At Castle Black, the air was thick with smoke and cold, the great hearth snapping as if the fire itself listened. This was not the first time lord-commander Jon Snow had been offered a name and a future beyond the Wall, nor the first time the king Stannis had pressed him with the weight of kingship and duty. As Jon refused again, choosing the black over a crown, Melisandre stood apart, her scarlet sleeves glowing in the firelight. She did not look at either man. Her eyes were fixed on the flames, searching for meaning in their restless dance, as if the truth might rise unbidden from ash and ember.