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The night was dark. Only the flickering fire of the hearth illuminated the chambers. King Stannis looked right from his too-plump featherbed to see his priestess looking at the flames intently. “M-My lady?” he croaked. The King hated how brittle his voice sounded. Has to do with death, he thought grimly.
“My lady?” he repeated more firmly. “What is that you look on your fires? Must be something more fascinating than an old dull king, I assume.”
Melisandre didn’t answer or stop looking at the flickering flames, but the King saw her full lips curling slightly upward, her delicate face illumined by the firelight.
He didn’t stop watching her until the young Maester entered with another of his brews. “Your Grace,” he bowed and approached the bed, not acknowledging Melisandre's presence. He brought the foul smelling potion to the King’s lips. “Here, your Grace. Drink this.” Stannis drank grudgingly, the bitter taste traveling down his throat. Useless, he thought.
The Maester bowed again and left the King's chamber. Stannis looked to the hearth again and found that his priestess was no longer gazing at the flames, but rather staring at him intently. “My King,” she purred with an enticing little smile.
“Found what you were looking for, my lady?” he asked.
Her smile widened. “A long time ago, yes.”
His mind went back to that time, almost at the end of the war against the Great Other, when Daenerys Targaryen, Azor Ahai reborn, flew the northern skies, bringing dragons back from the legends to the Wall, where everyone stood on edge, waiting in the middle of a harsh winter for the battle that would decide the fate of men. Life or death. Light or darkness.
"She's the one, isn't she?" he had asked her. "You were mistaken, my lady."
She said nothing, only looked at him long and hard, without hint of remorse.
"Go on then, I assume you'd want to counsel her now," he finally said after a moment.
He half expected her to hurry out of his chambers without another glance, or worse, that she would look at him in pity and regret.
"I will never abandon you," she responded simply.
"Are you mad, woman? She's the one you were waiting for, the one your precious books heralded, is she not?"
"She is, your Grace, the one who will fight darkness and bring the light forth, but..." she paused.
"But?" he pressed.
"My place is by your side. It has always been."
Stannis didn't dare meet her stare. Instead he sat looking at his feet and grinding his teeth. He had been denied all his life, had to fight for what was rightfully his twice more than anyone, yet now...he felt her burning gaze the whole time she approached his bed, felt the mattress dip when she sat beside him, but still he didn't look at her.
"When I was younger I always prayed to the Lord for solace, at night when darkness threatened to swallow me whole." She spoke softly, softer than he had ever heard her. She slowly laid a hand on his shoulder, and he tried not to flinch at the touch. "The Lord sent me your face. It was always your face," she whispered.
"He was wrong then. I'm not that savior of your prophecies, my lady, you have seen it yourself.”
He finally lifted his eyes and was surprised to find hers brimming with tears. He had never seen her cry. He swallowed hard.
"The nightmares would fade away. They always did when I..." she paused.
He did not know why he did it, but he tentatively cupped her cheek and kissed her, with such longing he thought it would consume him. She clung to him desperately, kissing him back just as fiercely. Her lips were soft, unlike his rough, chapped ones. He felt possessed by a great need to hold her forever. Despite his earlier words, he didn't want to let her go, not ever.
He was brought back from to the present by a soft knock .“Enter,” he bid. His Hand appeared at the doorway.
“Your Grace,” he uttered respectfully, “you shouldn’t be alone, I’ll call the Maest--”
“I’m not alone,” the King retorted, glancing back at his priestess. Davos followed his gaze to the empty space and grimaced. Melisandre looked briefly at the Lord Hand and smirked. “Besides,” the King continued, “I don´t want that boy poking and prodding at me. It’s no use.”
“Maester Pylos is hardly a boy, Your Grace,” Davos chuckled, then frowned slightly. “You shouldn't say that, Your Grace,” he murmured.
“Why not?” the King questioned. “It’s the truth, my Lord Hand. My end is drawing near. There’s no need to deny it.” Davos lowered his head mournfully and said nothing. “Come now, my Onion Knight,” the King half smiled, and Davos lifted his gaze. “You have served me well, my friend, through all this time.”
“My King, I…”
“And now you’ll serve my daughter, just as faithfully as you did me,” the King ordered.
“I will, Your Grace, I swear it upon my life,” Davos managed.
“I trust you and her mother will counsel her truthfully,” the King added.
“We will, Your Grace. The Princess will make you proud, I assure you.”
“Aye, that she will. She already does.” The King smiled fondly. “I owe you my life, my Lord Hand,” the King said more seriously.
“How so, my liege?” Davos inquired.
“You know I dislike needless modesty, smuggler,” the king said sharply, but his lips were curling in a half smile. “You came to my aid when it looked like mine own brother had failed to remember me. We would have starved without your onions and salted fish, but you already know that.”
The King gave his Hand an affectionate look. “I never forgot,” he said sincerely. “You were always my trusted advisor, my only friend, and I want to thank you for your endless loyalty, as well as…entrust you my daughter. Protect her, as I will not be able to do so anymore.”
“No harm will ever come to the Princess, your Grace. I won’t allow it,” Davos said firmly. There was silence for a moment, just the crackling and snapping of the flames. The King’s labored breathing could be heard. “It was an honor to serve you and fight alongside you, my King,” Davos added, unable to hold back his tears anymore.
The king nodded, fighting back tears of his own. “Send my daughter in, I wish to have a word with her,” he requested. Davos nodded and made to leave the chambers.
“Farewell, my friend,” Stannis called. The Hand turned back and stared at his King.
“Farewell, my liege,” he responded, but the King’s gaze was now fixed to his right. Davos looked at the spot his liege was gazing at intently. His red shadow, he thought half exasperated, but he allowed a small smile to curl upon his lips.
When Davos took his leave, Stannis let out a sigh and focused again on Melisandre’s serene face. She was looking at him with a half mischievous smile. “You must not worry, my King,” she said more seriously. “The Princess is strong, just like her father, and your Hand is a good man…albeit a bit obstinate.” She smirked. “But he will not lead her astray,” she added solemnly.
“You never answered me, woman,” the King pressed after a moment. “What were you looking for...” he paused, “in your flames?” His priestess stared at him, that bloody cheeky smile appearing again on her face.
“Don’t you know, my king?” she teased, but the king frowned and glared at her. Melisandre laughed then, loud and melodious. “The Lord was showing me my savior, the chosen one.” Stannis’ frown deepened. “You, Stannis, my chosen one, I thought we had settled that.” She half smiled.
“Was it true, then?” the King muttered. “What you told me...tha--that night?" he finished with difficulty. The priestess’ expression became solemn. She kneeled next to her King’s bedside, caressing him.
“Sleep always frightened me, since I was a little girl. Only in your arms was I free of dreams. You were the one who fought the darkness inside me and vanquished it.” She took his frail hand in hers and brought it to her warm cheek. "I chose you. I took refuge in you," the priestess whispered, “Take solace from me now, in your hour of need, as I did from you, a long time ago...my savior, my chosen one…my love.”
He caressed her cheek softly, and she leaned into his touch, peering at him adoringly. And I would have, he thought, I would have chosen you, woman, damn all of them, I would have if...
He was back then to that forsaken day. The battle still raged around him. He had taken a blow to his knee and was trying to get off the snow when he saw it -- a flash of red in the midst of whiteness. He dragged himself to where she was, grinding his teeth at the pain in his knee, until he was at her side. “My lady,” he croaked. She opened her beautiful crimson eyes and peered at him.
“St-Stannis,” she gasped.
“Do not speak, my lady, save your strength.” He cradled her body to his and brushed her hair from her face. Looking down, he saw the long gash on her chest, blood pouring from it. He bit back a curse.
“T--there is…no time,” she panted, “you must…must leave…now. ” Her breathing was labored.
“I will not leave you, woman,” he argued.
“The w--war…it…will be…won,” she smiled, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Th--the people… the ones…who will…su-survive…will need you.” He could hear the screams around them, the smell of death filling his nostrils. “Y--You will be…King…as…as I…promised…”
“That does not matter now, my lady. We need to get back to Castle Black and have the Maester treat your wound, we must…”
She let out a whimper. “You will…be King…Stannis,” she repeated. “But I will not…see it.”
"Don't--don't speak like that, my lady." An awful screech filled the air. The dragons, he thought. He stared down again at Melisandre's face. Her eyes were closed, a little smile gracing her lips. She murmured something he couldn't comprehend. "My lady? Melisandre?" She opened her eyes slowly and reached out to caress his stubbled jaw.
"Go," she murmured.
"I will not go anywhere without you, my lady," he told her firmly. She smiled again.
"So...stubborn," she said endearingly. "Stannis...y-you have to...leave...me and...go," she croaked.
"I will not," the king insisted, and he tried to lift her body.
“You must...live...live...m--my King...my...love..."
A lump formed in the King's throat. He met his priestess’ adoring gaze and cupped her cheek, softly kissing her lips. She kissed him back weakly, then went limp in his arms. "My lady?" She didn't answer. NO, NO, NO. "My lady!" he repeated urgently. "Open your eyes, my lady…open your eyes…I’m ordering you.” But she remained motionless, her eyelids unmoving, her breathing stopped. Stannis let out a strangled sob. She was gone. He gathered her body in his arms and lifted her, wincing at the pain in his knee.
A great shadow loomed over him and the King looked upwards to see the dragons and their mother, flying farther north for the last time, to the final crusade, the clash of ice and fire, never to be seen again.
Stannis carried Melisandre's body up to the tunnel’s gate until his knee gave out and they both collapsed on the snow. Stannis didn’t know how long he had been laying on the snow clutching his priestess’ body to his when he heard someone shouting.
“Your Grace! Your Grace!” He felt arms trying to lift him.
“The lady,” he pressed.
“She’s gone, your Grace,” the knight replied.
“I know that, Horpe,” the King retorted sharply. “Still, we must take her inside.” He was gazing at the still body in his arms.
“Yes, your Grace…MASSEY, GET OVER HERE NOW!” the knight barked. Stannis saw a flash of pale blonde hair as Ser justin kneeled beside him.
“Is she…?”
“Yes,” Horpe answered. “Take her to the courtyard. We must…burn the dead, Your Grace,” he explained.
Stannis grimaced. “Let’s go then,” he said resolutely.
“But…your Grace, you need to see a Maester, your wound…” the King looked down at his knee, blood trickling from the cut.
“I’m not about to die, Massey. Lead the way.” The knight nodded and walked ahead, carrying Melisandre in his arms. The King followed, leaning heavily on Ser Richard´s side.
The courtyard in Castle Black was filled with corpses. Pyres had been erected already. He saw Massey lay Melisandre´s body on one of them and light it, flames started licking the fabric of her crimson dress. He stood there, watching, Horpe and Massey both holding him in place. The King felt a tear slide down his cheek. He could not remember the last time he cried. It could have been when he saw the Windproud being swallowed whole by the waves of Shipbreaker Bay while tightly holding his brother’s hand, or perhaps when he was told his daughter wouldn’t survive the terrible disease that had afflicted her.
Finally the flames engulfed the priestess. Her fire god has taken her from me.
Coming back to the present, his hand was still cradling her cheek, and he saw the flames flicker and dance in her eyes. His breathing had become more labored. I would have...I should have, the King thought, yet he said nothing. He didn't need to, for she already knew. Stannis saw the contented smile on his priestess’ face and felt warm himself, yet he couldn't help but remember Selyse. She had been a good wife and a better queen, had visited him earlier to say her farewell, had vowed to guide their daughter to become the ruler the kingdom needed. Before leaving, she kissed his cheek in an uncommon, affectionate manner, a flash of pain crossing her eyes. Theirs had never been a loving union, but they had always respected each other. She had stood by his side in times of hardship and given him his only daughter and heir, the most precious gift.
“He returned you to me, at least at the end…I never thought he would,” the King told his priestess after breaking his reverie.
“Who, my King?” Melisandre asked, still nuzzling her cheek on his palm.
“Your Fire God,” he answered. “He took you from me…that day.” She gave him an understanding sad smile.
“But as you said, He returned me to you, and I'm here now.” And it’s all that matters, she did not need to add.
They were interrupted by a soft knock .“May I come in, father?” Shireen requested softly.
“You may,” the King bid, and his daughter entered the chamber slowly, one hand cradling her swollen belly, her long black hair arranged in an intricate braid. “Come closer, child,” the King signaled. Shireen approached his bed and gingerly sat without removing the hand that rested on her belly. “The little one is restless, it seems,” he observed, gesturing to her belly. His daughter nodded, grinning.
“Lady Marya thinks it’ll be a boy, and just as wild as his father.” The King scoffed. It was not that he disliked the Stark boy. He still remembered the frightened child his Hand had brought to the Wall, how the first moons he growled at anyone who dared to come close to him, much like that wolf of his, save for the wilding woman and Shireen, who the boy trailed after, hanging on her every word. He knew the boy adored her, always had. Still, Stannis couldn’t help but feel protective of his little girl.
He glanced at Melisandre, who had taken her usual place at his right and was smiling fondly at the scene. His eyelids felt heavy, and his breathing had become more labored. He knew his time was coming to an end. “Shireen,” he called solemnly. His daughter gazed worriedly at him, sensing his change of mood, the smile gone from her face. “You are my only daughter, my heir.” Her dark blue eyes, so much like his own, filled with tears. “And the burden I’ll leave you is not an easy task,” he pressed on. “Forgive me, my daughter, for I was absent most part of your life, and I regret it.” Tears were now cascading down her face. She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. “You must not think…that there was a time I was ashamed of you,” he wheezed.
“I know that, father,” she managed, sniffling. The King panted, struggling for breath. He felt Melisandre’s hand caress his forehead soothingly. His daughter had started sobbing despairingly.
“You…are my daughter…m--mine own daughter…and I’ve always loved you,” he rasped. Shireen scooted closer and clung to his chest as best as she could, weeping.
“I love you too, father,” she hiccupped. The King hissed in pain. He knew the end was near. He stroked his daughter’s hair and wished he had been granted more time with her.
“Do not weep, my daughter…you must be…strong,” he breathed heavily.
“Do not leave me, father, please, you cannot leave me,” she cried.
“I must…child…f--forgive me.” Stannis felt his last breath leaving his body, and darkness began to engulf him. He still could hear his daughter sobbing and calling out to him in the distance. And then he felt no more.
The fire kept crackling in the hearth. Despite being so far north in the middle of the harshest winter he had ever endured, Stannis did not feel the cold. He was lying in his bed, bare as his first name day, furs covering him and Melisandre as she curled against his chest. Running his fingers through her soft tresses, he sighed.
He recalled what she had said earlier. She was willing to stay by his side. Even when she was now certain of what he had always known deep down. He was not that promised warrior of fire, the champion who would stand against darkness and defeat it, the one who was chosen, but he was hers -- had always been.
Her chosen one.
He closed his eyes, her steady breathing lulling him to sleep. Outside the winds howled and winter kept raging, but Stannis felt warm, warmer that he ever had.