Chapter 35

After resting for what remained of the day, I arose at dusk and departed with my nest for the camp of the late King Stannis Baratheon, whereupon I found a young Princess Shireen Baratheon mourning her father at a funeral pyre. There was a special service performed by Melisandre, the Red Priestess herself, while Ser Davos Seaworth stood apart with Queen Selyse. I simply stood there quietly before the pyre and watched the flames burn away the King’s flesh. The hopes of the Baratheon host had faded, at least for now, but that was not meant to last.

I knew that more than most. The camp needed the right guide, the right leader, the right general to lead it, even with its King slain. It needed a cause, the right cause, and I was ready to show it the right path. I just needed to convince the right fellows ... and the right little lady. It would not be easy, as it would require great risk and sacrifice, but in the end, it could be done. I would do what had to be done. I would move the necessary pieces onto the chessboard for the greatest game of all.

“Good evening, Your Grace. I wish to offer my condolences upon the passing of King Stannis, your father. You are now Queen, are you not? Tell me, Your Grace, what will you do now? You still have your father’s army, his Hand, his gold, and his claim. What will you do now, dear little Queen? March on to Winterfell, where you will be welcomed by Lord Rickon Stark and his sister, Lady Sansa Stark. Yes, they are both free of their captors and House Bolton has been massacred, except for Lady Walda Bolton and their babe, of course,” I declared to the little Queen.

“You would have us gather our army ... to winter at Winterfell? With the brother and sister of the usurper Robb Stark?” Melisandre’s voice proved chillier than ice.

“Yes, for Robb Stark is dead. King Stannis is dead. Renly Baratheon is dead. Balon Greyjoy is likely dead or soon will be. Joffrey Baratheon is dead. Tommen Baratheon is also dead. Lord Tywin Lannister is dead. Cersei Lannister is ... dead. Lord Petyr Baelish is ... dead. Many more are dead or soon will be. Lord Edmure Tully has escaped. Lord Gendry Baratheon has taken the seat in Storm’s End and claimed the Stormlands. Brynden Tully is on the march in the Riverlands.

“Ser Loras Tyrell is dead. Kevan and Lancel Lannister are dead. Lady Olenna Tyrell is dead. The Brotherhood without Banners is still active. The Night’s Watch has a new Lord Commander. Jon Snow, who is no son of Ned Stark, but one of Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Soon, the ravens will announce him. Grand Maester Pycelle is dead. Qyburn is dead. The High Sparrow is dead.

“Tyrion Lannister and Lord Varys have escaped into exile in Pentos. No one knows the whereabouts of Euron Greyjoy, Yara Greyjoy, or Arya Stark. Do you not understand, my dear girl? The War of the Five Kings lives on, though the Five Kings are dead and gone. You have a great protector and Hand here in Ser Davos Seaworth. The Red Priestess has ... other duties. She must find the Son of Fire, whom she thought to be your father. She must go North.

“Oh, yes, Red Priestess, you will find that in the flames soon enough. You have lost your way and need ... refreshing ... new visions. New ecstasies, woman. You need to hear the Lord’s voice clearer than you have in an age. Ser Bronn of the Blackwater is gone from King’s Landing. How is that for a sign from R’hllor, the Heart of Fire?

“For the night is dark and full of terrors, but the fire burns them all away,” I quoted the Red Witch’s own words to her now.

“Who are you, anyway?” Queen Selyse now asked me.

“I am the Shadow that is cast by the Light. And I shed light of my own, as the Moon reflects the light shone by the Sun. You each have your part to play in this drama, this tragedy. Your Grace must go to Winterfell with your daughter, the Queen Shireen. So must you, Lord Davos. The Lady Melisandre must go North and face the snow. For winter is coming and with it the storm and the Dead.

“O Me! O life! of the questions of these recurring, Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish, Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d, Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me, Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined, The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer. That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse,” I quoted Walt Whitman, well aware that she would be unaware of his poetry.