Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki and Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

12th Day of the 7th Moon

Melisandre of Asshai

Her dreams were short, yet cursed like always - respite and agony intertwined. Before, Melisandre felt rested after an hour of sleep, yet… now, it was steadily growing. Two moons ago, her evening rest had already increased to two hours, and now, to her horror, it was steadily approaching three.

And Melisandre of Asshai loathed sleeping and the dreams that came with it even more.

'Melony,' It was a woman's cry, followed by a man's voice, 'Lot Seven'.

She stared into the crackling bonfire before her; flames danced and danced, but they were fickle, empty.

R'hllor was silent.

Eyes closed, prayer left her lips, another prayer in her mind, and then Melisandre opened her eyes to face the flames.

Nothing.

It had been nearly half a year since the Lord of Light granted her a vision or answered her prayers. Even the fire inside her had grown dim - the agony, the ecstasy filling her, searing her, was dwindling. No, it had been dwindling moons ago; now it was gone. Melisandre was feeling empty and cold on the inside.

She wanted to blame this savage, frigid land or the Builder's Wall, but no, R'hllor had stopped answering her calls that day on Dragonstone.

Ever since she had felt the cold darkness stirring from the far west, Melisandre had prayed and prayed to the Lord of Light to show her Azor Ahai. Ice and fire swirled together, blood and snow danced in the winds, faceless men and trees with faces.

For moons and moons, Melisandre kept looking, even after entering the service of Selyse Baratheon. Many before her were brought low by their hubris of seeing what they wished to see instead of what R'hllor showed. This is why she had sailed north to arrive here, Beyond the Icy Wall, where the servants of the Great Other stirred once more.

The Lord of Light was always right, and her latest vision of cold, darkness, and death did not feature the stag lord in any way. Stannis, a man who breathed duty with every action, had shown some signs, but Melisandre remained uncertain.

It was a handy thing - a powerful lord's wife was an easy way to spread the teachings of the Lord. Oh, how she wanted to believe that she had found the Promised Prince, but the spark of uncertainty had turned into a raging storm of fire with her final vision.

When the Red Star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai will be reborn again amidst smoke and salt to wake the dragons from stone.

Too many signs, too many words, too many visions, all fickle, like the minds of mortals.

Melisandre loved to put up a facade of poised confidence, yet had always struggled with her inner doubts. Mayhaps even the prophecy had been wrong, or those who had inked it down all those thousands of years ago.

But now, there were no more visions, yet the doubts remained.

The powers learned in the shadows of Asshai and the fires of the Temple of the Lord of Light remained, albeit slightly weaker, and the red ruby atop her breast did not waver.

With Rattleshirt's death, the newly converted followers scattered into the white winds, leaving her alone.

Melisandre knew the wildlings were fickle folk, but now she had nothing. Her work scattered, her destiny uncertain.

Darkness gathered, and the night was dark and full of terrors.

Yet even in the darkest hours, there was hope.

The choking presence of the icy servants of the Lord of Darkness was closing in, and the wild folk could do nought but plan their escape beyond Brandon's Wall.

For all their fiery savageness, they lacked the fire in their heart to fight against the coming darkness.

Then he came.

With a sword in hand, Jon Snow stoked the flames of courage within the hearts of men and women, banished the cold fear and turned the false true. He turned cowardice into bravery and crushed the servants of the Great Other with unmatched valour, vanquishing every icy foe he met.

Even now, she could see the circle of dark despair around them loosening little by little. The ebbing waves of cold and death were rebuffed again and again despite their hungry insistence.

The blade he wielded was not red and lacked the flames of the Lightbringer, yet was Dark Sister any lesser? Forged in the fires of the Freehold itself, Melisandre could feel the rippled steel pulse with a fiery power of its own, more so than others of its ilk. After all, the dragonlords had dug deeper into the depths of the arcane than anyone else.

Even with her sight gone and her dulled senses, she could sense something about Jon Snow.

The signs were all wrong, and nothing fit…

But maybe it was Melisandre who was wrong?

It would not be the first time…

It was a dull thing, but there was fire to his ice, hidden deeply inside Jon Snow. It seemed like a tiny spark but could turn into a roaring fire within a heartbeat. It was all wrong, but the boy, nay, his flesh might have looked young, but he had a regal, heroic presence, utterly devoid of youth and its follies.

Was this the Last Hero come again of the ancient legends of the First Men?

While born a bastard, Jon Snow hailed from the line of the Builder himself, a descendant of the savage heroes of yore. Her weary mind wondered if the Prince that was Promised was not a title by blood as much as one passed on by the merit of one's skill and prowess?

Little remained about the sorcerer-princes of the Freehold who dwindled into oblivion millennia before the Doom, other than their ability to bend the arcane to their will, and quite a few scholars had speculated that it had been a position given by merit over blood, first and foremost.

And here, Jon Snow was called many things - Lord Snow, Warg Chieftain, Lord of Wargs and the such. Despite certain negative connotations, all those monikers carried underlying respect even amongst the savage folk - it was a power earned with his sword in hand, blood or not; he easily held those titles like a king would wear a crown.

Melisandre looked into the flames, but they were empty. Doubt began to gnaw at her again and again.

Jon Snow had not only rebuffed any of her attempts for a talk, but he also did not deign to even spare her a single glance and avoided her as if she was a pox-ridden whore.

Underneath his calm veneer brewed a molten river of barely restrained fury, all aimed at her.

And Melisandre had no idea why, and finding out was not easy - approaching the so-called warg lord uninvited was asking for death.

Given some time, she could ply her plentiful wiles and turn the burning hatred into a searing passion, as they were two sides of the same coin. The temptations of the flesh were hard to resist, even more so for the hardiest of men. Melisandre had done it before, but any such attempts would be met with unrestrained violence by the fair-haired spearwife that shared Jon Snow's bed. Val was a beauty but no less savage than the lands that spawned her.

She had little doubt that the direwolves would also tear her apart the moment she tried anything. There were too many of them to be affected by her glamours and charms, and Jon Snow's ability to effortlessly slip into their skins made them even more resistant to such deception - the lone could be tricked far easier than the many.

And so, the red priestess sat here, gazed into the fire, and prayed and prayed - but all she received was silence and more questions.

But one of them was far more poignant than the others.

Had the Lord of Light abandoned her?

Melisandre had asked herself this again and again for moons now, but no response came, only silence. Although silence could be taken for an answer of its own to her growing dread…

Nothing - she was nothing without R'hllor.

The Lord of Light demanded loyalty and sacrifice, but she had already given it all…

She was here now, following the Lord's directions. Yet, Melisandre had never been so lost.

The idea to go back to the Temple in Volantis and consult with High Priest Benerro swirled in her head, but it was quickly squashed. The icy servants of the Lord of Darkness were drawn to her akin to moths to a flame and would hunt her down should she journey south alone.

The idea of foraying through the snow-veiled haunted forest on her lonesome without R'hllor's guidance made her grimace. The fear of death had long fled her, but perishing in vain served no purpose.

Worse, her need for sustenance had begun to return with a vengeance - her appetite had started to appear once more, and her meagre supply of food was quickly dwindling. And because of Jon Snow's clear, albeit silent, disapproval of her presence, none were willing to provide her with leftover foodstuffs.

"Melisandre of the Shadow," a woman's voice, high and sweet, yet weighted by sorrow. "Your welcome here has almost expired."

The priestess finally stirred from her seat and jerked her head, only to be faced with one of the so-called Singers of the Earth, a queer deer-like folk that followed Jon Snow. Cloaked in leaves and clad in tree-bark, nut-brown fur dappled with pale deer-like spots, long ears, and large golden eyes slit like a cat.

Oh, Melisandre was well aware of the ancient legends of the so-called Children of the Forest, but seeing them in person was another thing. At first, she had almost claimed them servants of the Great Other, but upon a closer look, they carried none of his vile and frigid darkness. Still, there was a hint of something bloody, something primal in them, just like the nameless deities of yore they worshipped.

If the whispers she had heard amongst the camp were true, only one of the Singers could speak the common tongue, and she had the apt yet droll name of Leaf.

"Is Lord Snow exiling me?"

"Everyone in the camp has to pull their weight, one way or another." But are not doing it - the words were left unsaid, but the priestess heard them well enough. "You enjoy the hospitality and protection like a guest, yet you were not invited."

The priestess looked at Leaf with a tilt of her head; the brown-furred thing barely reached her face in height, even when she was sitting. Truly, the stature of children.

Though the Singer was hard to read, her guarded eyes gave away nothing, and her face was serene like a forest.

Melisandre could not leave.

Yet, to stay, she had to prove herself useful in some way. An unwilling grimace formed upon her face - her dwindling skills lay in sorcery, persuasion, and seduction - none of which were considered of value amongst the wild folk. Trivial abilities like sewing, cooking, and the like were never necessary for a priestess of R'hllor.

"I am willing to… contribute," she offered, voice cracking slightly at the end.

The cat-like eyes were gazing at her knowingly, and the Singer nodded.

"I can teach you how to shape obsidian if you wish?"

Melisandre gazed carefully at Leaf, but the offer seemed surprisingly genuine, and worse, there seemed to be no strings attached. Her ability to read the hearts of men and women was something she prided herself upon, but doubt had begun to take root there.

Dragonglass, or frozen fire, as called by the Valyrians, was a fitting name for something that hailed from the fiery depths of the earth and was the weakness of the Cold Servants.

"I would be grateful," the priestess nodded carefully, trying to gleam something from the leafcloak's expression.

Instead of fetching pieces of dragonglass to be shaped, Leaf sat on the log beside her and curiously gazed into the fire before returning her gaze to the priestess.

"You keep looking at the flames, yet the more time passed, the more disappointed you seemed," there was a hint of curiosity in her melodic voice.

"R'hllor grants visions to his devout servants," Melisandre gave the typical yet no less truthful response, but the words left her reluctantly. "A skilled and pious follower of the Lord of Light would be guided through the fires and, in turn, light the way for the rest."

"Yet you seem quite… lost."

"It's been quite some time since I have been granted a vision in the flames."

"Gods are oft fickle," Leaf chuckled softly, the sound akin to tinkling bells in the wind.

"You understand nothing of R'hllor," Melisandre gazed into the flames and prayed again, yet nothing came. The fire danced and danced, yet it felt empty, cold.

"Mayhaps, yet I know of deities. The Old Gods lost their name in the rivers of time long ago," the Singer blinked at her before moving her eyes towards the crackling fire. "Dimwitted fools think it's trees that are worshipped, but nay. Mine gods are far more primal and powerful than a single forest could ever be. Rock and stream, forest and fire, storm and sea, sky and earth - the power of nature in its grand wroth and beautiful glory."

There was not a single shred of doubt in the deer-like being before her, and Melisandre couldn't help but blink. It was rare to be met with such a firm conviction.

"If your old gods were so powerful, why have your ilk dwindled so?"

"The greatest folly of your silly orders and clergies is that you believe gods care much about the short lives of us mortals," Leaf's chuckle was cold and mirthless now, just like the flickering snow that began to dance in the air.

Melisandre opened her mouth to give a sharp retort, but no sound came out. Half a year ago, she would have immediately denounced such blasphemy, yet the silence was deafening and maddening at the same time, and it made her feel like a blind woman wandering in the dark.

"Just… show me how to work dragonglass," the priestess sighed, pushing down her weariness.

***

15th Day of the 7th Moon

Princess Myrcella

There was a serene sense of peace in Winterfell. Her royal family and all the guests had departed for nearly two moons now, and the bustling bannermen and their retinue had also fled with them. It was an odd novelty compared to the commotion she was used to, but not an unwelcome one.

One of the most significant differences was the servants - the Starks knew most of them by name and received an ironclad loyalty from them. Ever since she was wed to Robb, Myrcella was on the receiving end of adoration, respect, and warmth from the household staff. It was quite unlike what she was used to with the Red Keep, where one had to be cautious of fools, lickspittles, and spies, and all the servants were as skittish as street cats.

The sense of unity and loyalty seemed to be continuously fostered by House Stark - a member of the household was invited to dine on the high table with them, where Robb listened to their woes and troubles. A tradition that Lord Stark seemed to have employed to a great degree, yet it would be inconceivable in the South - a noble, no, a highlord breaking bread with commoners and smallfolk.

It was an odd thing through and through, but Myrcella found that she did not really mind, as it brought a sense of novelty.

She also found herself being less and less guarded by the day - the Starks were far more warm, welcoming, and accepting than either side of her family.

After the wedding, her quarters had been moved into the Great Keep, right next to Robb's, although they oft spent the nights together. Any qualms about the coldness of the North were quickly dispelled - to her amazement, hot water from the hot springs flowed through the stone walls there, turning the place as warm as the Red Keep.

Myrcella was content and happy - despite her misgivings, everything was fine. The first week had been somehow rocky, and her good mother and Robb had seemed particularly tense, but she had also felt quite a lot of apprehension - this was her first separation from both of her royal parents and a permanent one at that. The tension dwindled with time but still lingered - Robb took up the duties as the Stark of Winterfell and continued to train in the yard with even greater fervour than before. Lord Stark had taken a hundred and fifty of his finest swords from Winterfell, along with the steward and a few other essential staff. Myrcella's husband seemed dead set on refilling the vacancies and vetting their ability in person.

And while the princess never cared much for fighting, watching Robb fight and train in the yard was oddly captivating - the clash of steel was akin to a dance, albeit far more deadly.

Next to her, Grey Wind sat calmly as Myrcella absentmindedly ran her hand through the shaggy fur of his neck. The direwolf approached the size of a pony and might have looked vicious but, in the last fortnight, had begun following around her like a puppy, albeit far larger and deadlier. Even at night, Grey Wind tended to sleep by the door.

Basking in the evening sun that banished most of the nightly chill that clung to the ground, Myrcella felt almost blissful. The northern cold lost most of its bite once you got used to it, but it was still there, never to truly leave.

"Lady Stark requests your presence," Rosamund's voice brought her out of her reverie.

Straight yellow hair, dull green eyes, and rosy cheeks - her distant cousin had remained here as a companion - the only one from the royal party. She could still remember how the Queen had proposed that a score of redcloaks remained here to guard Myrcella, but Lady Stark went red at the insult, and that had ended any such talks.

Rosamund was warily eyeing Grey Wind, who had lazily lolled out his tongue. Could the princess blame the poor girl, especially when the direwolf towered over her small form?

"He's one big softie," Myrcella cooed, scratching the underside of the shaggy neck, making the tail wag harder. Rosamund didn't seem very convinced, judging by her fearful eyes. "Come here and give me your hand."

The girl reluctantly approached as if the direwolf would devour her whole, much to Myrcella's amusement. Grey Wind leaned in and inspected Rosamund's quivering hand, and finding her boring, the direwolf arose and twirled around Myrcella, moving to her left.

Catelyn Stark had turned out quite headstrong yet was far more accommodating than Myrcella expected and just as demanding. Her good mother was strict and firm yet soft in a warm, endearing way, which the Queen lacked.

The way to the Great Keep was not too long, but Myrcella found herself short of breath. For some reason, her endurance had dwindled lately, and she felt somewhat lethargic. Thankfully, in a few minutes, they finally arrived at one of the meeting chambers at the base of the Great Keep.

With a nod, the guardsman, Tom, opened the door, and Myrcella entered, seemingly interrupting the conversation inside. Rosamund bowed and scrambled, probably to join Beth Cassel and Lyanna Mormont. Inside, Catelyn Stark was calmly sitting by an oaken table, Shaggydog's pitch-black form curled by her feet - just like Myrcella, one of the direwolves seemed to always stick around Lady Stark for the last half a moon.

Lyra Mormont stood in the middle of the chambers in her usual leathers and ringmail. Lady Stark nodded to Myrcella, and the princess quietly sat beside her. Grey Wind proudly trotted into the room and dashed forward to nip Shaggydog's ears before curling on the ground by her feet.

"How are my daughters faring, Lyra?"

"Lady Sansa has little talent with a dagger," the dark-haired woman sighed. "Not for the lack of trying, though; she's a gentle soul with little inclination to violence. Her talent lies in the bow, but her heart is not into it."

Lady Stark sighed, and for a heartbeat, Myrcella could swear she looked ten years older. It was a fleeting thing as she quickly hardened her face and looked every inch a mother of wolves. The princess had begun to admire Catelyn Stark - even in her plain woollen gown of grey and blue, she oft managed to look more regal than her mother in silk and gold.

Truthfully, this was probably the oddest thing in the North. Even here, training at arms for women was rare outside of the more dangerous corners like Bear Isle and the mountains, and Lady Stark's insistence on making her daughters learn such things struck Myrcella as odd. However, mastery of daggers and archery was still within the acceptable pastimes for noble ladies, even in some places in the South, albeit barely.

"It's been only a moon and a half," Catelyn said, voice impassive, but there was a hint of worry within her blue eyes. "I know little of training at arms, but any skill worthwhile takes a long time and effort to cultivate. What of Arya?"

"Lady Arya is… the opposite of her sister, really," Lyra grimaced. "Her talent with a dagger is far better than that of a bow, and her enthusiasm is endless."

"You say like that is bad," Myrcella noted curiously.

"It can be," the Mormont lady rubbed her brow tiredly. "Training overmuch can see muscles, joints, and tendons strained if not outright damaged. Lady Arya hides it well, but there is an unruly streak underneath, reminding me of my sister Alysanne. The reckless reliance on armour can be quite dangerous, and I feel that she simply does not understand how perilous fighting truly could be and is treating this like some sort of a childish game."

"Do remind my younger daughter if she refuses to follow your instructions, she will be barred from further training for a fortnight unless she learns how to listen and behave," Catelyn's reply was steely, making even the steel-clad woman step back with a nod under her stern gaze. "And what of Greyjoy? I heard Theon has been joining the lessons."

"He's been cocky but quite helpful with the archery practice."

The words were reluctant, but there was a tinge of respect there - it seems that the Heir of the Iron Isles was a skilled marksman. Myrcella didn't know what to think of Theon Greyjoy - the young man usually spent most of his time in Wintertown with whores if the rumours were true, and when she did see him, it was during the meals in the Great Hall, where he was half-cocky, half sullen.

"Thank you, Lyra. You can leave us unless there's something else to report."

"By your word, Lady Stark," Lyra bowed and left the chambers.

Lady Stark closed her eyes for a moment, then shook her head and picked up the small tunic with the yarn-threaded needle from the table. Judging by the size, it would go to Rickon once embroidered with the running direwolf of House Stark.

"You look quite tired," Catelyn's voice was heavy with concern as she looked at her. "If you wish, we can postpone this for later."

"There's no need," Myrcella shook her head and grabbed a piece of fabric herself. "All of you are doing so much."

"When all the household positions and the larders are fully refilled, the workload will be greatly reduced," the Stark matriarch noted fondly before her face turned deadly serious. "We must prepare for winter, for as my husband loves to say, winter is coming."

"It's still the height of summer," she said. "Surely we have plenty of time to prepare?"

"That's what I thought when I first came here, you know," Catelyn sniffed. "Yet winters in the North are longer and far harsher than in the South, and you can never be overprepared."

"Does it ever get easier?"

"There are always some harder moments, and inviting the whole North on top of the royal appetites was the most demanding of them all," Lady Stark gave her a wry smile. "It's all worth it in the end, though. Gods, even the cold has a savage beauty to it - when the deep winter comes, and snow falls and falls, you can see the land covered in a thick veil of white in every direction. It is as magnificent as it is deadly. When that time comes, you'll also find yourself bored to tears - there's not much to do."

It was hard for Myrcella to imagine, so she simply nodded and stared at the piece of fabric in her arms. It was grey velvet, suitably soft for a nightgown, yet she felt too lethargic to work on such a delicate thing.

"Shall we wait for Sansa and Arya to join us?"

"They'll probably take their sweet time to wash off the sweat and grime from the yard," Catelyn shook her head forlornly.

"Why the training at arms? House Stark does not lack swords to defend its daughters," Myrcella found herself asking, and her good-mother shuffled uneasily.

"It's more for my peace of mind than anything else," the words were slow and measured, but at the end, her voice became raw and jagged. "The ladies of the realm are usually well protected, yet all the less prepared to meet face-to-face with the cruelty of the world when the time strikes."

"War? But my father squashed all his foes and made the rest pay homage to him."

The Greyjoys were beaten into submission, and all the Targaryen loyalists were broken and reduced, with the House of the Dragon left with nought but a beggar prince and his small sister. There were no foes left - her royal father had beaten them all.

"There's no end to greed and ambition, Myrcella," a bitter chuckle escaped Catelyn Stark's lips. "House Targaryen sat as an unassailable behemoth, yet was torn down, albeit for a righteous cause. House Baratheon's legitimacy was earned at the end of swords, spears and warhammers. It is still fresh and shaky without decades of tradition and stability to back it up."

"None would rebel while my father is alive."

"Indeed, none would dare raise their banners against him, that's true. But would your brother hold the same respect?"

"My father's still young," she pointed out. "Barely thirty-six name days."

"No man lives forever. Robert Baratheon is a carefree man of great appetites- and even greater excesses. I have seen him feasting and drinking as if every day is his last," Catelyn sighed heavily as if the weight of the world rested upon her shoulders. "When I was but a little girl, it seemed like peace would last forever, but as I grew up, I realised that is nothing more than a fool's wish. Scarcely twenty years pass without a war - sooner or later, another one is bound to come."

The words were chilling, and the princess could not refute any of it - her good mother might have spoken bluntly, but her words rang true.

"Can't… can't we do anything?"

War was dangerous; she knew that much, and Myrcella found the idea of risking the lives of her family, both new and old, unappealing.

"Women cannot lead battles or fight in wars like men can. But we can provide sound counsel to our husbands and sons when the time comes."

"Is that why you're so…" The words died in her mouth as her throat felt dry.

"Helpful and kind?" Catelyn finished for her with a rueful smile, and the princess blushed. "You're wed to Robb and are now my daughter in all but blood. When I'm gone, you shall be the Lady of Winterfell, the word of advice and, if need be, the voice of reason in Robb's ear. A capable lord must have an equally capable and trusted wife, as two heads are always better than one."

She coughed and looked down, trying to get her rising embarrassment under control. Myrcella knew that much herself, but seeing it was another thing. There was a hint of undeniable approval and gentleness in Catelyn's blue eyes - and the open honesty of her words was striking far more than any scheming or deception.

It was not a bad feeling.

This, this was why she found herself liking Winterfell more and more - it did help that Robb was a far better husband than she had hoped for. Attentive, gentle, and passionate, and nothing like her royal father or uncle. Life was far from bereft of troubles and woes, but they seemed largely insignificant when not facing them alone.

Myrcella's stomach twisted then, and she lurched forward, fabric almost slipping from her grasp.

A wave of nausea almost made her world spin, but a firm yet soft hand propped her up.

"Myrcella, are you fine?" The princess raised her gaze to meet the concerned eyes of Lady Stark.

"I think I need some bedrest," she managed to mumble and push down the rising need to puke out her luncheon.

"When was the last time you've had your moonblood?" Catelyn's voice was oddly joyous.

Myrcella closed her eyes, trying to fight her pulsing head; gods, the lights in the room were irritating to her eyes now.

"Nearly two moons ago?"

"I think," Lady Stark's words were quiet and soft like velvet, "you might be with child. It seems that two wolves shall join the pack."

"Two?" Myrcella echoed, confused. Gods, the headache was killing her.

"You're not the only one to miss your moonblood twice," her good-mother let out a soft, joyful laughter. "I did give birth to five children and know the signs well enough. I've yet to go to Luwin myself because the seed might not always quicken, but by the second moon, the chances of miscarriage are low."

The princess tried to smile, but her stomach lurched, forcing her to heave over.

***

16th Day of the 7th Moon

The Isle of Women.

A ship with a sinister dark-red hull swayed unsteadily by the dingy dock. It had a single mast adorned by pitch-black sails, bearing a golden kraken; the ship's figurehead was a black mouthless maiden with one hand outstretched as if she was grasping for something before her, figure slender and curves generous - all of it forged by black iron.

The night was filled with cries of pain and yells of anguish across the village as the houses were set on fire. Yet the stone-faced ironmen were oddly silent as they herded a long line of men, women, and children clasped in irons towards the dusty square of the village, where a crude altar with a wide basin lay.

In the middle of the basin sat a round, scaly stone, pale orange with swirls of brown.

And right next to it, under the wan light of the moon, a pale and handsome man with a mocking smile and a black eyepatch covering his left eye. His lips were pale blue, glinting ominously on the flickering bonfire amidst his neat, dark beard. Atop his silver-lined belt was slung a greatsword in a gilded sheath with a golden lion-head pommel lined with red gold and rubies for eyes. He was clad in black scale armour inscribed with various glyphs, patterns, and arcane symbols.

To his right was a shivering figure leaning on an ebony staff inscribed with odd runes and figures, cowled in dark, heavy robes despite the sweltering heat.

"So noisy," Euron Greyjoy frowned as he looked at the wailing captives before turning to the figure beside him. "How much blood is needed?"

"A full b-b-basin should be enough," the voice was hoarse with an odd accent, yet shivering.

The Crow's Eye hummed thoughtfully and motioned his men to drag over the first captive, a tall woman with her belly swollen heavy with child.

She pleaded and cried, yet a knife quickly ran deep through her throat; the ironmen held her down over the basin as she began to gurgle and struggle while rich blood dripped down over the scaly stone. Half a minute later, her trashing was reduced to nought but a twitch, and after long and agonising two minutes, the flow of blood lessened, barely covering the bottom of the basin, and her still form was thrown carelessly to the side.

All the prisoners tried to struggle and yell, but it was in vain and only earned them a few brutal and painful strikes. Few who did not cease to resist were outright knocked out.

The captives were brought forward one by one, and the pile of corpses quickly grew until, nearly an hour later, the basin was finally filled with blood.

"What now?" Euron asked cheerily as he inspected his dagger dyed red with blood.

"It should stay t-there and absorb the lifeblood u-until dawn," the robed figure was shaking again. "A dozen virgins must burn on a pyre at dawn to awaken the dragon from stone."

On the morrow, as the sun peaked through the east, the Crow's Eye smiled with anticipation at an enormous pyre where twelve young maidens, some barely more than girls, were wailing in agony. Half an hour later, only ashes and embers remained, and he impatiently had his men search a round with a handful of iron fire pokers.

His joyous smile was replaced with a fierce scowl when the scaled orange stone was revealed intact. With a single motion, the sword was released from its sheath, a glint of dark, rippled gold glinted in the sun, and the head of the robed figure rolled on the ground, colouring the ashes and sand red.

"What a waste of time," Euron tutted, taking a swig of his flask, leaving a deeper shade of blue upon his lips. With a sigh, he cleaned the blood off the heavy dark robes of the fallen figure and turned his gaze northward. "These warlocks are useless."