Chapter Text
Stannis cursed the fatigue in his fingers, smashed his knuckles against the table to wake them up. The cold in the North was every bit as deadly as people had warned. It seeped into one's bones after a while, crept into blood and could not be thawed by braziers.
"Sire, there is a letter from Castle Black."
How it had arrived in conditions such as this, the king could not guess. For his valiant effort, the raven received bits of salted bread. Ravenous, the bird pecked its reward from Stannis's palm before wandering to the edge of the table.
"Your Grace— " the steward spoke with head bowed— "shall I heat the wax for you? Shall I open— "
"No." Drawing his dagger from his hip, Stannis chipped at the seal until it peeled loose. Impatience forced him to rip the rest of the letter free. He rattled it open in annoyance.
A separate piece of parchment slipped from within the letter, fluttering to his desk. It was smaller than the main letter and more wrinkled. Stannis frowned at it. Suspicion settled in his gut, and he plucked it up between thumb and forefinger.
To His Grace Stannis I of the House Baratheon
He recognised the elegant hand, the careful lettering of one who was not native to the Common Tongue. Though his suspicion abated, a sense of unease took its place. Why should Lady Melisandre have reason to write? Was it a hidden message, a smuggled note of threats to come? Already he'd received such warnings from Jon Snow about traitors in his midst; gods knew what other treasons lurked about. Scanning the room for prying eyes, Stannis unfolded the parchment and read.
Your Grace,
Far be it from my intention to startle you with such correspondence. There is no bad news to be delivered, nor any threat I see in R'hllor's sacred fires. Fear not for your person nor those around you. The Lord promises victory and protection. I furthermore offer apologies for the inconvenience of disturbing Your Grace, and beg you forgive me for the shame it may cause you. There was no other way to reach you without a spying gaze falling upon it.
He raised an eyebrow.
Sire, please accept a simple letter from your priestess. You know I am ever loyal to you, and pray every day for your good health and happiness.
Stannis snorted at that. It was just like Melisandre to presume people could be content during a war, in such a hellish winter.
And more you know how I search my flames for you, for my champion, for even just a glimpse. Therein lies my suffering. R'hllor, with His mysterious will, does not answer my prayer. It is a small misery I must bear. Our God knows if we received all our heart's desires, we would forget to ask anything at all.
Long you have been marching. You must pray without ceasing, my king. You must find solace in the fire, and receive every blessing you ask for. I sing every dawn for your bravery and strength, virtues you already possess in abundance.
He was rankled by the flattery, and vaguely disappointed that she, of all people, should behave thus.
You will find my words insincere and inappropriate. I beg your forgiveness in this as well.
When I put ink upon this page, it is as your lowly servant and your priestess but also as your lady, who waits in darkness alone. Can you know how I ache and cry, how I long for you as only a woman can long for a man?
"Out," Stannis barked at his stewards. Alarmed, they made an hasty exit. His blood stirred within him at such sweetly scripted words. It was the first warmth he had felt in months. Closing his eyes did nothing but inflame him further, render his breathing even more uneven. With steely resolve, he returned to the letter.
Forgive me if I anger you. I never wish to grieve you or offend you, only to speak what R'hllor has burned upon my heart. In this repentance I continue.
You must take Winterfell, and soon, for I cannot bear to be from your side. My bed here is a little thing, a modest luxury, but it feels vast and lonely absent my king. It offers no repose for me. I long to gaze into the eyes of my lord, into eyes that are deep and blue as the Narrow Sea. I long to hear my name from his lips, to be joined with him as a man joins a woman.
I beg you not to condemn me, as you will surely find my words obscene. Forgive me. Have pity on your priestess in her womanly weakness.
May these words, spoken in utmost truth and submission, inspire you to continue forth, to glory as you deserve, so I may once again glimpse my warrior's face. Fight with the blessing of the Lord of Light. Take Winterfell in victory, if not for R'hllor, then for my sake and for the promise of comforts I wish to give you. As your servant I beg it, as your priestess I pray for it. As your lady I command it.
Ever your most faithful servant, and R'hllor's obedient slave,
"Melisandre," he breathed. That single word set his body ablaze.