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It was a cold night, though the brisk air was not what brought her discomfort. The only source of light was the torches, and soon the pyre would illuminate the night. She had chosen a spot further away, so that she could look down on the scene unfolding. One of Stannis' men dragged the so-called King-Beyond-The-Wall. Though she had never had the pleasure of meeting Mance herself, Jon had told her many a tale of the man.

And the pleading, sniveling man before her now cut a much less impressive figure.

But the more she looked at him, the harder it was for her to see. It seemed her attempts to focus her vision only obscured it. Not many there would know what the Lady Melisandre had done, but she did. This is not Mance, she realized, this is nothing more than an illusion.

The trickery did not matter to the others, and as she looked down on the wildlings gathered, she could not help but pity them. They think they're watching their king burn, and can do nothing. The tales of the ferocious wildlings were shared throughout the North, but they too cut a less than impressive figure.

They were cold and hungry and desperate. And my people, she thought, if they join Stannis. The northerners would not take kindly to their inclusion, but she could not allow for them perish. I will be their champion, she told herself, I will care for them, and save them, and they might come to love me as they do Mance.

But as she watched them burn their weir wood pieces, she realized she was already failing in her endeavour. Though the Old Gods were not her own, they were the Gods of the Starks. Of her husband and her child.

Melisandre is a fool if she thinks they will take so eagerly to the God who burned their king.

People are loyal to tradition. They do not turn their back on their past. And in a place as desolate as beyond the Wall, there must be many who cling to their Gods.

"You mean to stand behind a king who burns his enemies?" Zosa asked, stepping to stand beside her

Stannis would not be her first choice for king, though she would pretend otherwise. But what choice did I have, she reminded herself. No other would have taken her in, or agreed to fight for her child's birthright. She had considered the Dragon Queen in the East, who had so gallantly engaged in a mission to end slavery, but ultimately thought better of it. Even if Daenerys Targaryen did not immediately kill her for being a Stark, she did not seem close to taking back the Iron Throne, and time was not a luxury she was in possession of.

"I do not have the power to stop him," was all the answer she provided, "Not yet anyway."

For though she held no distaste for the king, she would not hesitate to remove him if he presented himself as an obstacle. He may soon regret taking her in, but she would not stand idly by and let him lead the North to ruin.

"You shouldn't have married a king," Zosa said, "You were much happier before."

But before she could reply, the woman had left her side as quietly as she had appeared. There was truth in her words, Layla knew that. But one could not rewrite their past, as much as they may wish to. She had made her choices, and it was up to her to make peace with their consequences.

The fire left behind the stench of burning wood and flesh. And despite Melisandre's words, it did not smell purifying to her. Her attention turned to Jon, who was now making to leave the scene behind. He had disobeyed Stannis by having Mance shot, but he had showed mercy to the man he once called friend.

Mercy, she scoffed, what does Stannis know of mercy. He thinks that justice means only punishment.

Watching Jon leave she wanted nothing more than to follow him, to offer him comfort, to assure him that it was not Mance who burned. But she could not. If Mance lived then it was a part of Melisandre's plans, and she did not want the sorceress to be made aware that she knew of anything she was not supposed. And Jon would surely tell, compelled by honour as he was.

No, she told herself, this will be my secret, I will lock it away with all the others.