Cast
Little Red Riding Hood: Melisandre
The Wolf: Robb Stark and Greywind
Grandma: Old Nan
Huntsman: ?
Location: Riverlands
Time: Generally the war between Lannisters/Starks
This is a dark dramedy retelling of Red Riding Hood with a Game of Thrones/ASOIAF cast. I always TRY to write comedy and then get all serious. The idea came when I was thinking about wolves in literature- how they are portrayed as either evil or noble and wild. I thought about the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood and how different he was from the Starks and their direwolves. So I decided to write this piece casting Robb Stark/Greywind as the Wolf and Melisandre as Little Red Riding Hood, because Robb is the 'Young Wolf,' the direwolf IS a wolf, and Melisandre because of well, the red. For comedic purposes, I take great liberty with many things, but grumpkins DO exist an no one can tell me otherwise. My especial apologies go to poor Grey Wind and Old Nan. The time is vague, but it generally takes place in the Riverlands around the time Robb is fighting the Lannisters and Stannis is meeting with his brother Renly.
Prologue
Melisandre skips through the forest on the periphery of the Riverlands. Well, not exactly skips, -she isn't the skipping type- but she glides at a faster pace, what is almost a smile gracing her lips. She holds in the crook of her arm a basket, its fibers smoked black as the wicker frames of the Seven before they crumbled to ash. She has a particular mission today, and it isn't related to Stannis, or any king- at least not directly. Melisandre feels herself growing weak, and her supplications to the Lord of Light have gone unheeded. The ruby at her throat burns with a waning glow. No, this is a personal mission.
She is going to see her grandma.
Yes, Melisandre has a grandmother, just like everyone else, and she's not hidden in some dark hovel in shadows of Asshai. The fact remains that there was only one woman old enough to be grandmother or great-grandmother and beyond to almost everyone in Westeros, and a good number in Essos as well. And that woman is Old Nan.
Of course that means that incest is far more common in Westeros than had been suggested- and a lot had has been suggested- but that is entirely beside the point. The poor woman had been frightfully neglected by her relatives, perhaps due to her bad habit of telling grim stories about ice spiders and rats devouring their babes. House after house made their excuses, and she was nearly sent to weave nets in Dorne before Ned, poor, foolish Ned, the only one with enough honor to keep her, took her to live in the North. Which was fortuitous because in various periods before and after her ahem…adventurous sex life she had grown up there and lived there, nursing screaming babies in a land where the dead rose and wights rode spiders large as…enough of that. But anyway, Winterfell had fallen.
This Melisandre knows. She knows many things, looking into the fire. She and her grandmother actually have quite a bit in common, if you look beyond the fact one is interested in eternal winters, and the other in sacrificial pyres. Both speak in long, metaphor-laden diatribes, likely because they both know their metaphors are by nature vague, and whatever happens they can claim the gift of divination.
The Travels of Old Nan
But Old Nan had fled Winterfell. The poor old thing had really been in danger there, talking about grumpkins and snarks among the rising flames and crumbling towers. But of all things it was a grumpkin that rescued her. It had slithered into amongst the chaos (grumpkins are fond of chaos) to eat the red-hot stones (grumpkins are fond of red-hot stones). As Old Nan's hiding spot collapsed into a heap, the besieging soldiers moved in toward her, but the grumpkin gave such a ferocious hiss that they fled.
So Old Nan was able wander seemingly half-senile out of the castle grounds and over the frosty hills. A farmer mistook her for a sack of turnips, dumped her in his cart, and made it all the way to the Riverlands before he realized his mistake and cursing, plopped her at the nearest inn.
Old Nan, for her part, spat at the cart, but was otherwise pleased. She had some mind about her, and if a mealy-faced farmer were fool enough to take her for burlap, she would gladly accept a ride away from the impending icy doom. She was more capable than she was given credit for. With trembling hands she a broke a branch from the nearest tree to form a cane and hobbled inside the inn to beg a sip of mead. It was just like Winterfell inside, stone and damp and filled with carousing soldiers, who could just as well be Stark as Tully.
But they wore the trout banner, and Old Nan scowled as she thought of barrels of stale, salted fish she had eaten in the winters where children were born and died, never even seeing…
Her story was interrupted by the whinny of horses, and boots so heavy they beat the earth. In walked a giant of a man, clad in steel, hard eyes squinting through narrow helm. There was so much bloodlust in the eyes that the man didn't even know his own grandmother! Old Nan reached out her arms toward Gregor, who had grown so much. But he only raised his sword, and what seemed like a legion of soldiers flooded the inn.
Old Nan covered her face and wailed, but not before smacking Gregor several times on the shin with her makeshift cane. There was an eternity of darkness and then- silence. She dropped her arms and allowed one bleary eye to open. The carnage was over.
She was bathed in blood and corpses littered the ground, but the Mountain and his army were gone. They had taken the mead with them, and all the stabled horses, but their attempt to immolate the place had failed, leaving only a cozy fire in the hearth. Unless of course, Gregor- or 'the Mountain' what a stupid name for a young lad!- had left it on purpose. It made sense, considering she had alone been spared.
Her shoulders were hunched and it ached to peer up, but there was a small bunch of wildflowers with the roots still attached on the hearth's edge, and 'GRAMMA' was written in ash with a fat, clumsy hand. She spat again, hardly mollified. He had good cause to feel guilty after she had sent to many ravens and silver stags on his Nameday and not a word. Nothing.
Mumbling, Old Nan dusted her apron and hobbled toward the hearth to warm her gnarled fingers, murmuring something about the joy of having her grandchildren around her in her final years. It didn't to bother her much that they were dead.
The rivers of blood had not gone to waste. When Old Nan heard that her pretty granddaughter Melisandre had arrived in Westeros she set about weaving a lovely hooded cloak. She had never met the child, but she heard she was fond of red, so she dyed the fine wool in soldier's blood. Unfortunately, this meant it arrived in Storm's End a crusty brown monstrosity, but with a little fire magic and the blessing of the Lord of Light, it returned to a lovely blood-red, and Melisandre was pleased. Since then, old Nan had finally found a grateful grandchild who sent her Nameday cards. It bothers her that Melisandre seems to be too involved with a extremely demanding young man named Raller- or was it Rowler? She wants her granddaughter to pick the right boy, but she young people will choose for themselves these days.
Now Melisandre is in the Riverlands, ready to meet her dear grandma at last. She wears the cloak- it is brilliant as though new, it flutters about her ankles and casts a shadow, a servant of light, around her broad forehead. Stannis has given his permission- duty to one's own blood in important after all- but with one warning. Do not converse with strangers.
"They will know our mission. Or seek to do you harm." He had said.
At this she had laughed. "All that I meet will be strangers," she had said. "And also none of them." In her years and travels she had met every kind of man, with every intention. No unfamiliar face could disarm her. So he had grit his teeth and let her go.
Stannis has made his sacrifices, she thought, and in through pyre they will ensure his victory. She lifts the silky cloth that covers the basket, and her fingers graze the sweet rolls, the soft kind perfect for a toothless crone. And beneath it, the manacles, chains, and flint. Now I must make my own. She does not profess to have king's blood- but blood of her own kind would suffice to strengthen her. Her heart aches, but the pain satisfies her, as a true sacrifice will please her Lord.
She sees a fork in the road, and purses her lips, delving into her soul and seeking her god to guide her.
The Hunger of a Wolf
The Young Wolf wanders through the thick of the wood. No path for him, and least not until now. He hesitates by the trail, just narrow enough for a small wagon. He had trusted too much in his instincts- or perhaps in Grey Wind's. No, this is not the North. This is not their homeland. But a direwolf has gifts of smell and sound, or so he had believed. His stomach clenches- from foreboding, he knows, but also from a hunger so fierce it can't be quite be human. It isn't human. Greywind, where are you?
Robb Stark is the middle of a war. And Robb Stark has been lost in the woods for days.
NOW. I'm hungry. Chicken. I'm hungry. Feed me. YOU feed me.
Soon, soon he will find the clearing and see the banners of white and grey raised high. But first he must feed. No, not feed, eat. He is human after all.
He scratches his palm involuntarily and frowns. Rob has three puncture wounds in his hand from climbing a spiked wall. He hadn't seen the spikes of course- he had just thrust out his arm as his foot lost purchase. But it was a stupid mistake- of course the wall was spiked, as he could easily have seen if he had only stepped back to investigate. The hand is now tightly bound and it throbs- but not as badly as it itches.
Food. Hungry. Eat now. Chicken? NOW feed.
Robb rolls his eyes. Being psychically, spiritually, and symbolically tied to a wolf is not as magic or transcendent as he puts on. And he does put it on. Grey Wind is an excellent performer and gives Robb an aura of authenticity, and really, Robb is grateful for that. And it's not as though the direwolf is stupid- he has recently learned an abstract concept for an animal, the word 'Now', and is using it to drive Robb insane. But in reality Grey Wind is, if not in form, then in personality, a damned dog. And, traitor that he is for thinking it, Robb always preferred cats.
Cat? Where? CAT?
Grey Wind nudges his arse, nearly knocking him down, but Robb regains his composure, and turns around. "You know I hate when you do that." The wolf grumbles. Grey Wind doesn't like when he speaks to him out loud, so Robb kneels down.
It's your job, he thinks, knowing the wolf is listening. There will be meat, and plenty at the camp. But you must seek, hunt for us.
Robb pats his head and rises. Grey Wind peers up at him. He is salivating slightly and has an under bite at the moment- he sometimes gets one when he thinks about food- and Robb stifles the urge to laugh. But Grey Wind pulls his jaw in, and his gaze is strangely human, though there's spittle on the corner of his mouth. He then cranes his head, and Robb can see a shadowy figure in the distance.
Human. Robb talks. Talks makes eats. Human talk. Human hunt talk.
Robb is momentarily stunned by the direwolf's words, but comes to his senses. Grey Wind, away. The wolf pauses. Away NOW. Excited by his favorite word, the he vanishes but not before a final goodbye.
CHICKEN.
Robb thinks of the Grey Wind's words. Not chicken, though, tied to the wolf, he is visualizing a slow roasting bird. What he said before that.
Human hunt talk. He was saying that humans use speech to get food, which, through what Grey Wind had seen at Winterfell, would make sense. He was proud of the little guy. And he summed up his own talents- the gift of speech, of leading men. Could he mislead them? But as the woman-and it is a woman-nears he grows increasingly unsure of his ability.
The Meeting on the Path
A figure appears before Melisandre. He is leaning against a tree as though waiting for her. She does not flinch. It does not surprise her that nothing surprises her- a gift from her Lord, no doubt. She approaches him. Though the Riverlands are torn asunder, she fears no harm. She tilts her head at the young man and she assumes that pose, eyes half closed, body supple as a reed. She is the light, and also the servant, the shadow. She lifts her hood for the full effect, and her she can feel the ruby at her neck pulse, even in its weakness.
But though she is not surprised, the young man unsettles her. She has never liked red hair in men outside her faith- and this man is no follower of R'hllor. It always seemed to her like blasphemy. But, no, there is also a great deal of brown in his hair, the earthy type that neutralizes fire. It couldn't be that.
The man seems hesitant to speak- he likely hasn't spent much time with women.
"My lady," he says at last, his voice strong but unsteady. "You travel alone."
"I am as you see," She says, calmed by his voice and boyish demeanor. She lets her basket swing from her hand, revealing how at ease she truly is. But they are both wary, and can see the mistrust in each other's eyes. He walks further into the pathway.
"You block my path, Ser." She is more amused than angered, though there is still this vague discomfort. There is something about him- something so close that she isn't grasping.
"I apologize, my lady. But will you allow me to escort you? It would be a privilege."
Though his voice is steady, there is a strange desperation in his eyes, and she wonders momentarily- does he desire her? He must, and though she takes pride in her beauty, a man's lust is a fickle thing that little flatters her. Either way, she has her methods and knows she is safe. Unless of course- she desires him. Is that why he unnerves her? She can not say.
"I would not ask, my lady," he continues. "But you see, I have lost my own way, and perhaps accompanying you could help me."
It is a strange thing for a man to admit. A wealthy man, well-dressed with an intricate breastplate. A skilled mercenary, perhaps, or an expert thief, though both seem unlikely. She laughs, a bit higher and sweeter than her natural laugh, and decides to tell the truth. "I am visiting my grandmother."
"Kind…" he says, absent-mindedly, but then grows serious. It comes naturally to him. "But you do realize these lands are at war? Who are you anyway?"
She ignores the question. "I have a gift for her that will serve us both well. It will serve my Lord at present, and her in the world to come."
He looks genuinely baffled, and she realizes she has gone too far. She can deceive so easily, twist her words, but when she speaks of her faith, the words just spill out. But her choice of phrase is lucky.
"Which Lord do you serve?" he asks.
She opens her mouth to say it. R'hllor Lord of Light. But it isn't the time, and she purses her lips.
He laughs nervously at her silence. "Excuse me, my lady. I know these are dangerous times for such questions, with an enemy banner in every corner." He looks toward her, his shoulders stiffen, and he flushes.
The flush awakens her senses. She studies the pattern on his face, and can almost feel the warmth of the blood beneath. Melisandre realizes she has been staring too long- she is so used to following her own ways that social mores often elude her- so she drops her gaze to be safe. At that, the man shifts uncomfortably, and covers one hand with the other.
"You are injured." She says, noting the bandages.
"A trifle. A scratch in battle." he answers, and flushes again. The secret of the flush remains elusive, and this time it only irritates her. He pauses and then speaks again, laughing. "No, I climbed a wall. The wrong wall it seems.."
Melisandre feels a sudden desire to see the wound, but decides to play a little. She cranes her neck, but only to enhance to enhance its length and beauty, as they are of a height, or nearly so.
"Climbing walls is for little boys," She taunts, and his brow darkens. He is angry, fiercely angry, though she can not say why. "I can help you," she says quickly, and their eyes meet. He shudders slightly, and she knows why. Red eyes are not common in Westeros. He looks with caution at her basket. "You have herbs in there."
"Perhaps," she says, enjoying his discomfiture.
"A woods witch?" He says, backing away a little. But his expression softened. "No, impossible. You were gently brought up."
"That I was not, Ser," she says. "But I am no witch." Others have called her such, but she know herself to be only a servant. If hard deeds must be done it was according to the Lord's plan. "Let me see."
She reaches out his hand, and slowly, slowly, he lets her take it. She removes the poorly applied bandage to reach the wound beneath. Her eyes grow wide and she stifles a gasp. Nothing surprises her, but she is surprised. If not for her command over her body, she would have dropped the hand. Instead, she grips it tighter.
She hears his breathing quicken overhead. "That bad?" he asks.
Melisandre shakes her head. "Not bad at all," she says, in the steadiest voice she can muster. And she is not lying. There is some swelling and oozing pus- that is to be expected. But more, the dried crust of blood is gone with the discarded bandage, and fresh red blood drips from the wound.
King's blood, she thinks, and she gazes up at its vessel in alarm. How did she find such a man on the road? He is looking down at her oblivious, more concerned about the hand. The unease, the strange power of his blushing cheek. That was it along. He has the blood of a king.
"You're staring too long." He laughs nervously. "Put me out of my misery, my lady."
"Yes, yes," she murmurs impatiently. She has few herbs with her- but most effective is the balm in her purse. But first she must gain a sample. In her haste she looks about, and finding nothing, reaches for the hem of her skirt, both hands clenched as though to tear it.
"No!" The young man calls out, and seeing her eyes again, looks down. "I have…cloth. No need to damage a such a dress- where do they make dye like that?"
Once again she ignores his question, and proceeds to dab the wound- gently, to avoid the pus, and soak up the precious blood. She turns around, as though to seek supplies from her basket, and quickly presses the cloth to her lips. She inhales, and lets her tongue graze the fresh blood.
It is like none she has ever encountered. There are ancient remnants within- a direct descent, no doubt, direct enough to keep the old line firm and enduring. Yes, he is the direct descendant of a king, but a distant king. But it is not just that- there is more. He is a new-made king, an infant in the scheme of things, but a king nonetheless, crowned. Both one and the other, and it confuses her.
But it only takes a little guesswork before she knows her man.
An Uneasy Proposition
Robb tenses as the woman at his feet slathers his hand in ointment. He doesn't bother to ask more questions- they've all gone unanswered- but he is insanely curious. This woman is more beautiful than she has a right to be, and yet she does not attract him- not quite. She is too ostentatiously sensual, and he has always preferred simplicity. He knows she is older than he is, but her age is vague.
She is dressed entirely in red robes and he does have some idea what that means. He has seen the occasional vagabond priest- the men in ragged red robes who proclaim the name of R'hllor and speak his wonders in labyrinthine speeches. His father always harbored these men, let them speak their part and provided them sustenance, but they were on their way in the morning. There was little place for new gods at Winterfell.
But never a woman, and never in such finery, and never, never such unearthly beauty. And to walk alone- he trembled for her. Yet he could see she had no fear, and there was a great store of strength within her- so many layers of strength they defy his understanding. He feels almost inadequate, a boy again after leading armies. If he is a king, then what is she?
It hurts as she probes into the wound. Does she have to do that? But he isn't thinking about the pain anymore. The hunger within is growing deeper- and he sees a flash of grey through the brush. Grey Wind is close and pleading, and Robb salivates, so much so he has to put his spare arm to his sleeve.
Away, away, he thinks. But Grey Wind stops, sits, and whinnies. He blends in the woods with perfect ease, but to Robb he is impossible to ignore.
Talk food. Give food human. The direwolf lays out his argument.
Robb shakes his head, frustrated. He is doing something else, and besides, what could she have in that basket? Maybe enough to feed him- but Grey Wind?
He pauses, irritated to obey his own wolf. "Do you have food?" he says abruptly.
She looks up at him, that inscrutable look of amusement in her eyes. Her eyes are glowing, lovely, but unholy in their color. "Very little," she says. "Just enough for my poor grandmother. Do you mean to rob me of it?"
Robb's cheeks turn scarlet, a habit that he hates. Of course he won't take it from her, a woman so alone, her poor grandmother likely starving in a hovel.
"An empty belly is small thing," she says. "When we think of the gifts that the Lord-" she pauses. "That we have been granted," she finishes and continues with her work.
She is holding herself back, but she is definitely a religious type. He worries she will try to convert him- he is not good at letting petitioners go empty-handed, especially ones so fair. He only grumbles, not a kingly thing to do, but he can't help himself. With Grey Wind so near, his hunger grows ferocious.
I'm hungry.
I KNOW, answers Robb, his very thought testy.
Woman? Asks the wolf. He sometimes has trouble distinguishing between human sexes. With Nymeria and Lady it had been different.
Yes, woman. Answers Robb. The woman is wrapping up his wound, and he wants to the wolf to leave. She is enough to handle on her own, and the wolf distorts his senses with that hunger.
Eat woman. NOW.
Robb's red cheeks blanche white. Not because he is angry with the wolf, which he is- it is a terrible idea. But because it appeals to him, for the first time. Human flesh. But he is not fully human, is he? So it is no abomination. Of course he won't eat her but there are so many people so near to death anyway in this ravaged lands. It would be a mercy. Grey Wind backs away, and as he goes the idea fades, as does his hunger. What was he thinking?
"But you are hungry?" The woman asks, standing up, and he nods briskly.
"I have little food, but my grandmother might have more. "
"She lives…alone?" he asked. He can barely comprehend a woman living alone in the Riverlands, not at this time.
She laughs as though she is entirely unaware of the war, the famine, the scent of human decay that is present even here where the wet scent of foliage shields them. This time her laugh is deeper, throatier and she seems to have transformed. "Of course she does," she answered. "There will not be much, and I assume you are accustomed to finer fare."
"I am a soldier," he says with all the authority he can muster, but he realizes it only makes him seem more childish.
"Yes, you wear a breastplate- I can see that. How much would such a breastplate sell for in times like these? Less than before, I am certain, now that food is scarce and dead bodies to scavenge from plentiful. But enough for a good dinner- a roast bird-"
"CHICKEN!" He shouts, completely against his will. His face burns and he grits his teeth. Where is that damned wolf? But the woman merely shifts her body, and assumes another stance.
"Yes, chicken- if you like. But what, I mean is, you are no common soldier."
"And I could make many assumptions about you, my lady," he responds. It is rude, but her prying annoys him.
"Am I camp follower then? Do I seek to sell my body under the guise of visiting dear grandmother?"
"I didn't mean-" He stammers, and again, the damned blush.
"I know." She smiles in a strangely maternal way. It is like his mother's smile, but lacking its depth and true concern. He suddenly misses his lady mother. "That was cruel of me. But you will be my guest tonight- or my grandmothers. She is fond of me, and will not mind. There will be turnips at least, likely soup, and perhaps more. Even chicken."
He grimaces and she laughs. "She is a dear woman. And so concerned over my marriage state. Perhaps you will join me as my betrothed?"
Robb looks at her with alarm. Since his ascension to king, many of his bannermen's sisters and daughters have thrown themselves- or been thrown- in his path. And he is promised to the Frey girl, curse his luck. Could it be a trap?
"You needn't scowl so, Ser. My grandmother hasn't long to live, and I will likely never see her again. She has her doubts from my letters- that I will marry unsuitably. It would ease her heart to see a nice boy like you- a little dirty perhaps, but that can be explained away."
It is a strange story but he is too tired to banter with her. "Very well, then. A small adventure. And-"
"And food." She finishes for him. He nods, embarrassed but relieved.
"Your name?" he asks.
"Jeyne." She says dismissively. A most Westerosi name for a woman clearly from Essos. She knows he knows she is lying, and doesn't care. "And you, Ser?"
"Gr-" He is thinking about Grey Wind again, and finished sloppily. "Gregor."
Perfect, he thinks. I have chosen the name of the most hated man in these lands.