The ship creaked under the weight of the wind, its crimson sails billowing as the Dragon cut through the waters like a living blade. The world outside was restless the sea whispered, gulls screamed, and waves slapped against the hull.
Inside the captain's quarters, the world felt still. I sat across from Melisandre, the red priestess who seemed as ageless as she was dangerous. Her presence felt heavy in the room it felt consuming, like a fire you could never quite look away from.
She studied me openly, eyes like living rubies. She really is beautiful, I thought, watching the way the lantern light traced her skin like molten gold under red silk.
But what if… she was trained as a Bene Gesserit, like in the Dune novels? Or like the Nightsisters from Star Wars? My mind shuddered at the image an army of crimson priestesses, honed in body and mind, wielding the Force and blood magic, their loyalty fanatical yet intelligent.
Would they serve me… or enslave me? Would I be their master or a breeding stud for a cult of fire worshippers?
A whisper of fear slid down my spine. "My young lord." Her voice broke through my thoughts like a dagger through glass. I blinked, clearing my head, and met her gaze.
"Yes?" I asked, guarded. Her lips curled faintly. "You were thinking very hard just now." I tilted my head slightly. "Perhaps." She leaned forward just slightly, enough for the light to catch the hollow of her throat. "What questions do you have about the Lord of Light? About… us?"
I took a breath, straightened my back, and let the words fall in a measured tone. "Tell me," I said, "about your order. And the role my family has played… throughout the years."
Her smile deepened slow, graceful, deliberate. "It will be my pleasure," she murmured. She poured tea from a silver kettle, steam rising in curling tendrils scented faintly of cloves and cinnamon. Between us, she placed a small candle, lighting it with a soft whisper.
The flame wavered and then steadied then she began to speak. "The faith of R'hllor is older than those Westeros septons dream," she said, her voice like smoke. "Born in the shadowlands of Asshai, when the first flames were lit to keep the Long Night away."
Her fingers danced around the candle flame, the fire bending subtly at her will.
"For centuries, we prayed to the flames. We saw visions, prophecies, dreams. Some true and some were misinterpreted. Then the Drakon family rose, when they walked out of the ashes of Valyria and planted their roots in Volantis…"
She leaned closer, her voice lowering, eyes bright. "…the flames changed."
"How?" I asked.
"The Lord of Light sent us visions," she said simply. "Visions of your family's power. Men and women who could command the elements, shape the will of others, wield what you call the Force, and what some of us call the World's Flow."
She placed her hand over the flame, and it didn't burn her. " In those visions, we saw a child… a messiah."
I arched an eyebrow. "A messiah?" Her voice softened. "The prophecy said only that one would come. The gender was never known."
She poured herself tea, watching the steam curl upward like smoke from an offering fire. "So when the Warrior Princess of your line gave birth to twins Reanous and Meetrous we rejoiced. One of them, we thought, would be the reborn R'hllor, the Lord of Light made flesh."
I leaned back in my chair, arms folded. "And were they?" She shook her head slowly. "No. They were not."
The candle flickered not from any breeze.
"But they were close," she admitted. "They touched the world with your family's ways. They took our fire, our faith, and blended it with what they called the Force. And though they were not the messiah, they became something else."
I frowned slightly. "Something else?" Melisandre smiled faintly, but her eyes—her eyes burned with something deeper.
"Yes," she whispered. "They became the first to teach us what you call the Force, and what we call the World's Flow. They showed us… a greater fire." The candle's flame wavered again, but this time it stretched, pulling into strange shapes almost like wings, almost like a sword.
I stared at it, sensing the Force, sensing her shaping it. I wondered… what else does she know? And what will she teach me?
The candle flame between us shifted again under Melisandre's subtle gesture. It didn't just flicker it transformed.
The yellow-orange fire bled into crimson, as if her will wrung the color out of the air. The flame stretched higher, its edges folding into deliberate shapes until it formed the silhouette of a dragon its wings spread wide, its head bowed toward me, its jaws open in a silent roar.
Melisandre's voice was low, reverent, as she spoke. "The Flow of the World makes visions of future events easier to see… and easier to interpret."
Her red eyes fixed on mine with that familiar, unsettling mixture of devotion and hunger. "I am one of the few in my order who has waited… so very long… for my lord to return."
The dragon flame flickered once more, then collapsed into nothing but a steady candle flame, leaving the smell of burned cinnamon in the air.
I leaned forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table.
"Do you think that's me?" I asked quietly.
"How many times," I pressed, "have you thought a Drakon heir was your order's Messiah?"
Her lips curled not mockery, but something warmer, more dangerous.
"I received a vision of your birth, young lord," she said softly, "long before your parents came to me."
I tilted my head.
"And why," I asked, "did my parents come to you?"
Her smile widened not cruel, but sly, like a cat with a secret.
"That," she said, "is not something for a child to hear. Not yet. When your parents deem you old enough… or if they choose to share it themselves… then you will know."
I gave her a knowing smile of my own. She wasn't lying but she also wasn't saying everything.
I let it go. For now.
"Does your order have… a bible? A doctrine?" I asked, shifting the conversation. Her eyes gleamed like rubies in firelight.
"Yes."
She reached into a red leather satchel and drew out a small tome, bound in blackened hide, its edges embossed with faint runes. The High Valyrian lettering across the cover read:
"The Fire of Guidance."
She placed it before me, reverent as if setting down a relic.
"These," she whispered, "are your ancestors' words. We follow them to this day."
I skimmed pages just enough to get the flavor. The words reminded me of the Drakon Tome.
The passages were clear, commanding: "Follow the Lord of Light. But do not sacrifice the unwilling. Do not burn the innocent. Seek strength, teach others not to live in weakness, but never overshare. All power in R'hllor's name must be earned in blood, sweat, and fire."
Archaic? Yes.
Perfect for indoctrination? Also yes. It was the exact kind of language that could tether faith to my bloodline.
I closed the tome and set it back in front of her. "I want you to guide me," I said, voice firm. "In the ways you use the Flow of the World."
Her face lit like the flame between us. "It would be my honor," she said without hesitation.
I leaned forward, my voice dropping lower.
"In a few years, I will come to your order with a plan," I said. "A plan to create two new sects that will serve my family—serve me—directly. Do you understand?"
Her breath caught, just slightly. "I understand, my lord."
"The first will be called the Witches." Her eyes brightened.
"They will be red priestesses with either high affinity for or at least decent potential for the Flow. They'll combine your blood magic with a more arcane understanding of the Force… and use it to research, to discover the unknown. To break limits and wield power to its fullest extent."
Melisandre's eyes widened, her hands curling into her lap like she was trying to physically restrain excitement.
> "That is… a beautiful idea, my lord," she whispered. "We have dreamed of something like it… but lacked the foundation. Without your family's knowledge, we could not begin."
I nodded slowly. "This sect will be loyal to my family," I said plainly. "But they will answer to me first. Always."
"I understand," she said immediately. "And the second?" she asked, leaning forward, eager.
I let the words roll out like slow honey. "They will be called the Crimson Women." She tasted the name silently with her lips.
"To the outside," I explained, "they will appear as ordinary red priestesses pious, holy, offering guidance to lords and ladies. But secretly, they will be my eyes and ears. They will control the flow of information across the known world… and with the right training, they will nudge the decisions of rulers, subtly, precisely."
I let the thought hang for a moment.
"These women will be trained in perfect body control their emotions, their muscles, their resistance to poison, even their aging. They will learn hand-to-hand combat, blades, and every art necessary to make them living weapons."
Melisandre's breath hitched. "That…" she said, "is… incredible." I nodded once, my voice cold and deliberate.
"Yes. But there must be someone above both sects. Someone to choose, to train, to command."
I locked eyes with her.
And for a heartbeat, I let my gaze shift not lust for flesh, but lust for power. Lust for a tool… and a partner.
Her lips parted, breath shallow. "Do you want that title?" I asked.
She didn't hesitate. She rose from her chair, walked around the table, and knelt before me.
Her head bowed low. "It would be my honor," she said softly. "I will serve. I will lead. If I am worthy."
"Will the other head priestesses accept this?" I asked. She looked up at me, eyes bright, voice unwavering. "Yes. They told me to agree to anything you wished. My lord, you are the Messiah we have waited for."
I blinked once. "A Messiah?"
She nodded. "Yes. The title is in the old tongue of Asshai. Esh Shachar."
I repeated it quietly. "Esh Shachar…"
The flame on the table flickered crimson, for just an instant.The courtyard of Winterfell was alive with the thud of wooden swords and the crisp winter air that bit through even the thickest cloak. Snow clung to the stone walls, melting only where torchlight and effort brought heat.
At the center of the yard, Storia of House Drakon stood like an obsidian pillar, her scarlet and black sparring leathers cutting a stark figure against the frost. Her short, flowing hair shifted slightly with each movement, her expression sharp, unyielding.
Before her, a boy no older than five name days dark hair, solemn gray eyes tightened his grip on a wooden practice sword.
Jon Snow. The bastard of Winterfell. Storia's blade moved first. A light sweep not enough to wound, but enough to test.
Jon stepped back and parried, his small frame wobbling slightly but holding.
> "Good form," Storia said, her voice firm but approving. "But don't just react feel. Watch my hips, my shoulders. They'll move before the blade does."
Jon nodded, sweat beading at his brow despite the cold. He stepped in again, wooden sword rising in an attempt to strike.
Storia pivoted effortlessly, her counter a blur. She wasn't beating him down; she was showing him a different way a style that wasn't purely Northern or Southern, but something… other.
Each motion was a dance of precision. Drakon precision.
From the side, Lord Eddard Stark stood watching, his gray cloak wrapped around him, breath misting in the chill.
He looked pleased, though his face, as ever, betrayed little.
Beside him, Lady Catelyn stood stiff, her lips pressed thin, frustration pooling in her eyes as she watched Jon the bastard train with one of the most legendary Blades of House Drakon.
On the other side of the courtyard, Robb Stark sat on the stone steps, elbows on his knees, while Sansa Stark, only four name days old, tugged lightly at his sleeve.
"Robb," she asked with her small, curious voice, "why don't you join them?"
Robb smirked faintly, eyes never leaving the spar. "Storia only wanted to spar with Jon." Sansa tilted her head, frowning.
"But… is it okay for Jon to spar with her? He's… a bastard. Won't Mother get mad?"
Robb finally looked at her, his expression firm for one so young. "Jon is our brother," he said simply. "And Father said it was fine. Besides…"
He looked back at Storia, who moved like a serpent with steel. "…I know I couldn't take her." The spar lasted minutes longer, each exchange more deliberate.
Jon's breathing grew heavier. His movements slowed.
Finally, Storia struck his blade aside and tapped his shoulder with hers.
> "Enough," she said, lowering her weapon. "You've improved. But you're thinking too much about every strike. You need to breathe. To let the body move with the blade, not against it."
Jon nodded, cheeks flushed with exertion.
"Now," Storia continued, crouching slightly to meet his eyes, "when you strike, breathe in draw strength. When you parry, breathe out release tension. Keep that rhythm. Inhale, exhale. Strike, parry. It will save you when you're fighting more than one opponent."
Jon's head bobbed in agreement, eyes bright with the kind of quiet respect that was rare for his age.
> "I'll practice the meditations you showed me," he said.
"Good." She placed a hand on his shoulder not gentle, not harsh.
"Go to my room. Practice there. If Lady Catelyn has issue with it…"
She glanced briefly toward the lord's wife, her tone sharpening. "…tell her she can speak to me."
Jon gave the faintest of smiles. "Yes, Storia." He bowed his head slightly and jogged off, wooden sword still in hand.
When he was gone, Eddard Stark finally spoke.
"How is he?"
Storia looked at him, then allowed the faintest smile to cross her face.
"He has potential," she said. "Like you. Like your sister. He feels the Flow—he doesn't see it yet, not truly, but it touches him."
Catelyn, who had been standing silent, finally broke in.
"And what of Robb? And Sansa?" Her tone was measured, but there was a hint of something beneath concern, envy, fear.
Storia looked at her evenly.
"They both have potential in the Flow," she said. "But right now… Jon has the most. That doesn't mean it will stay that way. With the right training, Robb or even Sansa could reach that point. Or… surpass him."
She spoke deliberately, choosing her words so as not to paint a target on Jon's back, especially not under Catelyn's sharp gaze.
Ned nodded, folding his arms.
"We appreciate the supplies you brought us," he said quietly. "And we know you'll need to head back to King's Landing soon… to wait for your lord's arrival. But I want you to know, your efforts here are not forgotten."
Storia's expression softened for the first time all day. "Think nothing of it," she said. "I respect the Starks. Your father… he was like an uncle to me when I first came to these lands."
Ned's eyes flickered with memory. "You must be tired," he said simply.
"A little," Storia admitted. "I'll see you all at dinner and leave tomorrow."
As she walked away, her crimson cloak trailing behind her, Catelyn leaned slightly toward her husband, her voice low.
"Why not ask her to teach Robb and Sansa more of the Flow? If even half the stories are true… anyone who learns the ways of the Drakon family becomes an incredible leader. It would cement our children's rule, Ned."
Ned's jaw tightened. "Even I," he said, "don't know much about this power. The little I know, I use only to see the intentions of others… and to sharpen my own strength."
Catelyn's voice edged with frustration. "And that's exactly why our children should learn fully. So that we are stronger. I don't understand why you allow Jon to learn, but not"
"That's enough." Ned's voice was sharp, final.
Catelyn's lips pressed together, but her eyes flashed. "You're right, dear husband," she said finally, voice level but tight. "I… overstepped." Her face betrayed her frustration as she turned away, and Ned stood still for a long moment before following her inside.
The snow continued to fall, soft and quiet, over Winterfell's courtyard. The long corridors of Winterfell were hushed as evening fell, torches flickering against the cold stone. Storia's boots made no sound as she walked, her crimson cloak brushing the walls, her face calm, unreadable.
She reached the guest chamber the Starks had given her a warm, sparsely furnished room near the west tower and pushed open the heavy oak door.
The scent of burning pine hit her first. Inside, Jon Snow sat cross-legged by the fire, a small, dark figure against the glow. The boy's wooden practice sword lay at his side, forgotten. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and uneven, his shoulders trembling with focus.
He didn't notice her at first. Jon's head twitched when he sensed movement, his eyes fluttering open but before he could rise, Storia's voice cut through the quiet.
> "Stay."
He froze.
> "Don't move. Stay as you are."
Her tone was soft but firm, the voice of a teacher who expected to be obeyed. "Breathe," she said. "Stay centered. Until the world melts away."
Jon hesitated, then obeyed. His small hands rested on his knees, fingers trembling slightly as he forced himself to stillness.
Storia stepped closer, her sharp gaze softening just slightly. She could feel it now. The faint Flow of the world around him. Not strong but there. Like a river under ice.
She knelt beside him, folding into a meditation pose with the practiced grace of someone who had done it a thousand times. Her hand came to rest lightly on his back. "What do you feel, Jon?" she asked quietly.
He frowned, his eyes still closed. "…not much, ma'am," he admitted.
Her mouth quirked slightly. "I told you, Jon. Just Storia."
His lips twitched into the smallest smile. "Yes… Storia."
"Now," she continued, voice softer still, "focus on the feeling. Let go of everything else. What do you feel?"
Jon's breathing slowed. The fire popped softly in the hearth. He paused for a long moment, and then spoke in a low, almost trance-like voice.
> "It feels like… I'm in water." His brows knitted.
> "Like a river. But I'm flowing with the current. Sometimes it's rough and fast… but it's warm. And… comforting."
His voice dropped lower. "Sometimes I feel like… I hear a woman's voice. She's… pushing me. Encouraging me. And there's a fire. It gives me strength."
Suddenly Something cracked open in Jon's mind, two images burst into being. Draconian eyes slitted, glowing amethyst. Wolf eyes—gray, sharp, primal. The images collided, and a shockwave erupted through the room.
Storia was thrown back, slammed against the wall with a hard thud, the air rippling like a heat wave. Jon gasped, eyes flying open, staring at his tiny hands in terror. "I—I didn't mean to!" he stammered. "I don't know what that was! I "
But Storia… laughed. The sound startled him almost as much as the burst of power had. She slid down the wall, dusting off her cloak, and laughed again light, unrestrained, pleased. "Jon," she said between chuckles. She grinned, teeth flashing like a predator's in the firelight. " you're fine. That was exactly what I was hoping for."
Jon blinked, confusion warring with relief. "You… what?"
She stood, dusting off her hands, and crouched back down to him, eyes gleaming. "So," she asked, voice low, deliberate, "would you like to learn how to use the Flow?"
Jon stared at her, mouth slightly open. "I'm… a bastard," he muttered, as if the word could chain him.
Storia's smile turned sharper. "I don't care." She leaned closer, her hand gripping his small shoulder not painfully, but firmly, grounding him. "This whole 'bastard' thing?" she said, her voice edged with contempt. "It only matters here. In Westeros."
Her hand pressed slightly harder against his shoulder. "In Essos in the Drakon family you will go far. And my young lord would love to have someone like you join his family."
Jon's face was frozen in shock eyes wide, lips parted, breath caught in his chest. "So," Storia said again, softer this time, her voice like a whisper of steel.
"What do you say? Jon's mouth moved, but no sound came at first. For the first time in his short life, someone had told him that his bastardy didn't matter that he could be something more. He sat there, speechless.
The Dragon cut through the black waters of the Narrow Sea, her crimson sails taut with the wind. The air tasted of salt and the faint smell of tar and pinewood.
Inside the ship's great cabin, Samir Drakon stood at the wide table, maps of Westeros spread before him, small carved figurines representing lords and factions scattered across its surface.
I sat opposite him, legs folded beneath me, my elbows on my knees as I listened.
"King's Landing," Father began, his voice calm but heavy, "is a nest of snakes pretending to be doves." He picked up a figurine a crowned stag and set it at the center of the board. "Robert Baratheon sits the throne," he said, "but it's not Robert you should fear. He's dangerous when he's angry, yes, but he's a man who prefers his cups and his hunts and especially his woman."
His hand moved another figurine a lion this time closer to the stag. "It's his queen you watch. Cersei Lannister." I felt my jaw tighten. If I could, I thought, I'd kill her the moment I stepped foot in that city I would. Robert was a problem for his carefree attitude. But the Lannister's are the real threats.
"And if the rumors are true," Father continued, "her spawn if the boy Joffrey has been born is another problem."
My hands clenched. Kill Cersei. Kill Joffrey. Kill Littlefinger. But Tywin might be useful. Besides him those three stood out in my mind like black stains.
Father's fingers moved to a slim, weasel-like figurine. "And then there's Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger. He's the kind of problem you don't see until the blade's already in your back and by then it's already to late. Head this closely son never trust any of them especially him."
He pushed the piece slightly away from the center. "Varys, the Spider, is dangerous too but not treacherous in the same way. His games are wide and the long game that always come towards the end. Baelish's games are… personal."
I nodded, eyes locked on the board, memorizing each move, each warning this world is similar but there is no telling ho dangerous these characters are now with the force in play.
I looked up. "Father," I said, "can you teach me telekinesis I believe I' am ready to learn?"
Samir raised an eyebrow at me then smirked faintly. "Funny," he said. "That was the next lesson I intended to teach you anyway." He stood and gestured to the corner of the cabin. A small barrel sat there, apples piled neatly inside. He plucked one out and set it on the table before me.
"Sit," he commanded. I obeyed, legs crossed, palms on my knees.
"Move the apple," he said, "from here… to that barrel."
I stared at the apple extending my arm trying to call on the force to move it. Nothing happened and I new this was going to be a long lesson. The first three days were… agony. The ship rocked, waves slapping against her hull, and every creak of wood distracted me.
I stared at that apple until my eyes burned. I reached for it in the Force, imagining threads connecting my mind to its weight, its shape, its core. The apple twitched. Shook. Hovered for a heartbeat before dropping with a dull thud.
Melisandre, who had taken to watching these sessions like a silent sentinel, leaned against the doorframe, her arms folded, her crimson gown cascading to the floor.
She didn't interrupt me once. Her red eyes followed every effort, patient and unwavering, a flame that waited for kindling. On the third day, my focus shifted. I remembered Father's words from long ago, Let the Force flow through you, don't try to strangle it.
I stopped trying to control it. I let it move me, the way a river moves a boat. The apple rose, slowly, shaking in the air, then floated stuttering, wobbling across the cabin until it dropped neatly into the barrel.
"Good job," Father said, stepping from the shadows, pride in his voice. He reached out and kicked the barrel over. Apples spilled across the deck, rolling like coins scattered on a gaming table.
Melisandre chuckled quietly behind her hand. "Do the same," Samir said flatly, "with all of these apples."
I groaned realizing that I should have seen that coming. "Yes, Father."
All day, all night I worked. The Drakon blades passed through, some pausing to cheer me on with smirks, others simply nodding in quiet approval. Merchants brought food to the deck, leaving plates beside me without breaking my focus. By morning, my arms ached, my head pounded but every last apple was back in the barrel.
Melisandre emerged from her quarters, crimson hair catching the sunrise. She saw the barrel full and the apples floating still around me, slowly dropping into place. She smiled, a smile that made her look almost… soft.
"Well done, my lord," she said. I sagged slightly and muttered, "Thank you." Father stepped out behind her, holding a steaming cup.
"Drink," he commanded. I eyed the cup warily. "What is it?" "Tea," he said simply. "To keep you awake. Your training isn't done."
I drank. It burned on the way down spices, herbs, something bitter and sharp.
Father set the empty cup aside. "Three days," he said. "You will not sleep for three days." The next week blurred into grueling hell. Mornings were blade form training. Father drilling stances and strikes into me, forcing my tired limbs to move faster, harder, cleaner.
Afternoons were ledger work learning the trade records of House Drakon, balancing shipments, writing reports until my cramped fingers bled.
Evenings… Evenings, he shocked me awake with small bursts of Force lightning. Not enough to scar or burn just a jolt to awaken.
Melisandre took the nights. She taught me to control my meditation, to deepen my breathing until my body almost believed it was resting, to stretch the Force through every nerve until exhaustion dulled. She whispered in my ear about fire and flow, about bending my mind around fatigue like a branch around stone.
I struggled and failed to stay awake, but I endured until the end. By the end of the third sleepless night, I was half-broken my body shaking, my head heavy, but I was still awake. When Father finally let me sleep, Melisandre stayed.
She sat at my bedside, meditating, the Force radiating from her like gentle heat. As I drifted into darkness, I felt her presence steady, endless and I let go.
And I dreamed. The dream was so vivid it felt real. I saw my mother Maran stood in the training yard, blade in hand, her armor catching the sun. Facing her, Daenerys, still so young, hair clinging to her face with sweat, wooden sword in her trembling hands.
Mother moved like lightning in a storm. Every strike landed and every block from Daenerys was knocked aside.
"Why do you fight?" Mother's voice was cold, relentless. Daenerys gasped for breath, swinging again, getting knocked back again. "I—I don't know " Mother's blade slapped her wrist, hard enough to make her drop the sword. "Wrong answer."
"Pick it up," Mother said. Daenerys's hands shook as she grabbed the sword again. "Why do you fight?" "For… the Drakons?" Daenerys stammered. Another blow this time to her shoulder, enough to stagger her. "Wrong."
"You will fight," Mother said, striking again, "until you have the answer. Even when you drop." Hours passed or felt like hours. Daenerys stumbled, fell, rose again. Her breath ragged, tears in her eyes, but she never stopped.
Mother said one more time" why do you fight." Finally, Mother's blade came down hard and Daenerys blocked it, screaming, her voice tearing through the yard: "TO LIVE!" A Force pulse exploded from her, shoving Mother back a step.
Maran didn't stumble. She didn't even look surprised but she smiled. "Good," she said softly.
"You may rest now." She turned and walked away, her voice fading. "We begin again tomorrow."
Daenerys collapsed to her knees, wooden sword clattering to the ground. Two Drakon stepped forward silently, lifting her up, carrying her inside. The dream ended. I woke with the weight of the dream still pressing on me, the images of my mother training Daenerys lingering in my mind.
Good, I thought as I stared at the low wooden beams of the cabin ceiling. She's growing stronger. She's pushing herself. She won't be the fragile girl from the books, and she won't be the power-drunk queen from the show either.
But another thought came to mind. I need her to follow me—unconditionally I can't risk her losing her mind like before. No "breaker of chains" turned mad tyrant this time.
A soft hum broke my thoughts. I turned my head slightly to see Melisandre seated cross-legged beside my bed, her crimson gown pooled around her like blood silk. Her eyes were closed, her breathing perfectly steady, her presence in the Flow undeniable.
When I stirred, her eyes opened instantly, red and bright like twin ruby's. "Good morning, my young lord," she said, her voice smooth as warm wine.
I stretched my tiny arms—a reminder that, for now, I was still a child trapped in this body and groaned softly. "Groggy," I admitted. "But fine where is my father?"
Melisandre's gaze drifted toward the door. "Your father is training with the men on deck," she replied. "He said you're free to rest until tomorrow."
I blinked. "Tomorrow?" "Yes." She nodded
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Good now I can recover and learn something from my devoted follower "Can teach me something since we have some time now." Her lips curled into that slow, faint smile. "Yes," she said, "actually… there is something I can teach you. Something useful. Very useful." She shifted, leaning closer. "How to communicate across long distances."
My eyebrows rose. Telepathy, I thought. Melisandre nodded as if she'd heard me think it. "It is a basic Flow technique," she explained, "but with practice, it can become… extraordinary."
She gestured for me to sit up straighter, facing her fully.
"Close your eyes," she instructed. I obeyed. "Now," she said, "open your mind. Don't force it just… reach. Stretch the Flow from you to me. Touch my mind. And when you find it… speak."
I reached out to the force. At first there was only darkness. Then a flicker of something, faint but there. Like a light on the horizon, guiding me closer to her and felt her mind open.
A door, waiting to be walked through. I pushed gently through whispered into the quietness of her mind: "You're beautiful." Melisandre's lips parted, and a rare warmth softened her face. Thank you, my lord, her voice whispered not in my ears, but in my mind. You honor me.
The next hours passed like that. We had wordless conversation, thought to thought. Our lips didn't move once. I learned to project my voice, to shape it, to control the way it sounded in another's mind.
Melisandre taught me how to shield my mind as well, whispering warnings in the mental space we shared. "Some people beyond your family, Eddard Stark. Benjen Stark. Ser Barristan Selmy, have the ability to peek into minds. Low-level, unrefined. But it's there. Never let your guard down."
I frowned, startled. Ned? Benjen? Barristan? I thought of them the stoic lord, the watchful ranger, the legendary knight. I wonder how strong they are compared to their book counterparts, I mused silently.
I shifted, and asked her aloud, "Who's the best swordsman in Westeros?" Her eyes narrowed slightly, and then… Images filled my mind. I saw Ser Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning and the white cloak. Dawn in his hands, the blade glowing faintly even in the memory.
The best swordsman, Melisandre's voice whispered in my head. At the time. I watched him cut through men like they were made of parchment. His stance, his speed it was flawless. Then I saw the Tower of Joy. Arthur Dayne stood there, a god of the blade.
Before him Eddard Stark. Only this time Ned didn't look like the half-trained, lucky survivor of whispered stories. When he fought his movement's and techniques showed he was fighting Dayne like an equal.
The clash of Dawn and ice-forged steel rang in my skull. Each strike, each parry, each movement it was clear. Ned was was fighting hard the only difference between the two was experience.
Melisandre's voice guided me through the vision. "Ned Stark was trained by your grandfather," she said. "In the art of the blade… and in basic Flow techniques."
I blinked inside the vision. "Why would he do that?" I asked, my thought sharp. Her voice was calm. "The Starks are an honorable line. Strong. Your grandfather believed they would be a good bloodline to add to the family. They already had Flow affinity even then."
The vision shifted. Lyanna Stark appeared young, fierce-eyed, with the highest affinity of her siblings, Melisandre whispered and then Ned again. I watched him fight Arthur for what felt like hours until finally, in a blurred motion, Ned disarmed him Arthur stumbled, but he didn't submit.
Ned turned toward the tower, Lyanna's screams echoing, and in that instant, Arthur moved to strike him from behind. Ned's blade flashed.
Arthur Dayne's head hit the ground in a spray of light and shadow but, Ned didn't stop. He kept running, sword still in hand, toward the tower.
Melisandre's voice cut in again, soft, almost reverent. "That was the only time Ned Stark has ever displayed Flow affinity that high." The vision ended abruptly, leaving me staring at the ship's wooden ceiling again.
I exhaled, long and slow this version of Ned Stark wasn't the Ned who won because someone stabbed Arthur in the back. This Ned beat Arthur Dayne with his own skill. That thought made me smile just slightly as the candle by my bed flickered. Maybe this version of Ned can live and help me bring down the Lannister's, save the kingdom and beat the White Walkers.