chapter 47

Sansa was not Arya. She had no desire to be a warrior or water dancer. Sansa watched Arya train with the strange man named Syrio but did little herself. She did allow herself to be taught how to draw a knife and kill with it; the stories from the Tower of the Hand were too vivid and frightening for her to forego learning to defend herself entirely.

They often dined with the Queen, the princess, and Melisandre. The Red Lady, or the Red Witch, as some called her, was much more cordial upon her return to Dragonstone compared to their previous interactions. She regularly attempted to draw Sansa and her sister into conversation. Arya was curt, but her mother and Mordane had taught Sansa better, and she behaved like a proper lady ought. She at least would uphold the honor of the North in a dignified way. Sansa had gotten closer with Arya, and they had resolved much of their earlier childish differences. Her little sister had matured, but in many ways, she was still the same irresponsible, wild child that acted below her station.

The Stark guards shared with her that it was rumored that Melisandre had relied upon visions to guide the King, only for those visions to lead the army into disaster. Fortunately, her father and brothers hadn't been harmed. She prayed regularly for their safe return from the war.

Sansa missed the pageantry of King's Landing, the great knights, the tourney, and all the noble ladies and their court gossip. Dragonstone was a dreary place in comparison. She would even rather be home in Winterfell with her mother. She missed Catelyn, and little Rickon. So much had happened in so little time – perhaps what she missed the most was the security and having her whole family together. Sansa had resigned herself to being apart from her family once she married Joffrey, but now she wasn't marrying him, and she would still be apart from them. It was all so unfair.

Shortly after they received word that their Uncle Edmure had been captured, Melisandre approached Sansa during her sewing. Lady was silent, but her eyes tracked Melisandre's every movement. Sansa could feel a distrust radiate from her direwolf; it was an oddly disquieting feeling, as it felt as if she was in two places at once.

"Lady Sansa, the tides are turning in the war. What would you do to ensure that your family is safe?"

"What can I do?"

"There is much you can do. I had wished to get to you know you and your sister better before asking this of you, but time is short, and soon you will be sent to Winterfell."

"Winterfell? We are going home?" Sansa asked, a sudden hope rising in her chest.

"Yes, child. An opportunity could be lost. The night is dark and full of terrors, if we do not act, it will only grow darker. I ask again, wolf child, what would you give to see your family safe?"

"I would do anything… just, I don't understand – what are you asking?"

"I have gifts given to me by the Lord of Light. With the right sacrifice, I can do great things and strengthen my connection with the God of Flame and Shadow."

Sansa felt uneasy. She was a child of the Seven; this talk of R'hllor always made her squirm. The Old Gods of the North were one thing, but this foreign deity put her teeth on edge.

"Sacrifice?"

"Of blood; you and your sister are descended from the Kings of Winter. There is power in it," Melisandre replied, her red eyes impossible to look away from. "With blood, not enough to kill or permanently harm you, I can do so much more. I can pierce the veil of mystery over the tomorrows to come, and so much more."

Sansa bit her lip and looked around nervously. "If I refuse?"

Melisandre stared at her for several long moments. "You won't. I can see it now – you, willing to give your blood to ensure that your family does not suffer death and torment at the hands of our enemies."

Lady let out a low growl, but Melisandre's eyes did not leave Sansa's.

"The hard part will be convincing your sister, but you are the eldest. Convince her that this needs to be done, and I promise you, your father and brothers will survive the coming battles." Melisandre finally released her eye contact with Sansa. "If you do not succeed, they are certainly doomed, as are we all."

Sansa shivered and felt her body flash from cold to hot. She reached out to Lady for comfort. She couldn't let father and her brothers die, she couldn't.

"I'll do it. I'll convince her, and you can have our… our blood. But you have to promise that Arya will also be safe, not just the others."

"R'hllor himself will guarantee it; you have nothing to fear, child. Now go. It must be done within the next two days, or the chance will be gone."

***

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Margaery Tyrell had taken the news of her father's death as well as could be expected. She was poised around others but allowed herself tears for the typically jovial man who had sired her. Margaery had many fond memories of speaking, laughing, and singing with her father. He would be missed most terribly.

All of Highgarden was in mourning. For their lord, but also for the many others who had died. Cousins, friends, and guards they had known for a lifetime were among the missing and fallen. Not knowing was often an even crueler torment.

Despite her own grief, Margaery did all she could to raise spirits. She met with her cousins, visited the sept, and put on a brave face for all. She wrote letters to her peerage of the confirmed dead, praising their valor and putting her condolences to parchment. In the dark days of grief, a few kind words may lift the pall for a few moments; it wasn't much, but it was all she could do.

After a few days of mourning, Margaery was invited to attend the family meeting with her mother, brother, and grandmother. They were joined by Leonette, her brother's wife, and Ser Vortimer Crane, the master-at-arms in Highgarden.

Willas began the meeting with an acknowledgement of the crushing losses they had all suffered, before turning to what should be done now.

"I have instructed Ser Garlan to take Lannisport immediately and take captive as many Westerlands nobles as he can. The Lannisters have not yet shared what nobles they have taken captive, but surely some have been. There is also the Redwyne twins who are still in that woman's clutches."

Her mother, Alerie, nodded sharply. "Good. Have him destroy the place, burn the docks completely. That will hurt Tywin more than anything else."

"No," Willas responded, "we can always threaten to do that later, but it may be important for our own ends if we can come to an agreement with the Ironborn. I've sent Ser Olymer Tyrell to Pyke. Balon has not replied to any letter; perhaps his pride will be salved by a noble visitor."

Olenna tsked. "You should have spoken with us about this before sending him. Balon is a prickly cur; diplomacy will not work."

Willas shrugged, "Time was short, and I did not wish to disturb your grief. His ways are not ours, but I have given an appropriately flattering request. Praising his efforts at harming the Lannisters and asking to participate in a joint assault, as well as offering him the greater share in the plunder of any combined efforts. The wealth of the Westerlands mines further inland should tempt his greed. If we are working together in ways that enhance his wealth, my hope is that he does not look to strike at the Reach with his raiders."

Margaery saw that her grandmother appeared mollified.

"Not a bad plan, but many hands make the work light. I'd rather be doing something constructive to avenge Loras and Mace."

"Yes, grandmother," her brother replied before moving on to another topic. "We have some reserves that we can use to reinforce Orton Merryweather and the survivors of the battle of Kingspyre. I am loath to commit them. Instead, I have exchanged correspondence with Doran, and we are considering the possibility of having Lord Orton travel south and assist Dorne in subduing the Dornish Marches."

"After what those oily bastards did to your leg?" Alerie replied.

Willas sighed, "Mother, this was an accident. It has been years, and I am on good terms with Oberyn. He meant me no harm. Our two families have a history, but we both fought on the same side during Robert's Rebellion. It is time that we did so again. With the aid of the Dornish spears, we can subdue the south. The morale of my father's former great host must be threadbare. Some victories, with newfound allies, can shore that up and prepare them to fight the Old Lion again."

Olenna nodded. "Yes, this is a good plan, but Doran is tricky. We need more than words in the wind to secure our houses. We must make a match between our houses to ensure our unity."

Margaery blinked; that would certainly mean her. Willas was still unmarried, but a Dornish bride was likely not in the offering. Dorne's succession ruling was different from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Arianne Martell was Doran's eldest child and would rule Dorne. A match between Willas and Arriane could work, but each would want to still retain their seat of power. Margaery was dimly aware that that match had been brought up in the past, but nothing had come of it, and she'd doubted it would be revived.

"Who do you wish me to wed?"

Willas grew slightly uncomfortable. "I am not sure if Oberyn would be a good match for you. He cherishes his dalliances with others and would not give them up."

"If it means strengthening the family, I could bear it," she replied. In truth, Margaery cared little for the ideals of romance and love that her cousins daydreamed about. Marriage was about security and power.

"We can make the offer, but I think his sons may be a better match. Quentyn is the elder and would be the best match. I do not know if Doran had someone else in mind for him." Willas took a sip from his cup and continued, "Not that I would wish Arianne any misfortune, but if she proved infertile, the ruling line of Dorne would flow through you, sister. Unless you have any objections, I would make the offer to match you with Quentyn, then Trystane, then Oberyn."

"I have no objections, brother. Whatever I can do to help our family, I will do it."

Willas smiled at her, "Good. Assuming they accept, we will have you sent to Sunspear for an immediate marriage."

"What, so soon? In the middle of a war?" her mother objected.

Margaery saw her grandmother's face scrunch up in irritation. "Of course we must do it soon; the entire point is to make sure that the Martells are bound to us in some way."

Alerie had never been able to successfully argue against her mother-in-law, so she did not even try. Instead, she just looked with tears in her eyes, "I thought I would have more time with Margaery."

Willas reached out and grasped his mother's hand. "Mother, you should go with her and help plan the wedding arrangements. Getting you away from Highgarden and your grief would be good for you."

The family had reached an agreement, and the offer would go out by raven that very day. Leonette spoke up for the first time, "Willas, you are still without a wife. You are now Lord of Highgarden and Paramount Lord of the Reach. Isn't it time?"

Willas exhaled, "My situation is somewhat different; with my leg, I will not be part of any fighting. You are correct – I do need to wed. Corresponding with Eddard Stark and King Stannis is difficult as they are on the move, but I am looking for a match that can bind us to our new King. Sansa Stark is the best candidate, and the offer has been made."

Margaery did not know much about the Northern houses, but Eddard was the Hand to King Stannis. Having his daughter bound to the Tyrells would secure their position and hopefully limit any lingering grudge Stannis still held over the siege of Storm's End. House Tyrell may have lost the head of their house, but they would continue to grow strong.

***

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Having some stationary time at Harrenhal allowed me to perform some tests once again with my magical formulas. To my surprise, it was now even easier to perform feats of magic. Whatever resistance or drag had existed on the arithmetic-induced alteration of reality had dissipated. I was not close to any direwolves, so I could only conclude that my earlier hypothesis had been wrong. Something else was going on, and I didn't have any good explanations.

What I did know was that I now had access to plenty more reserves if it came to a fight. The reflexive enhancements could now stay up for quite a while, assuming I didn't use too many other formulae. I could also use more power with my thrown weaponry, though at a certain point, it would be too obvious. Yet, in a life-or-death situation, throwing a dagger that could knock a knight in plate armor down had its uses.

Flight, unfortunately, really wasn't an option. I could manage some bastardized version of it, but the problem was that I couldn't apply a continuous vector of force without the benefit of a computation orb. Instead, it would be more like a series of vectors; going straight in one direction all at once was doable. But even then, only if the direction was straight up; if I applied a horizontal vector, gravity would still pull me down. Diagonal vectors held some promise, but the equations grew more difficult when not applied to a uniform surface like my soles or my entire torso.

Using a lot of magical energy to basically air jump across the sky could be worth it, but I also couldn't do that very quickly thanks to my inability to use a proper bodily reinforcement formula or to keep up a protective film while applying those force vectors. Push too hard, and I could give myself whiplash. I missed my computation orb; having a small computer with you that automatically took care of these calculations and allowed safe flight made things so much easier – who'd have thought?

It was fine, though. I was still ecstatic about my increased magical stamina. If we ever got finished with this wasteful war, I would also be able to spend so much more time conducting experiments and tweaking formulae to maximize output. In the far-flung future, maybe even design devices that could be attached to me to assist in my faux flying to smooth out the problems. A thought for another day.

We moved from Harrenhal on a high note.

Lum, with the aid of Ser Barlow and Ser Jaspar, had exceeded my expectations. Over 3,500 men had agreed to fight under my banner. The screening had taken quite some time, and I'd had to give them more manpower to go through all the interested. It would be easy for someone to falsely claim they were on my side when they were just acting as a spy.

Ultimately, we made use of over 100 individuals who would ask questions about the intent of those interested and their sincerity in joining. If there was any doubt in the interviewer's mind about the honesty, they were rejected. After that, we had a second round of interviews and winnowed things down further. In the end, we ended up accepting a bit over 2,000. We had surely eliminated a massive number of otherwise decent spear users, but it would hopefully cut down on the worries of betrayal.

True to my word, I did release all the levies. No weaponry and little more than a day's worth of bread and a waterskin were what they left with. They were instructed to immediately leave the vicinity of Harrenhal. Some would likely be victims themselves of bandits, disease, and hunger, but war was a nasty thing, and I had no desire to feed unneeded mouths.

The men of the North, I treated a little differently. I asked for their oaths that they would travel back North; those that gave it, I gave a pack with enough food for a week and a dagger. Those who didn't got the same as the Riverlands levies. Would most hold to an oath? I wasn't sure, but some would.

The captured nobility and knights remained in Harrenhal, and I left Ser Gladden in command. He would hold it with 1,000 men, the majority of which were trained men-at-arms or knights. Harrenhal well deserved its reputation as an impenetrable fortress. As long as they kept careful watch, it should be next to impossible for someone to take it.

Our streak of good fortune continued when the old Lord of the Crossing agreed to our proposal after Tywin agreed to back the Freys for Paramountcy of the Riverlands once the fighting was done. That and the marriage proposals had sealed the deal. He would be sending a little more than half his muster under the command of Ser Stevron Frey and would meet my banners at the Crossroads. They had further to travel than we, so we would arrive first. This would have us cooling our heels for a bit, but it would allow us to use the time to more fully take control of the surrounding areas.

Between Ser Lyle's men, the additional levies from the Riverlands who joined our cause, and the Frey forces, my host would be larger than the one I'd commanded at the Trident. Being X had yet to show himself in this life, but I was always wary of his machinations; just because things were going well for the moment did not mean that he wasn't waiting in the shadows for the moment I let my guard down.

I was worried about the Stormlands. Not taking the full muster meant that it had more defenders than my foes likely thought, but the ones who I had purposefully not taken were the weakest part of the muster. The ones not as competent or slightly on the old side, or not physically impressive. There was little they could do to win in the field against the full might of Dorne. I knew that my grandfather was being cautious until we knew where Stannis would strike, but Lord Beric and the Marcher lords should be the ones to defend the Stormlands. Once we knew where Stannis would make landfall, I would press harder for the Stormlands' defense, and he would have to listen to my concerns. I was saving the Westerlands after all.

Our march to the Crossroads was unimpeded. I used that time to get my Stormguard up to speed on the Westerlands. My knowledge of geography, nobles, fortifications, and the like came secondhand as part of my education, but the information should be sound. I, of course, used Ser Lyle and Lum as sounding boards and confirmation of the details I had been taught. The intel was disseminated amongst the rest of the Stormguard, and now all of them had a working knowledge of the Westerlands.

I was reviewing the latest information the scouts had shared on the first day at the Crossroads. Ser Lyle and Ser Theo were my protective detail when a rider was announced and came in breathlessly.

"A message from the Eyrie – for Lady Myrcella's eyes only."

I took the letter and examined the seal; it did not look tampered with, and it held the Arryn sigil. These sorts of things could be faked, but that seemed unlikely. The contents of her letter took me by surprise. She wrote about how the Lords of the Vale were eager to take part in the war, but there was no agreement on whom they should side with. Either direction would cause bitter feuds. She offered a chance to discuss this in the Eyrie with the nobility of the Vale. Moreover, she wished for the issue to be decided by the Trial of Seven. That should allow even the most ardent supporters of one side or the other to accept the results.

I smiled; this was perfect. With the Vale in hand, my uncle's numerical advantage would be cut down. My ploy with Lord Royce had worked. Lord Tywin had not shared any news of Lord Baelish and his own mission to sway the Vale to our side, but he may have found some success too.

"Ser Lyle, you mentioned earlier that you had a desire to take part in a trial by combat; well, how does a second Trial of Seven sound to you?"

The big man smiled. "Yes! Please, Lady Myrcella, it would be my honor to be one of your seven."

"I thought as much; and Ser Theo, you as well. Even more so than our victories on the field, this battle will be the fulcrum that this war swings on."

Lyle gave me a confused glance. I suppressed a sigh and explained what a fulcrum was. The education nobles received in Westeros was spotty. At least most of them were literate… most of them. Ser Lyle wasn't a stupid man, but he had little interest in Maesters and books. Fortunately, he was charismatic enough on the battlefield, huge, and quite able in a fight.

Ser Theo's features narrowed, "Will we bring our host to the Bloody Gate or keep it here while we await the Freys? A small contingent could ride faster, but the Mountains of the Moon are home to barbaric tribes, and the Arryn guards rarely venture far from their gate."

"We'll leave a small contingent here, but we'll take the bulk of our banners to the Bloody Gate. Seeing a well-disciplined army approach may cause a few of the Vale houses on the fence to consider their stance. The Eyrie is not that far from here and will not delay us more than a couple of weeks in total since we are awaiting Ser Stevron anyway. The bigger reason is that we don't know where Stannis is; if he instead returned to the Riverlands, I do not want to be caught off guard."

Ser Theo nodded, "Then we march again?"

"Yes, we'll send a response with all possible haste and move out on the morrow."

***

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Lannisport had a strong city watch. It was also home to several nobles and more than a few knights. It also hastily tried to arm a militia of the smallfolk. That still left it quite outnumbered. It did have walls, but these were not the great walls of a castle but shorter and easy to circumvent with something as simple ladders.

Word had arrived that he was to take the city with all haste; his father was dead, and the main field host of the Reach had been badly mauled thanks to a wildfire trap by the cunning Old Lion. Garlan grieved for his sire; he had been a good father. Like all men, he had made mistakes, but he had tried and had always been generous in showing his love to his children. Garlan was the man he was today thanks to how his father had raised him.

Taking the city and ensuring some noble hostages was the main intent, besides striking a blow against the Lannisters. Morale was a tricky thing, and suffering such a large defeat would weigh heavily in the minds of all the Reach. That was, until there was news of a fresh victory of note; Lannisport was to be that victory.

Garlan had known this was a primary target and had already prepared what was needed. Sixty ladders, and two great covered battering rams. He positioned his archers to support the assault; their bows could easily strike up and over the walls, forcing the defenders to keep their heads down. His own forces would have to face arrows, but that was what shields were for. It would be a bloody assault, but the defenders would be forced to spread themselves thin to stop all the various attacks that would be occurring simultaneously.

The cover over the battering ram prevented the boiling water, rocks, and arrows from doing much harm to those underneath. Garlan saw the Lannisport guards gather around the gate to prepare to hold it in case of a collapse. He bellowed orders, and another wave of ladders was sent forward; this time he joined them.

He was armored from head to toe in plate, but that did not hinder his movements. Garlan had always felt at ease in armor, and his long hours of training meant that he bore the weight easily. His personal guard rushed in with him, elite men-at-arms and knights, and their crash into the frantic guardsmen trying to fend them off was a success. Garlan leaned back and away from a blow, then pushed up off the final rung of the ladder and smashed his hilt into the guard's face. Up onto the wall, his blade moved to find gaps in armor as he cleared the way for the rest of his men.

Taking this portion of the wall, they moved in both directions to engage the other defenders, and soon there was a vastly superior number of Tyrell soldiers. It was only a matter of time now – the defenders around the gate backed up into the city proper, and the ram took several more minutes, but it did its job, and the gate was theirs.

The Lannisters had not surrendered yet. The head of Lannisport was Jaren Lannister, head of the cadet branch of the Lannisters, separated from the mainline by at least eight or nine generations. Garlan hoped that once the walls had been breached, he would press for a conditional surrender instead of making the Reach army fight through the city. It seemed he would be making this difficult.

Garlan ordered the advance and sought out any concentration of opposing knights. He found himself fighting a Lannett knight who wielded an axe with some skill. Garlan though never gave him room to work with. In a flash, Garlan's blade was ringing blows from the Westerlands knight's head. The axe swept up, and Garlan easily avoided it instead of taking the blow. He chopped down on the elbow joint of the axe arm, causing his foe to cry out and drop the axe.

"I yield!"

Garlan nodded and called for one of his squires to watch the man while moving further in. The fighting was fierce, and the defenders valiant, but in the end, the force of numbers and quality made the Lannister defeat as inevitable as the rising of the sun.

During the fighting, looting was already occurring. Lannisport was wealthy, and jewelry, fine clothing, boots, and horses were claimed. Garlan did not forbid his men from doing it; it was expected in war. He had admonished them for wanton slaughter and rapes – those would see them given to the noose. For the most part, the men obeyed. The early lesson had gone around the camp.

Some of the lords of Lannisport had died in the fighting, but not Jaren Lannister, his young child, several Lannetts, Lannys, and Lantells. Outside of Jaren, none were truly of high nobility, but there were enough of them to hopefully secure the release of the Redwyne twins and others that may have been captured in the disaster in the Kingswood.

Garlen had done his duty. The next step was to besiege Casterly Rock. There would be no storming it, though – this was to be a siege. But that would not take the full might of his host. His brother had written to him about potentially working with the Ironborn, something he was wary of. It was difficult enough to keep his own men in line, and those were men of the Reach, not savage pillagers and pirates. He understood why his brother wanted them to work together; the whole point was to deter the Greyjoys from preying on the Reach while Garlan and his family fought against the Lannisters.

But still, Garlan had a feeling that the next leg of the war was going to be far more difficult than the sacking of Lannisport had been.

***

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Melisandre had everything in place. The eldest Stark girl had managed to convince her sister of the importance of their work. Both the wolves had been kenneled, and they had made sure that the Stark guards were nowhere near Aegon's Garden, the place where Sansa and Arya were supposed to meet Shireen for tea and sweetcakes. The princess was notably absent, and the garden had some alterations done to it, allowing for a large fire to be crackling in the early night air, its hue almost matching the comet blazing in the night sky.

The Queen was there as well, along with several of her most loyal guards. Sansa and Arya arrived as promised, and Arya looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"You had better be telling the truth, or my father will kill you."

Melisandre smiled at the certainty of the young child's statement. Arya was dangerous – or she would be soon. The flames had shown her prowess with a dagger and the thin swords that the Water Dancers used. She would be dangerous, but not to Melisandre.

"I have spoken to your sister honestly; I am but a humble servant of the Lord of Light. Your sacrifice will reveal many truths. With these truths, we can ensure the destiny of Azor Ahai, and the safety of your family. Now, come and bare your arm."

Arya hesitated for a moment but then walked forward with a confident stride. Her sister Sansa shivered a bit and slowly stepped next to Melisandre. Now, all three were in front of the flames. A brief intrusive thought came unbidden to Melisandre's mind. Would these two descendants of the Kings of Winter be enough to wake the strong dragons if she threw them into the fire? No… Azor Ahai was not even on the island, and she had seen no vision of the Stark girls dying in flames. Clearing her thoughts, she took out the blade from her belt. She would stick to her plans and use their blood sacrifice to empower her visions.

Melisandre took Sansa's hand and raised her arm; with a sure and quick slash, her blood spilled in the garden of Aegon the Conqueror. The flames roared as Sansa gave a cry of pain. Wolves howled in the distance. Melisandre let go of her hand, and one of the guards hastily bandaged her arm as Melisandre cut Arya in the same way, her blood dripping down onto the ground. The girl had not cried out or even flinched.

Now, she looked, looked into the roaring flames, seeking the future. The power of the blood raised the intensity of what she was doing; never had she seen so much – too much. The flames flickered too fast for her eye to make out patterns; she felt her limbs tremble as she forced herself to concentrate. She prayed and bent her will to see…

Three dragons. She saw them hatching; she saw a horse consumed by flame – this was the past. Three dragons had hatched, and she knew it had been recent.

She saw more. A dragon, practically alone and vulnerable with enemies all around her. Melisandre did not know why she knew that the dragon was female, but she did.

She saw more. A dragon, guarded by crows. It was growing quickly, but the enemy, the true enemy, was coming for him first. The Great Other, the great cold coming from the North that would freeze the entire world. She saw spiders of blue hue being ridden by abominations. Her body convulsed, and she dared not pry further into that vision.

She saw more. A dragon, guarded by a griffon. It was waiting, waiting for something, but a sense of impatience was growing.

These all meant something; they were important, but she needed something tangible, useful to give to her King, Azor Ahai reborn. She willed the flames and besought R'hllor to give sight to Azor Ahai and his future.

She saw more, but it was not Stannis she saw. It was the face of a youth who had recently reached his maturity. He shared the long face that resembled Eddard Stark, dark brown, nearly black hair and gray eyes; the flames crackled, and she saw a snow-white direwolf at his side. What was this? Stannis was the prince that was promised. He fit all the criteria! Reborn amidst salt and smoke, he had dragon's blood through his grandmother. More importantly, in visions years ago, she saw men cheering and announcing him Azor Ahai!

Her skin crawled with a realization. Some parts fit the prophecies, but others were her doing. Had she seen a future vision of her own propping up of Stannis Baratheon as Azor Ahai? The flames danced; she saw again the youth. Her vision had never been clearer. This was Azor Ahai; he also had the blood of the dragon! Her earlier vision of a wolf nuzzling a dragon hatchling… she had surmised that it was the bastard child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Eddard Stark had all but confirmed she was right with her guess.

Power still thrummed in the air. This was maddening – how could she have been so wrong? How? The flames still beckoned, and she would not let this power go to waste. She looked deeper, letting her mind drift to important events, not looking for anything specific. More visions came to her. A kraken grasping a giant horn. A man wearing heavy armor on a boat; his armor was burning, yet he just laughed, seemingly unharmed. A demon with blue eyes roaring in anger as a viper struck its heel.

She collapsed, spent, and weaker than she had been in over a century. A guard tentatively approached to offer a hand, and she accepted it. Melisandre thought about the direwolves that were here on the island.

"Sansa, Arya, you have done well; thank you. I have a question about your wolves. I understand that your brothers Robb and Bran also have direwolves; does Rickon have one as well?"

"Yes, why, is he in danger?" Arya answered immediately.

"No more than we all are. So there were five wolves, one for each of Lord Stark's children?"

Arya nodded, "There were six; Jon Snow is just as much our father's son as my brothers!"

"He is baseborn but not like most bastards, Lady Melisandre; he is good-natured and dutiful," Sansa added.

Melisande felt her world shake. Stannis was not Azor Ahai – it was Jon, Jon Snow, the secret child of Rhaegar Targaryen.

"Where is Jon Snow?"

"Why do you want to know?" Arya asked.

"It could be important; I saw him in one of the visions."

"He joined the Night's Watch; he's on the Wall."

Melisandre closed her eyes – of course he was. He was the dragon being protected by crows within reach of the great enemy. Her eyes opened. "Thank you, truly, you have done more to guard the realms of men than you know."

With those words, Melisandre left. She would need to set sail soon for Eastwatch-by-the-sea. She had wasted far too much time with the pretender. Melisandre could only hope that she would arrive in time to help him fulfill his destiny before their great foe snuffed out the only hope of the world.