12 The Red Woman

"Come on, Rhaegal, I know you can do it like your brothers." Twirling the small chunk of horseflesh in her fingers, Daenerys watched the youngest and smallest of her dragon children with a maternal humor. The green dragon didn't have the same stamina as Balerion and Eddaron, both almost ravenous in their appetites - whereas Rhaegal was picky, as if uncomfortable without special care. "Dracarys."

Finally, a small tongue of flame left his mouth and cooked the meat. "There you go, my sweet. Why is it so difficult with you?" she chided. Rhaegal cocked his scaled head to the side, blinking. It caused a laugh to leave Dany's lips. Dragons were mysterious and intelligent creatures, so if there was something fundamental missing in his life then the growing dragon would clearly notice it. However, now fed, he let out a screech and flew into the sky to find his brothers.

"My Queen," entering the tent, Ser Jorah walked straight up to her. Unlike the rest of her subjects, Jorah had earned the right to dispense with the usual protocol of supplication and greeting - while not as elaborate as in Westeros or the city states of Slaver's Bay, the Dothraki did have their customs. "There are a group of visitors that wish to speak to you. Exiles from the homeland."

Now this piqued Dany's interest. "And I take it that you believe I should see them, for if you didn't they would have already been dealt with by either yourself or my Dothraki subordinates." Accustomed to her rapidly growing cunning and leadership, Jorah nodded. "Very well, send them in." After he exited the tent, she sighed. What she would give to just be able to sit and relax with Arya, Rhaegar, and her dragons. The twins had already fed from her an hour before - Daenerys had absolutely forbade any wet nurse being summoned, instead insistent on feeding them herself regardless of whether it was undignified of a noblewoman of her stature - and she missed them something fierce.

But her duty mattered, her commitment to her House mattered. Daenerys Targaryen would rule the Seven Kingdoms once again, as both a Queen and as a mother. She would just have to find the right balance. It was what she wanted. 'It is what Jon would want.' Dany bit back the thoughts of her love, the ever present specter of her dreams. The thoughts would only distract her.

Sitting at the head of the room - where Drogo had once 'held court' in the Dothraki style - Daenerys had timed it perfectly to coincide with Jorah entering with two other men, one old and hardened and the other young, dashing, but no less hardened. "May I present Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," announced the Northern nobleman, standing firm with his hand extended toward her. Daenerys stood magnificent, clad in a azure blue dress from Qarth, gold Dothraki necklaces draped around her neck, and Saracen tied menacingly on her hip. Every inch a queen. "...Rightful Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." The two men knelt before her, bending the knee.

Unlike others who may have enjoyed watching another human being supplicate themselves to her, Daenerys wasn't that sort of ruler. Over-penitence disgusted her, and those that demanded over-penitence disgusted her even more. "Rise and state your names and titles."

The older one rose first, looking Daenerys in the eye but still acting humble - grieved even. "My Lady… I am Ser Barristan Selmy, and this is my nephew Theodosius Caryn."

"My Lady," stated Theodosius, clasping a fisted hand on his chest. "It is an honor."

Daenerys noticed Jorah stiffening. "Do you know this man?"

"Aye, Ser Barristan Selmy is one of the greatest fighters in the Seven Kingdoms, and the commander of Robert Baratheon's Kingsguard." At that, Dany stiffened as well, hand drifting to Saracen.

Taking a step forward, two Dothraki guards drew their swords at Theodosius - but he made no attempt to go further. "Please, Queen Daenerys. We do not come to harm you, but to join you."

"Join me?" She kept her gaze expressionless. 'Having Balerion at my feet would be far more intimidating.' An idea to be reserved for when the black Dragon was further grown. "How would someone, at least in your uncle's case, a noted servant of the Usurper come to the decision to join me?" While skeptical, Dany was also genuinely curious.

Gaunt, as if from seeing a ghost, Barristan approached the throne, next to his nephew. "Robert Baratheon is dead, your Grace. His son, Joffrey, rules on the Iron Throne. He has killed all that stand in his way, and is proving to be a monster. It was then that I knew I had to find you, to seek your forgiveness and do what is right for the realm." Bowing his head, he once again bent the knee. "Allow me to join your Queensguard as I was at the side of your late brother."

Eying him curiously, probingly, Daenerys' mind debated on what to do. Certainly, she could kill him as a Usurper dog. It seemed Jorah was leaning that way. But Jon had always said that a person should conduct himself or herself with honor and mercy - only to resort to brutality when absolutely necessary. 'The Stark way.' Targaryens weren't inherently like that, hence the house motto 'Fire and Blood.'

'The Targaryens were forced from their rightful place thanks to mindless brutality.' Her course was set. Dany would take these two in - for now. Time would tell if they were loyal.

"So Ser Barristan," Dany addressed him. She hadn't quite decided yet whether they would be a permanent fixture to her retinue. That would be fleshed out at a later date. "If you were in my position, what would you do to acquire a significantly powerful infantry force to supplement my Dothraki light cavalry?" Daenerys was humble enough to admit she was no expert in military tactics, and there was no shame in seeking the counsel of someone other than her bloodriders and Ser Jorah. If anything, the wisdom of such an idea would provide further information as to whether to trust him or not. "I may presume that you would not advise basing my army around the sellswords of the Free Cities."

An impressed glance crossed Barristan's eyes. "That is correct, your Grace. Sellswords, even ones such as the Golden Company that can function as a rather impressive standing army, their loyalty is a question mark. If they themselves, or their benefactors, deem they can find a better deal elsewhere, then any patron is out of luck. No, only an army that is loyal will serve your ends." He smiled at her. "And there is only one of that kind in Essos." A finger stabbed at a city on Slaver's Bay, in the center of the map.

Dany blinked. "Astapor?"

It was Theodosius that responded. "Yes, more specifically a slave army renown for its fighting prowess. Their proper High Valyrian name is long and hard to pronounce for a Westerosi…" Ser Jorah chuckled and Dany couldn't help smirking at that. "But they have an informal and far more infamous name - the Unsullied."

"Your Grace, this is a rather… enormous request," coughed Tyrion Lannister. It was only his first week back in King's Landing - the King's Landing now ruled by his nephew - and only his third day as the interim Hand of the King. Already he wished he could pull his own hair out and smash something in frustration. "To issue these many death warrants on issues that do not involve treason?" 'And on innocent children…" While he may have been able to issue the sort of rough discipline that Joffrey needed, his mother refused to meet out, and his father couldn't care less to implement, now that the vicious idiot was the King it was impossible. Tyrion could only obey or by a miracle convince him.

"The Hand speaks truly, Your Grace," Littlefinger added, surprising Tyrion. Coming to King's Landing and finding the snake one of Joffrey's top political advisors had been a shock - but outmaneuvering Stannis Baratheon and saving the King where Cersei could not had been a masterstroke. "There is no purpose in this."

Normally smug and vicious, as he sat at the Small Council table the King seemed ashen. "The King's will is law, therefore the King's will must be done." The words were croaked out.

"But your Grace." Eyes blazing at Tyrion, the dwarf lowered his gaze in supplicance. "Finding all of your fathers… alleged bastards would be an enormous undertaking. How do we even know which ones to find?"

Stuttering, the ancient oaf Pycelle dropped a ledger on the table. "Now excuse me, Lord Hand, but Ned Stark had compiled copious notes built on Jon Arryn's." A hacking cough left his lungs, disgusting Tyrion. 'How that filthy coot is still alive continues to baffle me.' "We will be able to find them easily."

"Then it is settled," boomed Joffrey, ending debate. "The city garrison will find every one of these swine and kill them. Meryn Trant will oversee this." Eyes shifted to the figure standing next to Ser Gregor, both the official bodyguards to the King.

A sick grin spread on his face. "It will be a pleasure, my King."

"I am surrounded by sadistic bastards," Tyrion muttered inaudibly. From how Varys snorted softly, he figured the shifty eunuch must have heard him.

The doors took that moment to swing wide open, a page entering. "Your Grace, there is a visitor for you in the Throne Room needing your audience."

"I thought I wasn't to be disturbed," hissed Joffrey, the page starting to cower. Tyrion sincerely hoped this wouldn't be a repeat of the minstrel debacle.

Deliverance for the hopeless page came in the form of Petyr Baelish. "Apologies, but I was the one that arranged this. These visitors arrived from Dragonstone just two days ago seeking your audience, and I believe that they will prove useful to securing your continued reign." Tyrion joining the others in the retenue to stand and bow as Joffrey rose, they all formed a line behind their sovereign corresponding to their status. While the highest official rank, he was behind both Littlefinger and his sweet sister, each flanking the diminutive King from either side.

"And how is any visitor so crucial to his reign?" Snide came easy to Cersei - having known her all his life, Tyrion should know. While not as smart and far less effective than Littlefinger, at least the Imp could read her. Baelish was as enigmatic as ever. "From Dragonstone no less? Perhaps a last ditch attempt by supporters of Stannis Baratheon…"

"NO!" screamed Joffrey. "He is Stannis the traitor! Even in death, he deserves no titles!"

The retinue was silent, including Tyrion. The lad never would raise his voice at his beloved mother… until now. Had it been any other instance, the look on his sister's face would have sent him into a fit of giggles. "Forgive my, your Grace," she allowed. "Stannis the traitor could have set this up in case of his death."

"I assure you, honored King, I can personally attest to their trustworthiness."

Joffrey pursed his lips. "Uncle, what say you?"

Tyrion blinked. "You have the best of guards, your Grace." He spared a glance at both Trant and Ser Gregor, skin crawling. "I'm sure there is no danger with at least hearing what the visitors have to say. Lord Renly has the city surrounded, and we could use any aid to make your coming victory all the more decisive." Choosing his words carefully, even he could find himself on Joffrey's good side from time to time. From the death stare Cersei gave him, staying on the King's good graces was vital in more than one way.

The King nodded. "Very well."

Two loud horns announced the presence of the King, an idea suggested by Baelish and one Joffrey fell in love with - with everyone in the Throne Room bowing deeply at the booming sound, Tyrion had to admit it was a pretty hefty power trip. Arrogantly draping himself on the Iron Throne, a plush cushion placed on the hard surfaces of the melted swords of Aegon the Conqueror's enemies, Joffrey gestured the gathered persons to stand. "And who do we have today to see me?"

"My King," Littlefinger announced, "May I present to you Melisandre of Assai and Ser Davos Seaworth. They have traveled from Dragonstone, braving vengeful Baratheon loyalists now allied with Renly the Traitor to arrive here." Tyrion's eyes drifted to the two figures. One was a rather hardened sea dog of a man, bald and tough. The other… one of the most striking women he had ever seen, blessed with fiery red tresses and high cheekbones. 'Oh if I wasn't a dwarf.' At least he had Shae. "Please state your business with Joffrey of House Baratheon, First of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Curtsying in her flowing dress, the Lady Melisandre gazed up at the Iron Throne. "Great King, I am honored and humbled to have set my eyes upon the Golden Prince."

A snort left Joffrey's lips. "It may be lost on you, but as all can see I am the King." Derision marred his fair features. "I am a busy man, so be out with what you want or I'll see you hanged."

"Your Grace." Davos knelt, speaking for the first time. His eyes were kept trained on the floor as he addressed his King. "The Lady Melisandre is a powerful priestess, and she seeks to inform you about the Lord of Light." In his mind, he wasn't sure he believed it himself, but the Red Priestess was an enigma. Lord Stannis entrusted him to care for her, and he would do so.

'The Lord of Light?' Tyrion was in mind to chuckle sarcastically. From what he had heard, worshippers of the fringe cult were common in Essos and spreading amongst the smallfolk in Dorne and the Crownlands - all hogwash in his opinion. But what shocked him was how the King immediately sat ramrod straight, eyes widening. It wasn't lost on Littlefinger or Cersei - Pycelle was too bullheaded to notice. "Say your piece, now!" Joffrey demanded.

"There is a prophecy, honored King. One that tells of a Long Night, of one that will rule all that stands before him. Of the return of the great one, the lightbringer." Joffrey visibly stiffened, all color draining from his face. "Stannis Baratheon believed he was the Prince that was promised, or that he would keep guard of the Kingdom for when the Prince arrived."

"Stannis the Traitor was a troubled man with many delusions of grandeur," Cersei dismissed, slightly perturbed that Joffrey hadn't gone into a fit of rage at his uncle's actual name. "The Lord of Light is a myth."

Standing firm, Melisandre did not back down. "I can assure you, the prophecy is real. Stannis was consumed by it, and he set in motion a chain of events before he left Dragonstone that even I cannot control. Only the Great King can stop the coming chaos… the King standing before us."

"Though your devotion to our King is commendable, we cannot spare any time for nonsense…"

"See to it that our guests are treated to the best of accommodations, Lord Baelish," Joffrey ordered, interrupting his mother.

'Well this is interesting.' Tyrion made a mental note to get to know this Melisandre quite well in the future.

It was a small meeting - off the books so to speak. There would be no official records of it. No scribbling into the logs by Castle Black's scribes to immortalize it for future generations of Night's Watchmen. The meeting might as well have not existed, and that was the point. With such a sensitive subject that could result in the worst sort of punishments for the men that sought such a gathering, a need to know basis was enforced to ensure dialogue free from prying eyes. None of that made it any less intimidating for Jon Snow. All the great Watchmen of his day were present.

At the head was Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. Already intimately familiar with Jon, his personal steward, the Old Bear was still pensive and quiet from his experience that fateful night. As if he could never shake a nagging feeling deep inside him. His leadership hadn't slackened, regardless of his newfound tendency to seek solitude in his quarters whenever not needed elsewhere.

First Ranger Qhorin Halfhand, a grizzled veteran of many a ranging expedition. Having enlisted in the Watch at age fifteen, his body was covered in scars from battles against wildlings and fearsome snow creatures. With the disappearance of Benjen - Jon's heart ached for his lost uncle - Qhorin was the perfect choice for First Ranger by Lord Commander Mormont. No other knew as much about the wildling political structure than he, making him a vital addition to the meeting.

Maester Aemon Targaryen, old and frail but with a mind sharper than any within a thousand miles. Formerly the Crown Prince, he relinquished his claim for reasons still unknown to Jon, instead donning the robes of a maester and the black of the Watch. Head filled with knowledge and wisdom, the wealth of millenia dwelt within him.

Alliser Thorne, great warrior as he was… was not present. A deliberate move by Jon and Sam, for he would dismiss their findings without a moment's hesitation. However, he was also their immediate superior. The reason Jon was a steward and not a ranger. Under all vows of a Watchman, to shun your direct superior could be great dishonor. You risked your life doing so.

But this was worth the risk. Jon knew Dany would have made sure he did it. If he was sure of the information's importance, which he was, she wouldn't rest until he made his case. That helped steel his nerves, to an extent.

The Lord Commander broke his silence. "You have requested this meeting, Snow. Tarly. Out with it."

'We have no confidence in Thorne's decisions…' The obvious answer died on Jon's tongue, and Sam was too nervous and meek to vocalize anything. "Lord Commander, we believe the person that attacked both you and myself was not a rogue bandit searching for gold. The conclusion in the official record was incorrect."

The Old Bear raised his eyebrow. "Are you questioning your commander? Ser Alliser prepared the report."

'Yes.' Jon pursed his lips. "No, I am not. I am simply raising a point that his conclusions were based on second-hand observations, and those are more likely to be in error." He had to choose his words very carefully. The three leaned in to listen. "There is no doubt in my mind that the attacker was a weight."

Three pairs of eyes blinked, staring incredulously. "Weights? There haven't been any of those in thousands of years," exclaimed Halfhand. "Most say they're a myth, even."

"What evidence do you have of this conclusion?" asked Maester Aemon, curious.

"Um… we've conducted our own research of the ancient texts," Sam stammered, setting several books on the table. "Based on what Jon Snow has told me of the attacker, his grey skin, death by fire, and glowing ice blue eyes correspond to both the account of Bran the Builder - first Lord Commander of the Night's Watch - and the epic poem by the great bard on the Long Night." He passed around the old manuscripts, laboriously collected. "No one has seen one for millennia, but records of them do exist."

"I know these poems," Aemon recounted. "If this person matches what Snow and the Lord Commander saw, then I would be very worried indeed. A new threat is on the horizon."

Halfhand scoffed. "So a bunch of ancient poems should lead us to believe that we have weights and white walkers beyond the wall. I'm skeptical."

"Once you eliminate the impossible," said Jon in response. "Whatever remains, however improbable, has to be the truth." He noticed Maester Aemon smile in… familial pride? It was the same smile that Robb, Benjen, or his father would give him upon a successful spar. "Lord Commander, you saw this creature. You must know what we say to be true." All was in the hands of the Lord Commander. If Halfhand was skeptical and Aemon slightly supportive, then only the Old Bear could break it in favor or against him and Sam.

Finally, the old commander spoke. "Let us say we believe you, Snow."

"But sir…"

"Quiet, Qhorin. We are being hypothetical at this point. I understand how Alliser wouldn't believe us - his fixation and focus on the Wildling threat is an asset to us, but new threats can faze him." Mormont could criticize, while an underling doing so could destroy them. "But if the attacker is a weight, then why haven't we seen more of them in the last years, hmmm?"

"I would assume that the first persons they would come in contact with would be the Wildlings, sir." Common sense, Jon had found, was sometimes lacking in military command tents - even among the most powerful warriors. "One must see what the Wildlings are doing. Have they made any major changes in their structure? I do know that more and more have began sneaking over the wall to raid the South."

Aemon smacked his gums, looking at the First Ranger. "Qhorin, didn't you tell us that the Wildlings have began gather around Benjen's predecessor, Mance Rayder, as their King?"

"A Wildling King?" Sam looked shocked. "There hasn't been a King north of the wall in recorded history." All glanced at Halfhand.

"The clans started banding together about two years ago. Deep ranging expeditions planned by Benjen Stark and myself couldn't find a location where they are potentially massing, but several villages were found abandoned and we've fought scouting parties made up of warriors from three or four clans - that's how I got this." He pointed to a scar on his cheek. "To tell the truth, that was when Lord Umber at Last Hearth started complaining of increased Wildling raids." It wasn't definitive evidence, but Jon and Sam's theory began to appear less far-fetched than before.

The discussion continued for nearly an hour among the five of them, ranging from expressing the still significant doubts about the worst case scenario of the return of the Long Night to various solutions to fortify the wall. With Robb and the Northern Army essentially camped out in the Riverlands, there was no hope of extra reinforcement. If Mance Rayder or an as yet unconfirmed white walker army tried to break through, all they had was the brothers of the watch.

"Snow," stated the Old Bear, breaking a heated debate between Halfhand and an increasingly resolute Sam. "You saved my life. You sought this meeting. What course of action would you take if you were in my shoes?" The way he said the last few words, to Jon it seemed as if Mormont was considering the possibility as likely.

Taking a deep breath, Jon remained confident and determined. "Someone needs to infiltrate the Wildlings. Find where they are massing and investigate why. If it is white walkers," the execution of the deserter flashed before his eyes, "Then the Wildlings will have the best way to prove that. Any infiltration could be disguised by the simultaneous launching of a massive raiding party on our part," he added. Dany flooding his mind, along with the nightmares of his father's head being cut off by Joffrey the monster, he couldn't stand being out of the action any longer. "If need be, I volunteer to be the infiltrator." All stared at him with wide eyes, as if he was a condemned man.

Stroking his beard, Mormont took his time to respond. "You are certainly your father's son," he said. Suddenly, he laughed. "I like it."

Perhaps he had sealed his death warrant after all.

All was dark in the Lannister military camp, a few drunken soldiers and their exalted shouts carrying over the flickering torchlights. Hood draped over her fiery features, the Lady Melisandre dismounted her horse and tied it to the hitching post next to the massive tent. With merely a raven dispatched and a horse borrowed from Ser Davos, she was confident only the person of her interest would know of her arrival.

'He is not of Kingly blood, but it doesn't matter.' A more… liberal interpretation of the ancient texts had revealed that the ancestors of Kings were sufficiently kingly for her purposes. Melisandre wasn't keen on using Joffrey in the manner she wished, especially due to what she had heard about his 'proclivities.' Her target was far different, and while ruthless, sufficiently noble for her to handle.

"Are you sure about this, Lady Melisandre?" asked her companion, the faithful protector. Ser Davos had taken his oath to Stannis quite seriously. Even after his patron's death he made sure to protect her, whether or not believing same as the deceased Lord of Dragonstone that the Red Priestess was the key to the ultimate victory.

Looking back over her shoulder, she allowed a rare smile. "Keep watch on the horses, Davos. I shall be back soon." With that she flipped open a tent flap and stepped inside.

The figure stood alone, back to her, at a large map table resting in the middle of the tent. In the corner rested an austere cot where the Lord would rest his aging bones. Melisandre spared a quick sweep of the rest of the tent. Aside from a few golden goblets and intricate tapestries depicting the Lannister sigil the entire furnishing pattern was austere. It heartened the Red Priestess, confirming to her that this was the right man. 'So like Lord Baratheon, so unlike the young King.' What had to be done, had to be done however. All for the Promised One.

"Don't think that I don't know of our presence," Tywin Lannister stated flatly. His voice, though hoarse with age, was firm and decisive. "Or of your true nature."

Walking till she was directly across from him, Melisandre ran her hand along the map of southern Westeros. "You are dwarfed by Renly's armies, isn't that correct?"

Eyeing her with narrowed slits, Tywin's innate mistrust was found lacking in observing this woman. "He outnumbers us 80,000 to 40,000, not to mention the 10,000 defending the city itself. Depending on what the Tyrell armies do now that he has married the Rose of Highgarden, we are likely outmatched in the field of battle…" An eyebrow rose. "Unless your Lord chooses to intervene."

A smirk found its way on Melisandre's lips. He was perceptive. "These armies… they're nothing but toys to the Lord of Light." She stepped along the table's edge, closer to Tywin.

"If your Lord truly has power, then perhaps you could tell him to burn our enemies."

"Lord Lannister, I don't tell the Lord anything. I am merely a servant of his will." Only steps away from the tall Lord, she ran her long nails on a stag marker - one that clearly was Renly Baratheon. "I have seen the path to victory, and victory will be yours."

Tywin smiled wanly. "Much as I trust my own military skill, unable it was to prevent my son from falling into the Young Wolf's hands, Renly is loved by his men and is not likely to blunder into harm's way. Defeat his army I may do, but he will live to fight another day - with the numbers to win a protracted war."

Gazing at him with flame in her eyes, Melisandre calmly shrugged off her cloak and opened the robe underneath. Soon she was bare, exposed to the Lord of Casterly Rock. "You are unmarried, Lord Lannister. The father of three. Your prowess is unmatched, and if you give yourself to the Lord of Light, he will see to it that you are given a victory. That your enemies are crushed." Pulling his wide-eyed face to her, ear to her hot mouth, she whispered into the shell. "Your grandson may be on the throne, but you are the true ruler… my King."

Gripping her fiery red locks, Tywin smashed his lips against hers and pinned her to the table. Melisandre smiled.