Tyrion Lannister was in command of over a thousand men journeying to King's Landing. The war had taken several surprising turns – from a Trial of Seven, to his niece being 'executed' but returning more dangerous than ever, to the return of the Targaryens and two new contenders for the throne. It had been hard to keep track of the latest happenings.
His nascent network of eyes and ears was too new to be of much use and too concentrated in the Stormlands. That was one of the reasons he was personally going to King's Landing, bringing gold along with a number of 'servants,' 'free riders,' and 'camp followers' to extend his network's reach into the heart of Westeros.
Tyrion was under no illusions that his project would bear fruit quickly. These things took time, but eventually, he hoped to rival the Spider himself. Officially, this large body of men was merely there to deliver Ser Rolland Storm, Bastard of Nightsong, Slayer of the Greatjon, and the one who captured the Warden of the North, to King's Landing to participate in the Trial of Seven."
Tyrion feared treachery, which was why his letter stated he was bringing 1,000 men to ensure Ser Rolland's safety through the war-torn lands. However, thousands more would be converging from the corners of the Stormlands into the Kingswood. Their numbers couldn't rival the Dornish forces, but it might give his niece options if they were being deceived. She was bringing 10,000, likely some of her very best.
It will be good to see her again. I am curious how she survived the Eyrie.
The stories that surrounded her had grown in their retelling. Apparently, she had slain demons from the lowest pits of the Hells, killed the Red Viper in single combat, and become the living representation of the Maiden in Westeros. While he thought all of that was nonsense, he did know that she and her commanders had won victory after victory. A stalemate against superior forces, followed by small victories and great hardship inflicted on Stannis and Stark, so much so that they sailed away from further conflict. From there, they took Harrenhal. Harrenhal. Not done, they also smashed the fresh and unbloodied Vale host with contemptuous ease. Tyrion was a student of history, and save for Aegon the Conqueror, who'd had dragons, none could match their feats.
"So, Imp, what can you tell me of my likely brothers-in-arms?" Rolland asked. The man was not the most pleasant of individuals, and it was only Ser Cortnay's explicit command that Tyrion Lannister was to be obeyed that allowed even the slightest hint of respect.
"Little and less. I suspect Ser Guyard Morrigan will be one, but so many of the potential great knights have already fought in one Trial of Seven. Ser Arys, Ser Brienne, Ser Gladden, and the rest."
"Ser Brienne?" Rolland scoffed. "The so-called Terror of Tarth, making her a knight was quite the jape."
"She's probably slain more men than you," Tyrion countered.
"Gold Cloaks and levies," Rolland snorted. "She won a melee, so she wouldn't be unskilled. Just feels wrong to have a lady knight."
Tyrion cocked his head. "You disagree with the 'Maiden-made-flesh' and her decision?"
Rolland shrugged. "I've never met her, but the stories seem far-fetched. Never seen a demon before. You really think something like that can be slain by a girl?"
"Ser, you may want to keep that opinion to yourself. It is quite at odds with the Stormlords," Tyrion replied, somewhat annoyed, but also halfway in agreement. The stories had gotten ridiculous.
The bastard spat. "You wouldn't understand. They expect it o' me. I'm just a bastard. I can say what I think, because polite folk don't expect any better. Granted, if I was less impressive on the battlefield, I'd have lost my head by now."
Tyrion laughed. "You know, Storm, your irreverence appeals to me. If it comes to it, I'll help convince my niece not to remove your tongue for insolence."
"I plan to secure your nephew's throne in the trial. Afterwards, I suspect I'll be granted honors beyond imagining – lands, respect, a noble wife. Tolerating my insolence will be a price everyone will gladly pay."
Tyrion met his gaze. "I'm glad you have plenty of incentive to win, then."
Done with the conversation, Tyrion nudged his horse ahead of the column. Ser Rolland had a few other knights of prowess with him, though the gap in ability was considerable. They would soon see how they measured up against those Myrcella had chosen. Through all of this, Tyrion couldn't help but wonder what was happening with his father. Tywin Lannister, Master of Casterly Rock, was not one to play second fiddle to anyone. And yet, all messages now came from Myrcella. Had he fallen ill? Suffered a wound kept secret to avoid damaging the men's morale? As Tyrion rode, he pondered what awaited him in King's Landing.
***
Healing Ser Barristan was tricky. I knew the basics of what needed to be done. I had to strengthen the leg bones and joints so he could put the same amount of weight on it as his other leg. The problem was that I couldn't see what I was doing. Doing too much could be just as harmful as doing too little. Since I couldn't see my progress, I spent the first two evenings using my magic to "feel" the healthy leg and compare it to the damaged one.
From there, I gently used my magic to encourage the bones in his injured limb to grow denser. As I said, it was a very light touch – I didn't want to really fuck something up. Since I wasn't participating in the Trial of Seven, I felt quite apprehensive about the fight. Without Ser Barristan, our odds didn't look good.
Robb had demonstrated an almost unheard-of ability to anticipate his opponent's attacks. I wasn't sure if it was training, instinct, or something else. It reminded me of a visual power from an old anime in my first life. Users with a special eye could see minute differences in stance, 'chakra,' and muscle tension, allowing them to predict an opponent's moves. Robb was a good ace in the hole, but this talent didn't make him invincible.
My second ace was Sandor Clegane. The Hound proved frightfully competent and never seemed to tire. This was a huge advantage, as fatigue was always a factor in any duel that didn't end quickly. His size and strength were absurd. If my Uncle Jaime were still alive, I couldn't say for certain who would win. Give both men a sword and no armor, and Jaime's speed, skill, and cat-like reflexes would likely make him the victor. But clad in steel, I might give the edge to the revived Hound.
I lacked a bit of faith in the rest. Roland Storm, I knew only of reputation and had never seen fight. I was also concerned that the journey from Storm's End and King's Landing could prove harrowing. Someone had given Cersei the poison she used on me, and I suspected it was Varys. I wouldn't put it past him to arrange a 'bandit attack' or some other contrived way to remove Ser Roland from contention. I had written Tyrion and Ser Cortnay to make sure he was provided an ample guard with many outriders.
Ser Guyard was solid, but Robb and Sandor ate him for breakfast. He was also a bit resistant to the idea of pushing back one opponent to create space, and then using those precious seconds of space in a two-on-one to go in for a kill or decisive wound. 'Dishonorable' – bah, it was a seven on seven, not seven one-on-ones! Bronn at least had no problem with that; his issue was that he refused to wear the heavier plate and insisted on lighter armor.
There was a reason heavy plate was the norm for high-end combat in Westeros. It worked. Over 90% of the body was essentially invulnerable to sword strike and spear thrust. Sure, some bruising may occur from a particularly hard blow, but the layers of protection made even that limited. The softer points, such as the joints, also had protection, so it required a strong blow, even for the weakest section of armor, to get through the chain links around the inside of the elbow and back of the knee.
Bronn's light armor removed that power requirement. Glancing blows could cause damage, and he was now vulnerable on far more areas. His response was flippant and that he didn't intend to let any blows through regardless.
There was no better teacher than experience, and so I made him fight Sandor. Bronn was bruised afterward, but there was no convincing him.
"Lady Myrcella, I am not used to fighting in plate armor. If I fight in it, I won't be as effective. Plus, your pragmatic tactics work so much better with me being able to move faster to help the person next to me."
I didn't like it, but I knew that micromanaging wouldn't yield the best results. Assuming everything went well with Ser Barristan's healing, I still needed one more. My alternates in training included Ser Perwyn Frey and Addam Marbrand. Ser Perwyn was less impressive than Ser Guyard. Ser Addam was about equal to Ser Guyard, and he had a head for command. I really didn't want to use him, as he was supposed to command the 10,000 outside King's Landing. Again, assuming Ser Barristan would participate – if he couldn't, then my Lord Commander would lead the outside forces.
There was also hope that one of the Stormlanders coming with Ser Roland would be a better selection. But I was wary of that option since they wouldn't know the system or have gone through my mini-training regimen.
Brienne entered the tent while I was finishing up that evening's magical healing.
"My lady, word has arrived from Ser Lum. He has passed Moat Cailin, and the North is honoring their right to safe passage to the Wall. However, it seems Jon has left the Wall and is expected to arrive in Winterfell soon."
I nodded at the news. I had some worry that Ser Lum and Ser Jaspar would be made 'guests' for the duration of the war, or that the North hadn't yet fully rallied behind Jon and wouldn't respect what letters he had written to the realm.
"Lord Tywin has moved west and will be attempting to force Riverrun's surrender. The news that Lord Stark abandoned Stannis may help in getting their capitulation. He is no longer employing his prior tactics, instead using a guarantee of Lord Edmure's safety as a bargaining tool."
"So long as he knows he can't have Edmure executed if they refuse, that is fine. Having the Riverlands bend knee to the Freys and Tommen is the best outcome." I gave her a confident smile. "Once we win the Trial of Seven, I believe Edmure can be induced to swear vassalage to Lord Frey."
Brienne frowned. "I still believe it would be better for you to stay with the army as opposed to viewing the trial personally."
I gave Brienne a look. "We've talked about this. I need to be there. If there is treachery, I can rally the smallfolk of the city."
"If there's treachery, they will target you first! We would be overwhelmed in moments."
Barristan sat up. "You forget, ser, that our liege lady has abilities that could get her away."
I held up my hand. "If I thought the probability of treachery was high, I would agree. If Aegon betrays me with something as norm-violating as direct violence, it will go badly for him throughout the realm. Guest-right is sacred. No, if there's treachery, I suspect it would be some sort of attempt to negate the results of the trial. They have the High Septon in their pocket, but we have these 'sparrows,' so it could create a mess, but devolving into direct violence would shatter his rule."
I gave my knights a smile. "Besides, we've given him a choice alternative, even in defeat. Lord of Dragonstone, pardons for those who backed him, territorial lines for the Reach and Dorne where they were at the start of the war, and the return of the few hostages we have."
"As you say, my lady." She wore a pensive frown. "It worries me – you in command outside would provide fluidity that I do not believe Ser Addam has."
"Do you wish for command?" I ask.
"NO!" Brienne shook her head empathetically. "No, my place is at your side."
"And that is where you will be, and it will be within King's Landing." Putting the matter firmly aside, I moved on to my next question. "Any news from the Vale?"
"No word yet, but the smallfolk are suffering. The hill tribes have been making a menace of themselves. With our recent victory and the gathering of levies between Stannis and Lady Arryn, many towns and villages are left vulnerable."
War was terrible, such an awful waste of human life and resources. This was why I was at peace with my decision to stake everything on the Trial of Seven.
I excused myself after we finished that topic. "If that is all, I will turn in for the evening. The use of my healing magic exhausts me."
I could still hear them discussing possible plans and contingency plans while I drifted off into sleep within minutes.
***
It was difficult for Arya to tell the passage of days in the torch-lit gloom of the caves. Sometimes she thought it had only been a couple of days, while other times she wondered if weeks had gone by. Brynden had spoken with her several times, and Arya had learned more about the world and her own abilities.
She was a warg. A skinchanger. Bryden had taught her how to consciously move her mind into Nymeria's body. It was such a strange experience for Arya. She liked being Nymeria, Nymeria was warm. She was confident and a source of boundless energy.
"Very good, child. Now return to your own flesh."
Arya reluctantly did so. After slipping her skin and taking up Nymeria's, she always felt weak and drained. Her senses were no longer sharp, and she no longer felt as if she could do anything and everything. She groaned and pulled up into a sitting position.
"You are progressing well. The next step is for you to start stepping into the skin of other creatures than your wolf."
"Why do I need to learn how to do this?"
A dry, cackling sound escaped from the man with roots growing out of him.
"Once you learn how, you can slip into a raven or crow to spy down from on high. Surely you can see the use?"
Arya flushed a bit in embarrassment. "So I am supposed to be a scout, and that will save people from the Others?"
"No, but it is useful. You will go beyond mere skinchanging. This was meant for your brother, but needs must, and there is a path yet possible." The voice grew wispier and softer. "Enough for today, I must rest."
Arya left the strange man and returned to the others. Syrio greeted her, and they spoke a bit about her 'lessons' with the lord of the cave.
"A girl must tread carefully. Magic is a sword with no hilt – useful, dangerous."
"I know. I do like being inside of Nymeria, and it would be nice to try flying. Lord Brynden isn't sure if whatever he wants to do is going to work. I'm worried about how the war is going. I'm worried about those things outside of the cave," Arya voiced her worry, attempting to keep her voice steady.
"Fear cuts deeper than swords. A girl has grown, a girl is wise, a girl is brave. What will be shall be, and I know you will make your dancing master proud."
Syrio had finished trimming two limbs from a tree into swordlike shapes. It wasn't as good as a proper wooden training sword, but it would do for a dancing lesson. Going through the forms and sparring with Syrio lifted her spirits greatly.
When they were done, Jojen returned from wherever he had gone. The death of his sister had affected him greatly, and Arya wished she had some way to make him smile again. Syrio gave him a nod and went off to find another heavy root to begin trimming.
"Arya, how are your lessons going?"
"I can shift into Nymeria at will now."
"Good. That's good." He looked at her, then away, and then toward the ground.
"Arya… I… I don't know how much time I have left."
Arya looked at him with alarm. "What do you mean?"
"Magic requires sacrifice, it requires blood. The weirwood trees subsist on more than just the sun and water."
"They need your blood to grow their trees?" Arya asked with confusion and outrage.
Jojen shook his head. "No, I'm sorry; I've started this poorly. I mean to say that great works of magic require blood. You don't have the ability to do what needs to be done, but my blood could change that. My life could."
Arya shook her head in emphatic denial. "Then we stop this. I'll tell that old root-head that I'm heading back south."
"Arya, we'll never get past the dead without his help." He paused, searching her expression. "Besides, what the world of men faces is extinction if we don't stop the Others. You've heard the truths Lord Brynden shared, what Leaf has told us. They will come, and they will kill every living thing. If I do nothing, we all die. If I sacrifice my life, we may live. Would you not do the same?"
Arya had tears in her eyes. It wasn't fair. How could Jojen die so soon after Meera.
"I… I… yes, yes, I would die if it meant my family could live."
Jojen exhaled deeply, and smiled for the first time since Meera died. "Then you do understand. I'm glad. Thank you, Arya."
The boy grasped her hands and squeezed, and then let go. As he did, he stood and began walking back to the branch passage toward the alcove where he did his sleeping. As he moved past Nymeria, the wolf growled, and then let out a whine. Arya called Nymeria over to her and ruffled her fur, before burying her face in it.
"It isn't fair. Meera, Donnis, Harwin, and so many more have died. It will be Jojen next, but when will it stop? When?"
***
Jon and his small band of Night's Watch brothers, along with the few who had proclaimed him King and followed loyally, were camped now less than a day's ride from Winterfell. Three separate fires flickered in the cold night, offering warmth to the small gathering. Sam sat next to him, keeping him company, while Melisandre gazed intently into the flames, lost in her visions.
"How do you think it works?" Sam asked.
"What do you mean?" Jon replied.
"That." Sam pointed at her. "Do you think R'hllor always knows when his priestess is looking at him through the flames, or just sometimes? And why does it always have to be fire, anyway?"
"Perhaps you should ask her."
Sam looked horrified. "No, I don't think I'll be doing that."
"I can always let her know you were curious; she would no doubt love to answer your questions," Jon said with a straight face.
Sam shook his head. "You are joking, right? 'Tis just a jest. Yes, it has to be."
Jon held his expression for a moment longer before breaking into a laugh, clapping Sam on the shoulder.
"Relax, Sam. As for your question, I have no idea. And I don't plan on asking, either. It's not wise to pry into a man's or woman's thoughts about the gods. That's their business."
The flames near Melisandre surged upward before settling back down. Both Jon and Sam exchanged a glance before turning their attention to her as she approached. Jon's gaze traced the curve of her form, her red garments revealing more than they concealed. Despite the freezing temperatures, she rarely wore more.
"Your Grace, a word in private."
Jon nodded and gestured for Sam to go.
"I trust Sam with my life, and I would have him be part of my counsel. Why did you wish to speak to me without him present?"
"The Great Other moves against us. He seeks to sever my connection to the Lord of Light. Several times, visions began to form, only for the flames to shift and slip away. I mislike it greatly, this blindness. Still, I did manage to sense something – and see something."
Jon waited, stubbornly refusing to prompt her. After a pregnant pause, she smiled at him.
"Very good, Your Grace. I saw a mask. A face. One you trusted, one that will betray you." Melisandre's voice was lower than normal.
"Who?"
"I cannot say for certain. The vision was opaque, and it could mean many things. One possibility is that the pretender in King's Landing has paid the House of Black and White for a Faceless assassin. The Faceless Men are dangerous. If my visions were clear, I could protect you – but now… you must remain on guard."
Understanding dawned on Jon. "That's why you wanted Sam away from me. Because I trust him."
"Yes. I do not think Sam is the danger, but you must become used to always being on guard. When we arrive in Winterfell, we will arrange a heavy guard around your rooms, and I will remain in your chambers."
Jon swallowed thickly. "That may cause some talk."
"It may, but some scandal is less dangerous than a dagger to the heart. Be especially cautious around your loved ones in Winterfell. The assassin could already be hiding among them," Melisandre warned.
Jon snorted. "Loved ones? Rickon was a small child; I cherished his laughter, but we spent little time together. Catelyn has no affection for me. I am fond of several, but not to the extent you imply."
Melisandre pursed her lips. "My vision made it clear that the danger was from a person you trusted fully. Perhaps your enemy will wear the face of your father. Or your brother. Perhaps it will be someone you have not yet met; the danger is real, but the timing, I know not."
He hated the uncertainty and the lack of information. That night, he slept and dreamed of chasing down a deer in the Godswood. It was a strange dream, one where he could taste blood and the near intoxicating taste of raw flesh. He woke with the dawn, feeling less rested than when he had laid his head down.
After a brief breakfast, they mounted and rode on, soon nearing the walls of Winterfell. A nervous energy coursed through Jon. He dreaded what Lady Catelyn's response might be, yet the thought of seeing his home again thrilled him. Many of the men who had served Winterfell would likely have gone south with the armies. Who would still be there? Rodrik Cassel? Heward? Hullen? Maester Luwin – surely, he had remained.
"That is not the face you should wear when you arrive, Your Grace," Melisandre cautioned.
"What is wrong with my face?"
"You wear your worries too openly. A king must be seen as confident and steadfast. Whether you feel certain of your path or not, you must leave no room for doubt in your resolve."
"Always? I do not think I can do that." Jon replied doubtfully.
"You may let the mask drop around close confidants, but never in public. You have the blood of Kings on both sides of lineage. Act it."
Jon nodded sourly, and put on his 'Kingly' face. An hour passed, and Winterfell came into view. He saw the tops of the turrets and Winterfell's inner 100-foot-high walls. Before seeing the Wall, Jon had thought Winterfell the most impressive fortress imaginable. But still, Winterfell had much going for it despite not being 700 feet high.
Its outer walls were made of gray granite. They stood 80 feet high and reinforced gates that could withstand much. Between the outer wall and the inner wall was a wide moat. Jon suspected it would be frozen over by now with the colder weather.
Nearer still they came, and then Jon saw a big black direwolf running through the snow toward them. Ghost intercepted the wolf, and the two began chasing and playing with each other.
The color means it is Shaggydog. But where is Nymeria?
They continued riding as the two direwolves frolicked. Ahead of them, outside of the walls, was a small party. Some guards, Maester Luwin, Rickon, and Catelyn Stark. Now he knew her as his aunt. But did she see him as a nephew? Or a pretender and an oath breaker?
Jon kept his face composed as he dismounted. Catelyn stepped forward, and then as one, she and all her guards went to one knee and bowed. She lifted her head and looked him in the eyes.
"Your Grace." Catelyn's words were soft.
Jon felt a strange mixture within him. Vindication, guilt, anger, duty, and embarrassment warred with him.
"Please," he said hoarsely, "rise."
Catelyn and the others did.
"I have words to say, Jon. I speak now for my lord husband, Eddard Stark of Winterfell. In his name, I pledge our oath of fealty, from this day until our last. You are the King of Westeros, Jon Targaryen."
Jon felt his knees grow weak. It was one thing for a few lesser folk to call him King, but for Catelyn Stark to do so? This was really happening; he was going to be the King. Melisandre gave him a glance, then turned her eyes to Catelyn. Jon gathered himself and accepted the oath with the appropriate words.
Catelyn then motioned for a servant to bring forth bread and salt. Melisandre took the first bite of the bread and then nodded her head before Jon consumed a piece.
"Introductions are in order. This is Sam Tarly of the Night's Watch. My well-read friend is an able hand with the ravens and a trusted advisor." Jon saw Sam pink a little at his words. "This is Melisandre, a priestess of R'hllor, who warned us of the coming of the Others."
Maester Luwin looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Did you see this with your own eyes… Your Grace?"
Jon nodded. "I know how it sounds. I didn't want to believe it, but I saw them. I saw the wights and the Others. I found and killed them. I saw Melisandre wield flame and burn the dead. This was no ruse or mummer's trick to give reason for men to rally to my banner. It is the unvarnished truth. The dead come to kill the living."
Catelyn shivered. "Seven preserve us. Come, let us talk in your fa… uncle's solar."
Walking into Winterfell and hearing people he'd known all his life bow and address him as "Your Grace" was a surreal experience. In equal measure, it made his skin crawl with unease and his chest swell with a sense of rightful belonging.
Once in the solar, it was Ser Rodrik, Lady Catelyn, Maester Luwin, Sam, and Melisandre.
"We have been on the march – what news?"
"Much and more must be shared," Catelyn exclaimed. "We received word from my husband that he has struck a bargain with Lady Myrcella and Tommen. Ned is coming home, and with him the remnants of the Northern army. Once they reach the Neck and are in the North, Bran Stark will be sent north as well."
"What of Robb?" Jon asked with alarm. "Is he well?"
Catelyn looked worried. "Aye, for now. As part of the agreement, Robb will participate in the Trial of Seven to determine whether Tommen or Aegon will rule. Should Lady Myrcella's champions, which now include Robb, prevail, Aegon Targaryen will swear fealty to Tommen and be granted Dragonstone. Lady Myrcella has agreed to leave the North in peace until winter has passed. After that, the choice will be to kneel or fight."
Jon looked confused. "Lady Myrcella? I've heard rumors, but isn't the regent for Tommen his grandfather, Tywin Lannister?"
Melisandre let out a sigh. "She is a demon like her father. One who shatters legacies and upends the order of the world. Be wary of her, Your Grace; she made her uncle Stannis dance to her tune to his sorrow."
Catelyn looked at Melisandre with suspicion. "You have a reputation, Lady Melisandre. Rumors have spread in the North of your burning of a sept and have intentions to burn the weirwood. And that you serve Stannis Baratheon. How did you come to be here next to my nephew?"
"There will be no burnings while I am King," Jon said firmly.
Melisandre's face went utterly still for a moment before resuming its animation with a frown.
"One must not put stock in base rumor. I once served Stannis, but he was a false claimant. R'hllor has gifted me with visions in the flames, ones that I am a master at interpreting. But even I am but human. Jon is the one who wielded a blade of fire against the Others. He is the only man in thousands of years to slay one; there can be no doubt – he is Azor Ahai."
Jon held up his hand. "We can address that later. For now, I must decide what to do. Should I wait until fath… Lord Stark arrives? Or have him wait at the Neck and wait for my arrival?"
"To what purpose?" Catelyn asked. "We have been promised peace for the duration of winter by the Lannisters and Baratheons, but if we cross back south…"
"I know, but this is not an agreement of my making. I need to unite all of Westeros, not just some of it."
Ser Rodrik spoke up, "Your Grace, with what men? Lord Stark writes that only a third of what went south is returning North. We might see more return as time passes, as there are many stranded in the Stormlands, Riverlands, and Gods know where else. But in terms of numbers, we are outnumbered. We cannot prosecute war, not with the threat of Wildlings and Others as well."
"More may rally to my banner. We haven't received word yet, but I imagine having the North bend the knee will be a powerful sign. My… ah, Lord Stark is well respected for his honor. And Lady Catelyn, surely your siblings will raise their banners now as well?" Jon asked hopefully.
Catelyn shook her head. "Edmure has been captured by Lady Baratheon. Lysa… Lysa has shamed us all. Last we heard; Stannis is fighting those still loyal in the Vale. We will find no help from that quarter. Perhaps individual houses will still rally, but as of yet, we only hear reports of two groups that have crossed the Neck."
Catelyn looked to Ser Rodrik. "A Ser Lum Weiss from the Westerlands and half a hundred mounted soldiers have accepted your offer to go to the Wall and see the threat with their own eyes and report back to Lady Baratheon."
Jon frowned. Why was a Westerlands knight reporting to Myrcella and not Tywin? He ignored that thought for now.
"And the other group?"
"Several hundred smallfolk and a Red Priest who leads them."
"Who?" Melisandre asked with sudden intensity.
"Thoros of Myr." Rodrik answered.
Melisandre made a dismissive gesture. "He is an able combatant, no more."
Jon chewed his lip in thought. He had the backing of the North, but seemingly little else. Melisandre believed that his destiny was to press his claim, seize the Iron Throne, and then fight the Others. She had dismissed his suggestion that her visions might be out of sequence, but he struggled to see how he could win with so few men and resources. There didn't seem to be time to press his claim in the south, and he well knew the words of his kin.
Winter is Coming… indeed.