soon it seemed to him that the snow was moving with a fluidity that was unnatural. A gust of freezing wind shaped the shadowy formations into something that resembled a human form. Tyrion blinked his eyes, something about the figures in the distance made his skin crawl. He heard Jon calling down to the men below, summoning them to the ramparts. They ran, their boots crunching in the hard snow. Tyrion found himself wandering through the crypts of Winterfell, his torch in hand. The torch flickered and sputtered, casting strange shadows on the wall and the cold musty air filled his lungs. As he walked through the crypts, he noticed a faint blue light coming from one of the tunnels. As he followed the light, he heard something like—chanting. Chanting in High Valyrian. His High Valyrian was not very good, and he could not make out all of what was being said. The closer he got, the colder he felt. The chanting became louder, and louder. And he thought he heard the sound of wings flapping overhead. At first the sound of their wings sounded like distant ruffling. The flock of Ravens drew nearer, their dark wings beating the air , and soon he was overcome by the incessant cawing of Ravens. He was momentarily blinded by a flurry of feathers and then a rather large raven flew close to his face and pecked him in the center of his forehead. "See," it said. "See what? What am I to see?" He shouted out into the darkness. The raven spread its wings, gliding through the air, effortlessly, gracefully. It flew towards him again, and pecked him, in the center of his forehead, saying again, "See." The raven seemed to be beckoning him to follow it. He did. He walked on behind it, his small legs carrying him through the darkness, the torch high above his head. The Raven lead him deeper through the labyrinthine depths of the crypt and past all of the Starks of old. He heard a faint chanting in a tongue that he did not recognize. It sounded like ice—like ice—cracking. The figures were hooded and standing around an effigy of Ned Stark. The air grew colder still. Tyrion's torch blew out then with a strong gust of wind, plunging him into total darkness. "Sansa," he thought. "Where is Sansa?" He called out to her, but there was no response. The footsteps grew louder and more frantic. He heard metal scraping against stone. Suddenly in the distance, he saw the shape of a woman in the dim light. It was Sansa. But she was not the same as he remembered her. Her eyes were empty, the sockets red and raw. Her skin was pale like snow. Her dress was torn and bloody, and her hair a ragged mess. She looked at him with pleading eyes. "Tyrion," she said, her voice a whisper. "Help me." He tried to move towards her, but his feet were frozen to the spot. As she stepped closer to him, her skin began rotting away, revealing the bone and sinew beneath. "You couldn't save me," she said, reaching out towards him, "You couldn't save anyone." "I tried," he pleaded. "I tried," it was a hoarse desperate sound. Behind him he heard metal clashing against metal-followed by metal clashing against stone and the shuffling of feet and he could feel his stomach threatening to empty itself. He was consumed by the darkness. The sounds in the distance grew louder, and closer, and soon he could smell it—a pungent, sickly-sweet odor. His stomach began to churn, and the smell lingered in the air like a thick fog. The smell was—heavy—and it clung to him— a combination of rotten eggs, molded bread, and sour milk—he wanted to wretch. He heard the sound of breathing—ragged—rattling breaths. A hand grabbed him in the darkness. The hand was bony and cold. He tried to pull away, but it gripped the flesh so tightly on his arm that he felt that if he pulled away too hard, his flesh might be ripped away. As he struggled, the hand only tightened its grip on his arm. Behind him a horde of wights emerged from the darkness. A man with a flaming sword stepped forward. The sword glowed with an otherworldly light. But he was in the distance. Tyrion was afraid that the warrior would not reach him in time. The wights were closer now. Their eyes glowed a strange blue in the distance. The hand tightened its grip on his arm. He tried to run. He tried to run as fast as his legs would carry him. He tried to run—but his legs felt like lead, and he stumbled and fell to the ground. When he woke up, he was drenched in sweat. His heart raced. It took him more than a few moments to realize that he was alone and safe in his own bed, in his own chamber—in the Red Keep. It was just a nightmare, he told himself. But the memory of the cold, dead hand, still lingered, and when he lifted the arm of his tunic to look at his arm, there were finger shaped bruises on his skin. Five finger shaped bruises, pink and tender, stood out in stark relief on his skin, and he could not shake the feeling that he was not alone in his rooms.

Sansa and Arya sat together in Sansa's rooms beside a blazing hearth. Lady and Nymeria curled up together by the fire. Septa Mordane, Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel sat in the adjoining rooms finishing up their daily reading. Arya polished her sword. Sansa watched the flames dancing in the hearth. "Littlefinger has fled to the Vale," she thought, that was certain now. She had word from her father's men who had been inquiring into Littlefinger's activities since he left the capitol. Sansa watched as the flames danced in the hearth, and she leaned back against the high backed chair on which she sat, thinking over the remains of the day. She crumpled up the scroll that she held in her hands, and she threw it into the flames with a sizzle, her mind still pondering Littlefinger. Her eyes watched as the crumpled scroll began to burn at the edges, smoke rising from it, and drifting higher in a hypnotic swirl. The smoke seemed to be twisting and writhing into strange and unfamiliar shapes, creating a picture. At first, the images were murky. They were merely flickers of light and shadow. But soon, they began to take on more substance. Pale shapes glided through what looked like a Northern wood. A white shadow stood in the darkness beneath a huge Weirwood tree in the center of a Weirwood forest beyond the wall. She saw dragons flying over the sea towards Westeros. She saw a flayed man with eyes as black as coal and a mouth as red as blood. She saw pale blue eyes, and they saw her. They locked on to her own. Arya found Sansa slumped over in her chair. She called out her name and for a moment, Arya feared the worst. Her sister looked nearly dead as she lay slumped over in her chair like a limp doll, her hair nearly catching aflame in the hearth. Arya noticed with some relief that her sister was breathing. Arya rushed to her side. Septa Mordane went to fetch the Maester, and their Lord Father. Beth and Jeyne stood on in shock, both with tears in their eyes. Septa Mordane would be back soon, Arya hoped. Sansa is not well, Arya thought. She touched her sister's forehead, and it felt hot and clammy and wet. She wet a cloth and began to wipe the cool cloth on her sister's head. Her sisters' eyes were open now, and she was staring, unblinkingly at the ceiling. She heard her sister's voice, and she began chanting, in a language Arya didn't immediately recognize. Arya did not know what to do. Maybe she does have the greensight, she thought. The air in the room felt hot, and thick. It made Arya's skin want to crawl off of her body. She wanted to reach out and shake her sister, to snap her out of the trance that she was in, but she could not bring herself to move. Arya willed herself to move, but she could not, she was frozen, holding her sister in her arms, and watching her chant in a strange language. Her voice was otherworldly and high and strange. The chanting grew louder and louder and more insistent until it was a scream. Her sister screamed, a scream that would chill the blood. And the sound of her own voice, seemed to shake her out of whatever trance she was in. Arya embraced her. She squeezed her so tightly that she was almost afraid that she would break her sister's bones. "Sansa!" Sansa only looked at her, unable to speak. She felt weak and tired. She was confused. She was scared. Arya was standing over her, her eyes wide in fright. "Sansa?" Her voice sounded small. She was shaking with fear. "You were chanting something, in a weird language—it sounded like High Valyrian—do you speak High Valyrian?" Arya looked at her sister with a mixture of concern and fear. Sansa only shook her head, "No." She did not. The vision lingered, etching itself into her like a scar.