Storm's End, the Great Hall.
The massive round table was crowded with the remaining principal nobles of the Stormlands. Cortnay Penrose, acting Castellan and the new Hand of the King, sat in the seat of honor. This Ser, famed for steady loyalty, wore a furrowed brow. Deep lines carved his face with worry and indignation. Before him lay urgent dispatches from across the realm.
A messenger stood and reported,
"The village of Brookwood near Haystack Hall... gone. Those savages flying the Targaryen banner swarmed it like locusts. They slaughtered everyone—men, women, children. Houses were set aflame. The granaries were looted. They... even impaled infants on their spears."
A deathly silence fell over the hall. The newly appointed Lord of Haystack Hall, Sebastion Errol, sat with bloodshot eyes and teeth grinding. Brookwood was one of the villages in his lands.
"Not only Brookwood!" another messenger cried, collapsing to the floor. "Bronzegate... the manor outside Bronzegate was butchered. Those devils took all they could and burned the rest. Villagers fought with hoes and were hacked to pieces. The manor—turned into a sea of flames!"
The aged Lady of Mistwood, Mary Mertyns, spoke coldly, "My scouts report they are advancing along the line from Bronzegate to Fellwood, pushing toward the River Cockleswent. Wherever they pass, not a blade of grass remains."
The newly appointed Lord of Rain House, Wylde, sprang to his feet.
"Lord Penrose! We cannot let them rampage any longer. Those beasts under the Targaryen banner are crueller than the Lannisters. We must march at once and drive them into the sea."
Lord Selwyn Targaryen of Evenfall Hall said gravely, "Lord Wylde is right. Gather every force you can. My Evenfall Hall soldiers are ready to mount. Our plan to march north against Duskendale must wait. The wolves at our gate must be dealt with first."
"Slaughter?" Cortnay Penrose raised his head slowly.
"My lords, be calm. Do you understand what we face? Not a few hundred raiders but over thirty thousand Dothraki Howling Warriors. They move like wind and vanish without trace. Our Stormlands have already suffered grievous losses. How many men remain to us?"
His gaze swept the room, sharp as a blade.
"To rush a great host after them would play right into their hands. Their scimitars and bows on open ground will shred our infantry and knights. They will toy with us like wolves with sheep—drag us down, split us apart, then finish us.
And remember, the Stormlands stand alone. The Lannisters are our mortal enemies. House Tyrell in the Reach has been slaughtered. The remaining houses seem content to hide in their keeps. The North has sided with the Lannisters. We have no allies."
"Then shall we stand idle while they burn our lands and butcher our people?!" Sebastion Errol roared, veins bulging.
"Of course not." Penrose's voice rose. "But we cannot fight them head-on. We must draw them where their cavalry advantage cannot be used."
He struck the map on the table.
"Storm's End is the strongest fortress in the Seven Kingdoms. Order every lord to enact scorched earth. Burn all grain that cannot be carried. Poison the wells. Evacuate as many people as possible into the castle. Rely on the fortress and wear them down."
The nobles fell silent. Scorched earth meant abandoning wide tracts of land. It meant more common folk uprooted or dying. Yet against those thirty thousand bloodthirsty horsemen, it seemed the only way to limit greater losses.
Sebastion Errol closed his eyes in anguish, then nodded heavily. The others signaled their agreement.
...
Conquest Keep, Lo Quen's study.
Lo Quen stood before a vast map of Westeros, his finger slowly tracing across the region of the Stormlands. Spread across the desk lay an urgent intelligence report from the Stormlands, outlining the routes and atrocities of Dothraki raiders plundering under the Targaryen banner.
After a long moment of contemplation, he turned toward his desk. Parchment and an inkwell were already prepared. He picked up a quill, dipped it into the dark ink, and began to write with steady precision.
The first letter was addressed to Jorah Mormont on Skagos.
The second was for Ramsay Snow, who had just seized control of Winterfell.
When he finished both letters, he handed the parchments to Meizo, who stood waiting quietly in the corner of the study.
Lo Quen instructed, "Meizo, this letter for Winterfell must be delivered directly to Ramsay's desk. Make sure only he sees it."
"As you wish, Your Grace."
Meizo's voice was calm and detached as he tucked the scroll into his robe, preparing to leave.
"Wait..."
Lo Quen stopped him. "What news from the North? Any word of Jon Snow and Alliser Thorne?"
Meizo paused. "Reporting to Your Grace, our men have searched the North thoroughly—from Last Hearth to White Harbor, from Deepwood Motte to Widow's Watch—but found no trace of Jon Snow or Ser Alliser Thorne. They vanished completely after leaving Castle Black."
Lo Quen's brow furrowed deeply. After a moment of silence, his gaze drifted to the map—beyond the Wall.
"No... perhaps they crossed the Wall and went into the lands beyond."
A shadow passed through Lo Quen's eyes. Jon Snow carried too many uncertainties. If he truly had fled beyond the Wall, it would become a serious variable in Lo Quen's future plans to conquer The North.
Lo Quen gave a sharp command. "Notify Sathmantes and Moreo immediately. Send the most experienced Ice Sea navigators from Skagos. Keep it quiet—disguise them as whalers or smugglers. Head into the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall. Find Jon Snow and Alliser Thorne. Bring them back alive if possible, or dead if not. Especially Jon Snow. Do you understand?"
"Understood, Your Grace!"
Meizo bowed deeply.
Just as Meizo's figure was about to disappear through the doorway, a guard burst in, face pale and voice trembling slightly as he dropped to one knee.
"Your Grace! The dungeon... that red priestess... she's gone!"
Lo Quen turned sharply, a cold glint flashing in his eyes.
"Gone?"
His face darkened, then he gave a dry, humorless laugh. Ordinary stone walls and iron bars could never contain a Shadowbinder. But if Melisandre had long been capable of escaping, why choose now to leave?
She could read the future through the flames. She must have seen something—something that convinced her Lo Quen was not R'hllor's chosen "Prince That Was Promised." Only then would she abandon him to seek another.
"When did this happen? How was it discovered?"
Lo Quen's voice dropped to a chilling low.
"Just moments ago," the guard stammered. "The new watch found only a pile of broken chains in her cell. The prisoner... vanished without a trace. No signs of struggle, no hidden passageways..."
Lo Quen stood silent for a long time, fingers tapping lightly on the table. Melisandre had fled.
Where would she go? To seek the next incarnation of Azor Ahai? Stannis Baratheon? Or another the flames had chosen?
He dismissed the guard with a wave, his gaze returning to the map as his thoughts deepened once more.
...