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Prologue
March 14
The logs crackled and hissed and splintered, practically exploding as the flames sucked the last moisture out of the driftwood; the intense heat for once driving the ever present dampness out of the salt stained black walls of her apartment in the Stone Drum. The winds outside howled and shrieked above Blackwater Bay; setting a discordant, eerie beat as they struck against Dragonstone’s main keep, whistling as they wrapped around the edges of the obsidian gargoyles festooning the thick structure, and occasionally spewing a gust that darted down the narrow chimney to make the blaze burn even hotter, brighter. The Red Priestess hardly noticed the noise and soaring temperature as she steadily fed more and more fuel into the fireplace, the overly stoked bonfire threatening to spill out over the grate and set the Myrish carpet on which she crouched aflame. Against her fervent counsel, Azor Ahai reborn had sailed off the desolate island without her, without her visions, without her wisdom, without her protection, to accept the Iron Throne being handed him by whom? The weak willed, the deluded, disbelievers, and worse. “More fire,” she whispered, “I must see him!” She drove a rotten piece of old mast or ship’s ribbing into the middle of the conflagration, ignoring the sparks that shot out to singe her where she hovered expectantly. The ruby ensconced within the red gold choker circling her slender neck began to glow.
In her long life Melisandre had foreseen much and always relied on her R’hllor given iron will to divine the true path through the multitude of visions the flames revealed. Never had the reflections and shadows produced by the Lord of Light failed to divulge the true way forward, until now. Frustration threatened her control as she concentrated her very being into the offerings of reds, yellows, and oranges swirling before her, their heat buffeting her body as it stood so close the flames almost caressed her. After decades of search she had at last found the savior against the Great Other, Azor Ahai reborn, she could not lose sight of him now. The Red Priestess fed knotted, twisted driftwood into the fire, hoping to catch a glimpse of her strong, unbending King through the impossibly bright light surrounding him.
At first she’d barely noticed the bright spot on the periphery of her visions when it first appeared in the North; Westeros was huge and the cold dark reach of the God of Ice and Death even larger. Besides, her concentration had been on her King; first manipulating his wife’s devotion to gain admittance to his councils and then gaining his trust by directing her visions to seek the strength necessary for Stannis to take what he sought, what he demanded: a throne, a crown, his lawful due. Eventually, inevitably, the path shown by the flames had led her to King’s Landing, as only there could Azor Ahai fully accept his God ordained mission. But with every glimpse of the capital snatched from the flame, she found this brilliant icy comet from the North coming closer and closer too; drowning out her own R’hllor aided light and shadows, until on the very day the King and his fleet departed Dragonstone she could no longer discern any objects or people, let alone their actions, from within the terrible luminescence now wrapped around the city. Melisandre hissed in discomfort. The ruby around her neck throbbed in warning and defense. She dropped the warped, bark denuded branch she held into the flames. Fire could turn hot enough to burn even one who worshipped it.
Eight days ago Azor Ahai reborn had sailed. Four days ago he’d disappeared within the cold, stark white, impenetrable glow. Since then … no ravens … no news had left the grip of the icy comet circling King’s Landing. Selyse, so used to the priestess’ mysterious ways of knowing, now pestered her constantly for word of her lord husband. Cressen, who’s death she had once foreseen only to watch in the flames as his end turned from a violent, poisonous one to that of a crippled dotage, positively smirked with every public display of her new found impotence. She must find him! She could not lose sight of him who was reborn, let him fall into the clutches of the Great Other. The flames stirred. The ruby glowed hotter, throbbing, scorching the skin of her neck. But at last, tendrils of red and orange split apart before her to reveal a hotter, cleaner blue buried in the heart of the fire. Something came out of smoke and fog, a wind at its back. One boat, two boats, three boats carrying the Baratheon Stag upon their sails; all smaller ships, none Kingly. She searched for the King amongst the crew, finding a few familiar faces, but he was not there. What did it mean? Why was this important?
Melisandre sang a prayer to R’hllor for guidance and in response a face took shape in the seething white and blue hot coals at the bottom of the fireplace. A Lorathi stood on the deck of the lead boat, not far from where the almost thread bare captain of the modest ship talked with a walrus of a man clad foolishly at sea in chainmail. The God shown Essosi stood out for having one side of his hair dyed white as the driven snow and the other the pure red of fire. “An omen,” the priestess murmured. The flames flickered. The stranger’s face was gone, but a new one arose in front of her; that of an ordinary ship’s hand. She watched herself at the front of a squad of guards meet the lead ship as it docked at the port turned back to simple fishing village beneath the castle. The fiery tendrils bent, sputtered, and soared high again; the ship hand no longer existed but a destitute wood merchant pushed his humble cart through the wards of Dragonstone hawking his pile of driftwood first to the steward of the Great Hall and later to the steward of the Windwyrm Tower. The fire jumped. Guards, arms alertly drawn, marched passed a spindly old man scaling fish in the courtyard. Flicker. Flash. A thin, straw haired man afflicted with painful boils used a twig brush to sweep the stairs of the Stone Drum, slowly coming, closer, closer to … a door opened. Melisandre watched herself in a flowing red silk gown step out of the apartment into the hall and pass the near leprous wretch, heading for the stairs to the Chamber of the Painted Table. Less than a minute later a high pitched cry pierced the air, only to have it cut off and replaced by the sound of a tumbling body and the cracking of bones. The man’s eyes twinkled, and then his face warped, altering into that of man with a hook nose and curly black hair.
The Red Priestess suddenly felt chill in the sweltering heat of her salon as the flames returned to mere fire and her ruby slowly stopped glowing. The Many-Faced God required her as an offering. “Valar morghulis,” she whispered. Then, in a louder, righteous voice, Melisandre proclaimed, “My service to R’hllor is not ready to end.”
----------------------------------------------------
March 19
“Her Grace requests your presence in the Great Hall, my lady,” the messenger stated.
Melisandre eyed him suspiciously. She knew him. Or thought she did. Not a worshipper of R’hllor; not yet at least, but she’d spied him a few times in the back, watching, listening to the words of the true God while she preached. More importantly she had not seen version of his face in her flames over the last six days. But … “Come Qahrl,” she commanded. “Share the warmth of the Red God’s gift with me a moment, before we return to her Grace.”
Nervously the tall boy sidled up beside the priestess who was already gazing into the fire. The Red Woman was very pretty and even more frightening. He snuck a glance at her, bosom thrust out high above a narrow waist.
“Do you pray, Qahrl?” she asked kindly.
He slowly licked his lips. “Sometimes, my lady,” he mumbled.
“By the light of R’hllor?” she prodded.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Good, good,” she cooed, staring into the blaze, concentrating. Light and shadow danced together, revealing to her the possibilities. She nodded. Yes, she’d seen that coming death and knew how to avoid it. A brief jet of air down the flume caused the flames to flair; a new vision. Death and then … death avoided … followed by a final death flittered in front of her inner eye. Yes, R’hllor had shown her this path before. Now she was certain of her course. “The shadows cast by the Lord of Light lead to the path of salvation,” she announced with a fervent smile. “We may leave now, Qahrl.”
“Yes, my lady,” the boy intoned dutifully.
Pausing at the table beside the door, the priestess pointed at box resting on it. “Bring that Qarhl, ‘tis a gift for her Grace.”
They left the heat of her apartment where two boiled leather wearing guards carrying sparr axes immediately stepped in behind them, following them to the central staircase. Down, down, down they headed. Even for a mere outpost on the very edge of their Freehold, the Valyrians had built expansively. “Stay close, brothers,” she commanded, the ruby in her red gold choker heating up, as they took the last flight of stairs. They strode onto the black marble floor of the entrance hall and walked towards the main doors of the Stone Drum.
Above their heads the wrought iron chandelier dangling from the heavy black stone blocks used hundreds of years ago to build the castle creaked and shifted. A smirk pierced her lips. The Faceless Men were not known to indiscriminately slaughter in order to fulfill a contract, collecting only the soul or souls due them and none more. The candles in the chandelier flickered as the heavy piece of metal swayed slightly, but remained, for now, bolted in place. For the third time in the last two days Melisandre felt a death pass over her. R’hllor still guided her, the one true God’s greatest disciple; she knew it in the depth of her heart.
----------------------------------------------------
“Welcome, Lady Melisandre,” Selyse Baratheon stated loudly from the high table in the middle of the dragon’s belly, the benches of the Great Hall were already filling up an unusual boisterous good cheer though the early evening’s feast was more than an hour away.
Rumor had floated in the air as the priestess stepped from the Stone Drum into the setting sun, passed over the lower bailey, crossed through the gate of the inner wall, and approached the prone dragon form the Valyrians had shaped stone into in building the castle’s main gathering place. While the flames had not shown her what the smallfolks celebrated, she held faith in her chosen King; the news was not unexpected.
“There is much to rejoice,” the Queen proclaimed, a parchment lay spread out in front of her. Those in the hall were already at drink long before the serving of the dinner’s typical fish stew or seabird pie, an exceedingly rare gesture of generosity by Azor Ahai reborn’s flinty wife.
A shy, but proud looking Shireen sat at one hand of her mother and the fat Manderly knight, walrus beard split in a jovial grin, by Selyse’s other hand. Ancient Cressen, appearing frustratingly smug, sat next to Ser Wendel. The Queen’s uncle, the castellan of Dragonstone, the homely Ser Axell, afflicted as all the Florent’s were with oversized ears and a dyspeptic disposition, bookended his niece Shireen. At the Queen’s shoulder stood Maester Pylos, clearly the bearer of good news from the rookery high atop the Sea Dragon Tower; now far too long and difficult a walk for the elderly, debilitated Cressen. Patchface, as ever, prattled nonsense in the background; ignored. “The shadows come to dance my lady, dance my lady, dance my lady. The shadows come to stay my lady, stay my lady, stay my lady.”
“The Red God watches over his Grace, my husband,” Selyse declared. “He has wrested the Red Keep from the vile Lannisters and now bestrides the Iron Throne. Hail King Stannis!” she cried with as much emotion and vigor as her sharp, brittle voice could carry.
“Hail King Stannis!” the entire hall chanted back, cheerily enough.
“My Queen,” Melisandre shouted, voice drowned out by the din. Dissatisfied, with the results, the priestess threw up her hands. Purple powder sparkled as it flew through the air towards the two nearest torch stands.
WOOOOOOSH!!! WOOOOOOSH!!!
Huge bursts of greenish blue flame leapt high out of the affected torches, bathing the entire hall in an eerie glow for a moment. A few shouts of surprise and fear greeted the pyrotechnic display, but mostly awed silence.
“One realm, one god, one King,” the Red Woman started to chant.
“One realm, one god, one King,” a few voices, including that of Selyse,promptly joined in.
More and more took up the catechism. “One realm, one god, one King! One realm, one god, one King!! One realm, one god, one King!!!” Fists began to pound on tables and feet stomp on the rush strewn floor, adding emphasis to the beat of the chant and the general cacophony engulfing the room.
Dramatically Melisandre raised her arms again, gesturing for silence.
This time the smallfolk took note of her. The chant ebbed and receded.
“We must give praise to the Red God for starting Azor Ahai reborn on his blazing path of triumph over the Great Other!” As the Red Woman spoke, the candles and torches and fires a lit in the Great Hall began to whither and dim. “The nameless one’s evil is greatest in the dark. He revels in the black cold, void of love and heat and life. With Stannis as our King, let us show we fear not the Ancient Enemy, nor even death itself, and set a great fire of thanksgiving in the night … tonight!” And now, aside from the sparse rosy tones of the setting sun slipping in through the dragon mouth shaped vestibule of the Great Hall, the only source shedding light within came from the throbbing ruby at the priestess’ throat.
“Tonight,” warbled Selyse, standing up; the red glow of the ruby reflecting in her otherwise pale, insipid eyes.
----------------------------------------------------
“Your Grace, our praise of R’hllor would be ever so much the stronger if we fed the false idols of the Seven to his fire,” Melisandre passionately insisted. They were gathered in the Steward of the Great Hall’s now cramped office, not far from the dais supporting the high table. “There’s still time for your men to harvest the sept so they may become part of our burnt offerings.”
“How, dare …” burst the decrepit Cressen, only to have his outburst stunted by the young Maester Pylos gently laying a warning hand on the old man’s stooped shoulders.
“As dear Maester Cressen wisely said earlier, your Grace; the King has not yet made an official break with the Faith, no matter his personal leanings,” the newly minted Maester stated with more than a little nervousness to his voice in challenging the Red Woman in front of Selyse. “If this were to happen and word of it reach the King’s new banners, they might take it quite ill and withdraw their support.”
“Deluded northerners who worship trees they claim are the Old Gods,” Melisandre scoffed. “They care not for the Seven; and, their strength amounts to nothing compared to the might of the Red God.”
“The fat knight is a believer in the Faith,” Cressen’s wizened voice interjected, “even if he is from the North. Your Grace saw how wroth he turned at the idea of a sept being desecrated and the images of the Seven destroyed. Lord Stan ... his Grace valued the Ser enough to lead this admittedly strange dragonglass gathering expedition here.”
“Aye, and entrusted him with those letters to the Northern households,” Selyse agreed warily.
“Or valued him so little the King thought nothing of exiling his obese, deceived presence away from the light of Azor Ahai reborn’s grace,” the priestess counter posed.
“And you would make that judgment without first consulting the King?” Pylos asked. “Now we know the city and its keep have fallen, ‘tis simple enough to send his Grace a raven seeking his royal guidance.
The priestess frowned; she was meant to guide the savior, not him her. What’s more, something of this northman’s mission did not sit well with her, it smelled of deep mystery and perhaps conspiracy. The letters were mere political wrangling. The core of the King’s worldly strength, had he truly won the Iron Throne, would neither be made nor broken by the actions his written words would bring to the cold, deluded North. But the dragonglass, frozen fire, that … that hinted of darker deeds hovering beyond her keen, so much of her focus the last two days within the flames devoted to simply ensuring her own survival; no time to follow the near infinite number of shadows and reflections of light to discover the need for so much of the black liquid rock. ‘Is there another from a Red Temple come to Westeros to confront the Great Other?’ she wondered. That might explain the impenetrable light blocking her. No, Melisandre knew all the world’s high priests and prophets of R’hllor. She was the oldest of them. She was a Shadowbinder. She was the strongest and the wisest. The Lord of Light held her in his palm; she and she alone, except of course for Azor Ahai reborn whom he held in his other hand. ‘That cannot be the answer.’
“Don’t you agree, Lady Melisandre?” old Cressen cackled.
“Your counsel grows as long winded and deluded as your mind and body, Maester,” she responded.
“But the Maester has a point, your Grace,” Pylos said, addressing Selyse. “Once burnt, the statues of the Seven cannot be unburnt. But left unburnt, they remain always to await the King’s pleasure to burn them if he ever so commands.”
The Queen’s dour, doughty face shown with unhappiness, her lips clenched so tight and sharp they might pass for the edge of a blade. “Very well,” she snapped. “Ser Axell,” she said, addressing her uncle, also a follower of the Red God, who had remained silent in a corner as the priestess’ request was debate. “See that the building of the bonfire in the Outer Yard is complete within the hour, I will come then to set alit our praise to the true God. But no slight is to be given to the Seven this night. Oh, and be sure the smallfolk of the village and island side are encouraged to attend.”
“Wisely done, your Grace,” Cressen replied, a bit too obviously pleased with the outcome. A victory over the Red Priestess was a rare occurrence for the old man.
Maester Pylos, with true wisdom, kept his mouth shut and his eyes glued to the floor.
Ser Axell unhappily bobbed his chubby head in compliance with the Queen’s command and left the room.
“I feel unclean,” Selyse announced harshly, “having denied the Red God his proper sacrifice. Away with you all now, I must contemplate my sin.”
The others left. Melisandre lingered. The flames had not lied to her yet about this night. “Let me purify you, your Grace. Make you a virgin in spirit before the eyes of R’hllor,” she said softly, seductively.
The Queen’s dull eyes suddenly sparkled at the idea. “Yes, make me a bride worthy of Azor Ahai,” Selyse said with such a fervor, a near ecstasy, that her hard, sharp mouth softened into something almost pleasant to behold.
Melisandre smiled kindly. Then she began to hum a tune she’d learned long ago and far away in Asshai.
----------------------------------------------------
“I feel different,” Selyse announced.
“The grace of R’hllor has descended upon you, your Grace. Making you a consort fit for Azor Ahai reborn, a true daughter of Nissa Nissa,” the priestess explained.
“My voice sounds … different,” she said hesitantly.
“You’ve just sung the psalms of R’hllor, your Grace,” Melisandre cajoled. “His strength has entered you. Tonight, when you speak before the flames, you will speak with his voice, his power. You are taking the first step in becoming an acolyte of his sacred flame.”
“Yes, yes,” the beautiful glowing woman staring back at Melisandre said, feeling the truth of the words spoken to her.
The priestess smiled. “I have a final present for you, your Grace.” She handed over the box the messenger Qarhl had brought down from her room.
Selyse lifted the lid. She gasped. She reached down and pulled out a silken red gown.
“If you are to become his acolyte, you must dress the part in R’hllor’s presence, your Grace,” she explained.
Selyse’s eyes practically bulged out of her head. She stroked the soft, smooth silk beneath her hand. “Is there time?” she whispered. “I should call for my lady’s maid to help me change.”
“Please your Grace, allow me this privilege. The sanctity of your purification must not be rendered impure by the touch or words of lesser believers.”
The now beautiful red haired head of the Queen nodded agreement. “I understand.”
Melisandre helped the woman take off her stodgy gown and slide into the voluptuous garment gifted her. The priestess clasped all the hooks and tied all the bows for the coming offering.
“It’s a bit short,” Selyse commented.
Melisandre, aside from noting that Selyse’s red gold choker lacking a fiery ruby, saw the priestess’ identical twin standing in front of her.
Tap. Tap. A knock on the door. “Your Grace, all is in readiness. The believers await your and the Lady Melisandre’s presence,” Dragonstone’s castellan announced.
Selyse’s lips started to move.
The Red Priestess gently placed a finger over the Queen’s mouth, shaking her head no. “Her Grace will be out in a moment. Let no one speak to either of us during the procession, Ser Axell,” Melisandre commanded.
“Very well, my Lady,” his dull voice answered.
She smiled at the image of herself. “Remember, your Grace, speak to no one until the fire of thanksgiving is lit. And let nothing unusual you see surprise you, such will only be the one true God gracing you with his visions.”
Selyse drew herself up into her most regal bearing. “I am ready,” she proclaimed.
“You are,” Melisandre agreed with a smile. “You proceed first out of the room. I shall wait as R’hllor tells me and then I will follow behind you. In the heat of the fire, we shall sing together for Azor Ahai reborn.” And with that the Red Priestess bowed low.
The Queen took that as her cue and left the room in perfect silence.
When the door shut, Melisandre moved with all deliberate speed. She threw off her silken gown of the Red Temple and struggled as quickly as she could into the Queen’s discarded ensemble, all the while chanting in a low voice a very similar spell to the one she’d uttered earlier. It felt almost as if her skin tingled, bending light and shadows over it. She knew it nonsense, but she almost believed her ears truly grew.
KA-BOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!!!!
A gigantic crash rocked the Great Hall. Shrieks filled the air.
The corners of a hairy looking upper lip lifted into a smile of satisfaction. R’hllor was great. R’hllor was merciful. Tonight the Lord of Light would bath the soul of a true believer, an innocent, in his love. And the Many Faced God would be denied the soul promised it. She continued robing, finding the Queen’s clothes a bit long. She adjusted appropriately.
The sound of running feet came closer. “Your Grace!? Your Grace!?” voices shouted. Fists pounded insistently on the door.
“Enter,” she calmly, regally commanded.
A guard commander, some distant cousin of the Bar Emmons, but more importantly one of the Queen’s Men, a true believer, stepped in to the room, eyes wild with terror. “A disaster, your Grace. A tragedy. The Red God withdraws from us.”
The homely, jug eared appearing woman in Selyse Bannister’s dull garments stepped forward and slapped the man across his face. “Never,” she blazed. “The One True God never deserts the faithful. Never! Now tell me what has happened!?” she demanded.
“’Tis, the Lady Melisandre, your Grace.”
“What of her?” she asked sternly.
The man gulped. “A … a … a gargoyle fell of the middle wall.” Ser Richard blinked back tears. “It … it crushed her, your Grace. Our Lady is gone,” he moaned.
She slapped him again. “The Lady is never gone. She baths in the grace of the Lord Light. We must remember her. Cherish her. Live up to the memory of her beautiful soul. We must add a remembrance of her alongside our psalms of thanksgiving tonight.”
The guard captain looked incredulous. “We … we …” he sputtered before regaining a modicum of control. “Who will lead the prayers?”
“I will,” the woman in Selyse Baratheon’s clothes declared without a shred of doubt in her soul. “There is much yet still to do in service of the one true God.”
Prologue
March 14
The logs crackled and hissed and splintered, practically exploding as the flames sucked the last moisture out of the driftwood; the intense heat for once driving the ever present dampness out of the salt stained black walls of her apartment in the Stone Drum. The winds outside howled and shrieked above Blackwater Bay; setting a discordant, eerie beat as they struck against Dragonstone’s main keep, whistling as they wrapped around the edges of the obsidian gargoyles festooning the thick structure, and occasionally spewing a gust that darted down the narrow chimney to make the blaze burn even hotter, brighter. The Red Priestess hardly noticed the noise and soaring temperature as she steadily fed more and more fuel into the fireplace, the overly stoked bonfire threatening to spill out over the grate and set the Myrish carpet on which she crouched aflame. Against her fervent counsel, Azor Ahai reborn had sailed off the desolate island without her, without her visions, without her wisdom, without her protection, to accept the Iron Throne being handed him by whom? The weak willed, the deluded, disbelievers, and worse. “More fire,” she whispered, “I must see him!” She drove a rotten piece of old mast or ship’s ribbing into the middle of the conflagration, ignoring the sparks that shot out to singe her where she hovered expectantly. The ruby ensconced within the red gold choker circling her slender neck began to glow.
In her long life Melisandre had foreseen much and always relied on her R’hllor given iron will to divine the true path through the multitude of visions the flames revealed. Never had the reflections and shadows produced by the Lord of Light failed to divulge the true way forward, until now. Frustration threatened her control as she concentrated her very being into the offerings of reds, yellows, and oranges swirling before her, their heat buffeting her body as it stood so close the flames almost caressed her. After decades of search she had at last found the savior against the Great Other, Azor Ahai reborn, she could not lose sight of him now. The Red Priestess fed knotted, twisted driftwood into the fire, hoping to catch a glimpse of her strong, unbending King through the impossibly bright light surrounding him.
At first she’d barely noticed the bright spot on the periphery of her visions when it first appeared in the North; Westeros was huge and the cold dark reach of the God of Ice and Death even larger. Besides, her concentration had been on her King; first manipulating his wife’s devotion to gain admittance to his councils and then gaining his trust by directing her visions to seek the strength necessary for Stannis to take what he sought, what he demanded: a throne, a crown, his lawful due. Eventually, inevitably, the path shown by the flames had led her to King’s Landing, as only there could Azor Ahai fully accept his God ordained mission. But with every glimpse of the capital snatched from the flame, she found this brilliant icy comet from the North coming closer and closer too; drowning out her own R’hllor aided light and shadows, until on the very day the King and his fleet departed Dragonstone she could no longer discern any objects or people, let alone their actions, from within the terrible luminescence now wrapped around the city. Melisandre hissed in discomfort. The ruby around her neck throbbed in warning and defense. She dropped the warped, bark denuded branch she held into the flames. Fire could turn hot enough to burn even one who worshipped it.
Eight days ago Azor Ahai reborn had sailed. Four days ago he’d disappeared within the cold, stark white, impenetrable glow. Since then … no ravens … no news had left the grip of the icy comet circling King’s Landing. Selyse, so used to the priestess’ mysterious ways of knowing, now pestered her constantly for word of her lord husband. Cressen, who’s death she had once foreseen only to watch in the flames as his end turned from a violent, poisonous one to that of a crippled dotage, positively smirked with every public display of her new found impotence. She must find him! She could not lose sight of him who was reborn, let him fall into the clutches of the Great Other. The flames stirred. The ruby glowed hotter, throbbing, scorching the skin of her neck. But at last, tendrils of red and orange split apart before her to reveal a hotter, cleaner blue buried in the heart of the fire. Something came out of smoke and fog, a wind at its back. One boat, two boats, three boats carrying the Baratheon Stag upon their sails; all smaller ships, none Kingly. She searched for the King amongst the crew, finding a few familiar faces, but he was not there. What did it mean? Why was this important?
Melisandre sang a prayer to R’hllor for guidance and in response a face took shape in the seething white and blue hot coals at the bottom of the fireplace. A Lorathi stood on the deck of the lead boat, not far from where the almost thread bare captain of the modest ship talked with a walrus of a man clad foolishly at sea in chainmail. The God shown Essosi stood out for having one side of his hair dyed white as the driven snow and the other the pure red of fire. “An omen,” the priestess murmured. The flames flickered. The stranger’s face was gone, but a new one arose in front of her; that of an ordinary ship’s hand. She watched herself at the front of a squad of guards meet the lead ship as it docked at the port turned back to simple fishing village beneath the castle. The fiery tendrils bent, sputtered, and soared high again; the ship hand no longer existed but a destitute wood merchant pushed his humble cart through the wards of Dragonstone hawking his pile of driftwood first to the steward of the Great Hall and later to the steward of the Windwyrm Tower. The fire jumped. Guards, arms alertly drawn, marched passed a spindly old man scaling fish in the courtyard. Flicker. Flash. A thin, straw haired man afflicted with painful boils used a twig brush to sweep the stairs of the Stone Drum, slowly coming, closer, closer to … a door opened. Melisandre watched herself in a flowing red silk gown step out of the apartment into the hall and pass the near leprous wretch, heading for the stairs to the Chamber of the Painted Table. Less than a minute later a high pitched cry pierced the air, only to have it cut off and replaced by the sound of a tumbling body and the cracking of bones. The man’s eyes twinkled, and then his face warped, altering into that of man with a hook nose and curly black hair.
The Red Priestess suddenly felt chill in the sweltering heat of her salon as the flames returned to mere fire and her ruby slowly stopped glowing. The Many-Faced God required her as an offering. “Valar morghulis,” she whispered. Then, in a louder, righteous voice, Melisandre proclaimed, “My service to R’hllor is not ready to end.”
----------------------------------------------------
March 19
“Her Grace requests your presence in the Great Hall, my lady,” the messenger stated.
Melisandre eyed him suspiciously. She knew him. Or thought she did. Not a worshipper of R’hllor; not yet at least, but she’d spied him a few times in the back, watching, listening to the words of the true God while she preached. More importantly she had not seen version of his face in her flames over the last six days. But … “Come Qahrl,” she commanded. “Share the warmth of the Red God’s gift with me a moment, before we return to her Grace.”
Nervously the tall boy sidled up beside the priestess who was already gazing into the fire. The Red Woman was very pretty and even more frightening. He snuck a glance at her, bosom thrust out high above a narrow waist.
“Do you pray, Qahrl?” she asked kindly.
He slowly licked his lips. “Sometimes, my lady,” he mumbled.
“By the light of R’hllor?” she prodded.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Good, good,” she cooed, staring into the blaze, concentrating. Light and shadow danced together, revealing to her the possibilities. She nodded. Yes, she’d seen that coming death and knew how to avoid it. A brief jet of air down the flume caused the flames to flair; a new vision. Death and then … death avoided … followed by a final death flittered in front of her inner eye. Yes, R’hllor had shown her this path before. Now she was certain of her course. “The shadows cast by the Lord of Light lead to the path of salvation,” she announced with a fervent smile. “We may leave now, Qahrl.”
“Yes, my lady,” the boy intoned dutifully.
Pausing at the table beside the door, the priestess pointed at box resting on it. “Bring that Qarhl, ‘tis a gift for her Grace.”
They left the heat of her apartment where two boiled leather wearing guards carrying sparr axes immediately stepped in behind them, following them to the central staircase. Down, down, down they headed. Even for a mere outpost on the very edge of their Freehold, the Valyrians had built expansively. “Stay close, brothers,” she commanded, the ruby in her red gold choker heating up, as they took the last flight of stairs. They strode onto the black marble floor of the entrance hall and walked towards the main doors of the Stone Drum.
Above their heads the wrought iron chandelier dangling from the heavy black stone blocks used hundreds of years ago to build the castle creaked and shifted. A smirk pierced her lips. The Faceless Men were not known to indiscriminately slaughter in order to fulfill a contract, collecting only the soul or souls due them and none more. The candles in the chandelier flickered as the heavy piece of metal swayed slightly, but remained, for now, bolted in place. For the third time in the last two days Melisandre felt a death pass over her. R’hllor still guided her, the one true God’s greatest disciple; she knew it in the depth of her heart.
----------------------------------------------------
“Welcome, Lady Melisandre,” Selyse Baratheon stated loudly from the high table in the middle of the dragon’s belly, the benches of the Great Hall were already filling up an unusual boisterous good cheer though the early evening’s feast was more than an hour away.
Rumor had floated in the air as the priestess stepped from the Stone Drum into the setting sun, passed over the lower bailey, crossed through the gate of the inner wall, and approached the prone dragon form the Valyrians had shaped stone into in building the castle’s main gathering place. While the flames had not shown her what the smallfolks celebrated, she held faith in her chosen King; the news was not unexpected.
“There is much to rejoice,” the Queen proclaimed, a parchment lay spread out in front of her. Those in the hall were already at drink long before the serving of the dinner’s typical fish stew or seabird pie, an exceedingly rare gesture of generosity by Azor Ahai reborn’s flinty wife.
A shy, but proud looking Shireen sat at one hand of her mother and the fat Manderly knight, walrus beard split in a jovial grin, by Selyse’s other hand. Ancient Cressen, appearing frustratingly smug, sat next to Ser Wendel. The Queen’s uncle, the castellan of Dragonstone, the homely Ser Axell, afflicted as all the Florent’s were with oversized ears and a dyspeptic disposition, bookended his niece Shireen. At the Queen’s shoulder stood Maester Pylos, clearly the bearer of good news from the rookery high atop the Sea Dragon Tower; now far too long and difficult a walk for the elderly, debilitated Cressen. Patchface, as ever, prattled nonsense in the background; ignored. “The shadows come to dance my lady, dance my lady, dance my lady. The shadows come to stay my lady, stay my lady, stay my lady.”
“The Red God watches over his Grace, my husband,” Selyse declared. “He has wrested the Red Keep from the vile Lannisters and now bestrides the Iron Throne. Hail King Stannis!” she cried with as much emotion and vigor as her sharp, brittle voice could carry.
“Hail King Stannis!” the entire hall chanted back, cheerily enough.
“My Queen,” Melisandre shouted, voice drowned out by the din. Dissatisfied, with the results, the priestess threw up her hands. Purple powder sparkled as it flew through the air towards the two nearest torch stands.
WOOOOOOSH!!! WOOOOOOSH!!!
Huge bursts of greenish blue flame leapt high out of the affected torches, bathing the entire hall in an eerie glow for a moment. A few shouts of surprise and fear greeted the pyrotechnic display, but mostly awed silence.
“One realm, one god, one King,” the Red Woman started to chant.
“One realm, one god, one King,” a few voices, including that of Selyse,promptly joined in.
More and more took up the catechism. “One realm, one god, one King! One realm, one god, one King!! One realm, one god, one King!!!” Fists began to pound on tables and feet stomp on the rush strewn floor, adding emphasis to the beat of the chant and the general cacophony engulfing the room.
Dramatically Melisandre raised her arms again, gesturing for silence.
This time the smallfolk took note of her. The chant ebbed and receded.
“We must give praise to the Red God for starting Azor Ahai reborn on his blazing path of triumph over the Great Other!” As the Red Woman spoke, the candles and torches and fires a lit in the Great Hall began to whither and dim. “The nameless one’s evil is greatest in the dark. He revels in the black cold, void of love and heat and life. With Stannis as our King, let us show we fear not the Ancient Enemy, nor even death itself, and set a great fire of thanksgiving in the night … tonight!” And now, aside from the sparse rosy tones of the setting sun slipping in through the dragon mouth shaped vestibule of the Great Hall, the only source shedding light within came from the throbbing ruby at the priestess’ throat.
“Tonight,” warbled Selyse, standing up; the red glow of the ruby reflecting in her otherwise pale, insipid eyes.
----------------------------------------------------
“Your Grace, our praise of R’hllor would be ever so much the stronger if we fed the false idols of the Seven to his fire,” Melisandre passionately insisted. They were gathered in the Steward of the Great Hall’s now cramped office, not far from the dais supporting the high table. “There’s still time for your men to harvest the sept so they may become part of our burnt offerings.”
“How, dare …” burst the decrepit Cressen, only to have his outburst stunted by the young Maester Pylos gently laying a warning hand on the old man’s stooped shoulders.
“As dear Maester Cressen wisely said earlier, your Grace; the King has not yet made an official break with the Faith, no matter his personal leanings,” the newly minted Maester stated with more than a little nervousness to his voice in challenging the Red Woman in front of Selyse. “If this were to happen and word of it reach the King’s new banners, they might take it quite ill and withdraw their support.”
“Deluded northerners who worship trees they claim are the Old Gods,” Melisandre scoffed. “They care not for the Seven; and, their strength amounts to nothing compared to the might of the Red God.”
“The fat knight is a believer in the Faith,” Cressen’s wizened voice interjected, “even if he is from the North. Your Grace saw how wroth he turned at the idea of a sept being desecrated and the images of the Seven destroyed. Lord Stan ... his Grace valued the Ser enough to lead this admittedly strange dragonglass gathering expedition here.”
“Aye, and entrusted him with those letters to the Northern households,” Selyse agreed warily.
“Or valued him so little the King thought nothing of exiling his obese, deceived presence away from the light of Azor Ahai reborn’s grace,” the priestess counter posed.
“And you would make that judgment without first consulting the King?” Pylos asked. “Now we know the city and its keep have fallen, ‘tis simple enough to send his Grace a raven seeking his royal guidance.
The priestess frowned; she was meant to guide the savior, not him her. What’s more, something of this northman’s mission did not sit well with her, it smelled of deep mystery and perhaps conspiracy. The letters were mere political wrangling. The core of the King’s worldly strength, had he truly won the Iron Throne, would neither be made nor broken by the actions his written words would bring to the cold, deluded North. But the dragonglass, frozen fire, that … that hinted of darker deeds hovering beyond her keen, so much of her focus the last two days within the flames devoted to simply ensuring her own survival; no time to follow the near infinite number of shadows and reflections of light to discover the need for so much of the black liquid rock. ‘Is there another from a Red Temple come to Westeros to confront the Great Other?’ she wondered. That might explain the impenetrable light blocking her. No, Melisandre knew all the world’s high priests and prophets of R’hllor. She was the oldest of them. She was a Shadowbinder. She was the strongest and the wisest. The Lord of Light held her in his palm; she and she alone, except of course for Azor Ahai reborn whom he held in his other hand. ‘That cannot be the answer.’
“Don’t you agree, Lady Melisandre?” old Cressen cackled.
“Your counsel grows as long winded and deluded as your mind and body, Maester,” she responded.
“But the Maester has a point, your Grace,” Pylos said, addressing Selyse. “Once burnt, the statues of the Seven cannot be unburnt. But left unburnt, they remain always to await the King’s pleasure to burn them if he ever so commands.”
The Queen’s dour, doughty face shown with unhappiness, her lips clenched so tight and sharp they might pass for the edge of a blade. “Very well,” she snapped. “Ser Axell,” she said, addressing her uncle, also a follower of the Red God, who had remained silent in a corner as the priestess’ request was debate. “See that the building of the bonfire in the Outer Yard is complete within the hour, I will come then to set alit our praise to the true God. But no slight is to be given to the Seven this night. Oh, and be sure the smallfolk of the village and island side are encouraged to attend.”
“Wisely done, your Grace,” Cressen replied, a bit too obviously pleased with the outcome. A victory over the Red Priestess was a rare occurrence for the old man.
Maester Pylos, with true wisdom, kept his mouth shut and his eyes glued to the floor.
Ser Axell unhappily bobbed his chubby head in compliance with the Queen’s command and left the room.
“I feel unclean,” Selyse announced harshly, “having denied the Red God his proper sacrifice. Away with you all now, I must contemplate my sin.”
The others left. Melisandre lingered. The flames had not lied to her yet about this night. “Let me purify you, your Grace. Make you a virgin in spirit before the eyes of R’hllor,” she said softly, seductively.
The Queen’s dull eyes suddenly sparkled at the idea. “Yes, make me a bride worthy of Azor Ahai,” Selyse said with such a fervor, a near ecstasy, that her hard, sharp mouth softened into something almost pleasant to behold.
Melisandre smiled kindly. Then she began to hum a tune she’d learned long ago and far away in Asshai.
----------------------------------------------------
“I feel different,” Selyse announced.
“The grace of R’hllor has descended upon you, your Grace. Making you a consort fit for Azor Ahai reborn, a true daughter of Nissa Nissa,” the priestess explained.
“My voice sounds … different,” she said hesitantly.
“You’ve just sung the psalms of R’hllor, your Grace,” Melisandre cajoled. “His strength has entered you. Tonight, when you speak before the flames, you will speak with his voice, his power. You are taking the first step in becoming an acolyte of his sacred flame.”
“Yes, yes,” the beautiful glowing woman staring back at Melisandre said, feeling the truth of the words spoken to her.
The priestess smiled. “I have a final present for you, your Grace.” She handed over the box the messenger Qarhl had brought down from her room.
Selyse lifted the lid. She gasped. She reached down and pulled out a silken red gown.
“If you are to become his acolyte, you must dress the part in R’hllor’s presence, your Grace,” she explained.
Selyse’s eyes practically bulged out of her head. She stroked the soft, smooth silk beneath her hand. “Is there time?” she whispered. “I should call for my lady’s maid to help me change.”
“Please your Grace, allow me this privilege. The sanctity of your purification must not be rendered impure by the touch or words of lesser believers.”
The now beautiful red haired head of the Queen nodded agreement. “I understand.”
Melisandre helped the woman take off her stodgy gown and slide into the voluptuous garment gifted her. The priestess clasped all the hooks and tied all the bows for the coming offering.
“It’s a bit short,” Selyse commented.
Melisandre, aside from noting that Selyse’s red gold choker lacking a fiery ruby, saw the priestess’ identical twin standing in front of her.
Tap. Tap. A knock on the door. “Your Grace, all is in readiness. The believers await your and the Lady Melisandre’s presence,” Dragonstone’s castellan announced.
Selyse’s lips started to move.
The Red Priestess gently placed a finger over the Queen’s mouth, shaking her head no. “Her Grace will be out in a moment. Let no one speak to either of us during the procession, Ser Axell,” Melisandre commanded.
“Very well, my Lady,” his dull voice answered.
She smiled at the image of herself. “Remember, your Grace, speak to no one until the fire of thanksgiving is lit. And let nothing unusual you see surprise you, such will only be the one true God gracing you with his visions.”
Selyse drew herself up into her most regal bearing. “I am ready,” she proclaimed.
“You are,” Melisandre agreed with a smile. “You proceed first out of the room. I shall wait as R’hllor tells me and then I will follow behind you. In the heat of the fire, we shall sing together for Azor Ahai reborn.” And with that the Red Priestess bowed low.
The Queen took that as her cue and left the room in perfect silence.
When the door shut, Melisandre moved with all deliberate speed. She threw off her silken gown of the Red Temple and struggled as quickly as she could into the Queen’s discarded ensemble, all the while chanting in a low voice a very similar spell to the one she’d uttered earlier. It felt almost as if her skin tingled, bending light and shadows over it. She knew it nonsense, but she almost believed her ears truly grew.
KA-BOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!!!!
A gigantic crash rocked the Great Hall. Shrieks filled the air.
The corners of a hairy looking upper lip lifted into a smile of satisfaction. R’hllor was great. R’hllor was merciful. Tonight the Lord of Light would bath the soul of a true believer, an innocent, in his love. And the Many Faced God would be denied the soul promised it. She continued robing, finding the Queen’s clothes a bit long. She adjusted appropriately.
The sound of running feet came closer. “Your Grace!? Your Grace!?” voices shouted. Fists pounded insistently on the door.
“Enter,” she calmly, regally commanded.
A guard commander, some distant cousin of the Bar Emmons, but more importantly one of the Queen’s Men, a true believer, stepped in to the room, eyes wild with terror. “A disaster, your Grace. A tragedy. The Red God withdraws from us.”
The homely, jug eared appearing woman in Selyse Bannister’s dull garments stepped forward and slapped the man across his face. “Never,” she blazed. “The One True God never deserts the faithful. Never! Now tell me what has happened!?” she demanded.
“’Tis, the Lady Melisandre, your Grace.”
“What of her?” she asked sternly.
The man gulped. “A … a … a gargoyle fell of the middle wall.” Ser Richard blinked back tears. “It … it crushed her, your Grace. Our Lady is gone,” he moaned.
She slapped him again. “The Lady is never gone. She baths in the grace of the Lord Light. We must remember her. Cherish her. Live up to the memory of her beautiful soul. We must add a remembrance of her alongside our psalms of thanksgiving tonight.”
The guard captain looked incredulous. “We … we …” he sputtered before regaining a modicum of control. “Who will lead the prayers?”
“I will,” the woman in Selyse Baratheon’s clothes declared without a shred of doubt in her soul. “There is much yet still to do in service of the one true God.”
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