She felt the air shift as she conducted the prayers for all the singers in the middle of the night, the Moonlight blessing her naked flesh… her song was cut short as the very air thickened around them.

The chorus around her, too, gasped, or those with the blessing of the Moon, those devout enough, sensitive enough to the shifts of the tides to be able to sing the harder songs of the Moonsingers.

Above her stood the Great Goddess in her three forms, yet it was the image of the Moon-Pale Maiden, who guided the living to death, who stood the brightest, the Moonlight streaming through the colored glass.

The High Priestess offered a brief prayer to the Pale Mother, feeling her judge events as just. Her order had been to act as a priestess, healer, and judge.

It had been the Moonsingers who truly founded Braavos, guiding the ships meant for the Flesh Pits of Gogossos to the hidden lands only visible to the sight of the Moon Goddess.

Now, something had shifted; the very air felt heavy with the presence akin to what the records of her order had when Doom came to Valyria. There was a great work of magic being done… and the High Priestess knew of the one responsible.

There was only one person who had the potential to cause such an event… who would not have done so in the past... the Targaryen Prince.

It was no secret that the Wizard of Westeros, Viserys Targaryen, had a reputation in Braavos. A boy who had grown into a man, the High Priestess remembered the days when the boy would listen to the sermons and the songs of the Moonsingers, a quill in hand.

Once, she had hoped that the boy would join their temple, as exceptions were wont to happen for boys with the gifts to perform the songs and the prayers to the Moon, and he was pretty enough to pass for a girl.

That was not to be, however, as the Prince in Exile showed those who bothered to watch the difference between the common practitioners of Magic and a Dragonlord of Valyria.

It was then that one of the beggars in the corner cried out, her face bursting into flames too bright to look at. As the Priestess heard the cries, she also felt the heat in her bones as though she had been lying naked under the sun for too long. Whatever magic was being worked… one that had the blessing of the Moon Mother, who would stand judge over the dead as Moonsingers stood judge over the living.

As the dawn broke over the horizon, the light of the sun hiding the moon from their eyes, the High Priestess of the Moonsingers knew what that light was as she saw the same bright light that burned the beggar's face rise from the east… it would seem the Sun had chosen it's Champion.

Now, so too should the Moon choose one of her own… as it was meant for in the songs of the Sun and the Moon.

Ferrego Anteryon:

Ferrego Anteryon woke to the banging on his door. "Come in," the Sealord of Braavos commanded.

"Your Excellency, First Sword is here to see you; he says it's urgent," said the Guard, his tone showing his panic.

"And it is," entered Syrio, not even bothering with the protocol. He threw three coins to the bed as Ferrego held on and passed his thumb over the coin, finding a rather familiar face hidden beneath a cowl.

"What happened?" growled the Sealord, knowing that either the Faceless Men attacked someone or someone managed to kill three of them… either way, that was a problem he would have to deal with.

"Four corpses were found by the guards, in three different locations, their faces burned off, the coins were found in each location on one of the bodies," stated Syrio.

"And the fourth one?" asked Ferrego.

"The two bodies were found to be in the middle of coupling," said Syrio, sounding amused and uncomfortable at once.

'Faceless Men actually fucked, poor thing, only a moment away from death either way,' Ferrego thought to himself. "Do we know who might be responsible?"

"I have received a raven an hour ago, with the Wizard claiming that the Faceless Men were responsible for the attempt on the life of his excellency during the Uncloaking," said Syrio. There was no need to name which Wizard. For all he had seen, Ferrego only knew one person who was competent enough to lay claim to the title.

"We cannot act with mere suspicion, less he has proof." countered Ferrego before sighing. Once, he had been a young lad with dreams of putting a stop to the rogue ways of the Faceless Men. He was wiser now, though leverage against the House of Black and White would have been a useful tool to have. "How reliable is he?" asked Ferrego, having assigned Syrio to teach the boy to get a measure of him.

"He does not lie if he can help it, avoid the truth certainly, but not outright lie. If he says the Faceless Men are responsible, they had a hand in it," stated Syrio simply, "Directly or indirectly, I cannot say."

"Are we sure he did it… killed these four Faceless Men?" asked Ferrego, unable to believe a boy of three and ten capable of killing four Faceless Men, even with whatever magic he had.

"There was a red priest stumbling around the Isle of Gods, preaching the coming of a dragon breathing sun fire to cleanse the servants of the Great Other," said Syrio with a tone that ought not to be so serious.

'Visions and Portends… I miss the times when my greatest problem was foreign rulers refusing to pay the Iron Bank,' Ferrego thought to himself with a sigh as the guard knocked on the door. 'At least the boy's father had the courtsy to threaten war before he relied on fire.'

"What say you, First Sword, would it come to a war between the Wizard and the Faceless Men? Do you think him capable of killing all the Faceless Men in the city?" Ferrego, his mind trying to figure out a way to stop the fighting, even if it means sending the Wizard away. The Exiled Prince was a useful political asset against his opposition and a threat to hold over the Stag King and the Old Falcon he had for a Hand, gaining some lucrative deals to delay any ambition the boy might have, given how he could have given the boy the ships needed to launch an invasion.

"The war is over, your excellency," said Syrio instead. "I have taught the boy long enough to know he does not do things in half measures. If he killed more than one at the same time, the dead are not just the ones in the city," corrected Syrio, making Ferrego look at him in confusion. "If he has some sorcery to kill more than one Faceless Men in Braavos at once… he would end the fight and strike the killing blow to all. There are no more Faceless Men living."

"Is that so?" asked Ferrego, contemplating that fact.

"Just so," responded Syrio, his head held high… as he was probably proud of the student he had who seemed to tell Death to come another day. Ferrego once more congratulated himself for having chosen Syrio Forrel, and even though the man was getting on with his years to still be working as the First Sword, he had a certain dislike for the Faceless Men that he shared with Ferrego.

As the silence filled the room, a knock was heard, and the guard at the door poked his head in. "Tycho Naharis is awaiting in the meeting chamber, your excellency," said the guard, letting the old man in the purple robes walk in. "He came in a moment ago, your Excellency, said he just landed from the ship from Westeros. He was dropping off an agreement he had worked on, but I thought you might want to see him, your Excellency."

"Why would you let some Iron Bank representative this early," asked Ferrego, confused.

"There are rumors that he worked with the Wizard, your Excellency," said the guard, "figured he might know something of use to you."

Ferrego looked at the guard for a moment before turning to Syrio, who gave a shrug. After a moment, Ferrego sighed before stating, "Thank you, Captain."

"I am not the Captain, your excellency," said the man in the guard uniform.

"Clearly, you ought to be," said Ferrego, getting a nod from Syrio that meant he would arrange it. "Syrio, make it so… and have guards posted on the Isle of Gods; the last thing we need is a religious upheaval."

"Already done," said Syrio, the smirk clashing with his hooked nose, "I have also sent men to usual places Viserys Targaryen visits, however few they are, to let us know if he shows up. He has not been seen for nearly a moon now."

'Let us hope that Bellonara was right and the boy is sweet on Bellegere,' thought Ferrego, as a way to keep the Last Dragon sated enough to not cause problem for Braavos was the best he could do.

"Good… if you are right, he will show up somewhere soon… I would like you to ask him kindly for a private meeting," said the Sealord, looking at Syrio "… kindly," he repeated, getting a nod of understanding back from the First Sword. "There was no need to offend the Targaryen Prince if he was truly the one who had killed all the Faceless Men in the city."

There was no love lost between the Sealord and the Faceless Men, though Faceless Men often worked with the Sealord to handle a threat or two to Braavos… they were far too independent for the Sealord to hold any authority over. Few knew the secrets of why the Faceless Men did what they did; even Ferrego knew not. Yet, the order of assassins killed whomever they were paid to kill, and the Braavos had prospered for it. Now, it was up to Ferrego to ensure the same with the Wizard, who granted the most dangerous assassins in history their so-called gift.

Herald of the Stars

Their time had come.

The Star-Child had revealed himself.

Their time had come.

The Sleepers stirred.

Soon, Star-Child would lead them.

Soon, all would know the Secrets of the Stars.

Soon, the sleepers would awaken.

Melisandre of Asshai

The flames showed him once more… Azor Ahai.

It had been nearly three years now, three years since the flames had shown her Lord's Chosen.

Melisandre of Asshai had been ecstatic when the visions came of the white-haired man holding a flaming sword. Then a few days later, they were gone, leaving behind the vision of a skull hidden beneath a cloak and nothing else.

It had led Melisandre into despair… for surely the Great Other had hooked his claws into the Savior and ended him before he could forge the Lightbringer to the fullest.

She could not find where Azor Ahai was… that knowledge eluded her, veiled by the foul powers of the Great Enemy.

Then, she had a vision, looking for Lightbringer, and she was granted arcane knowledge by the Lord of Light… a tool for her to use to bring the faithless back to the grace of her Lord.

Her hands traced over the scepter as though it was the mast of her lover. She had it made from Ash Wood, named as such, for it was holy to the Lord of Light. Cleverly slotted into the wood by the hands of a Myrish Acolyte, the scepter held a piece of the wing of a dragon, capped with a Ruby matching the one on her neck.

She had bound the shadow of the Acolyte who helped her build the tool of the Lord and fed the scepter his blood as a sacrifice, the scepter breathing fire and cleansing the devout, binding his essence to itself.

Even with the scepter, her vision had not revealed the location of Azor Ahai until one day, it did, bringing flames that left Melisandre blinking away the sweet light of R'hollor.

She saw him again, not as he had been when forging Lightbringer, but as he had become. The tall man, holding a blade made of fire that left dark spots on her vision, as he slashed at what was certain to be the Servants of the Great Other, covered in black cloaks with skeletal faces.

The one wielding the black flaming blade.

It was time for Melisandre of Asshai to leave the Red Temple of Asshai and go west. She would find the Lord's Chosen and bring him to light.

AN: I think this fits better between the last two chapters, but I am open to your opinions.

Melisandre is fun to write… because she is such an idiot… and she has a Wand… or close enough, which is a terrifying thing. She is probably not the only one because Divination is a prick when used against you. Three guesses who she is going after.