"He's...p-praying, my lady. Near the rangers' post."
The scrambling steward's words had an immediate effect on the priestess, her visage registering a split second of emotion before smoothing back into an exquisite pale canvas. All the same, Melisandre's heart leaped in delighted surprise. He is praying, truly? To our Lord?
The red priestess considered the poor steward's frightened countenance a moment more. She knew the Night's Watch were terrified of her, and furthermore, she knew what they said about her. Foreign witch. Red whore. Melisandre raised a scarlet eyebrow at the steward. "I will seek him near the fires, then."
The words of men matter not, she reminded herself, watching the skittish boy clamber away with an armful of firewood.
As she descended the ancient, creaking stairs of Castle Black, Melisandre's scarlet silks and bare feet collected the dust of the newest snows, yet she did not consider the cold, nor the pitch black of the evening sky. The night is dark and full of terrors, her mind chanted dutifully, but her heart dwelled on naught but her king.
Stannis was not a religious man – she had long accepted this fact – nor was he remotely interested in the unseen blessings of the Lord of Light. "That which is true in your fires, your visions," he had admitted one night, "is only of use to me when it serves the realm."
And that was his way. Melisandre contented herself with that, and tailored her spiritual counsel to his political aims. King Stannis was obsessed with duty, with justice, and for all his hard-earned trust in her, Melisandre knew not to expect any further interest in her faith.
Until now, perhaps. He's praying, my lady. And he was; she finally spotted him to the east of the training yard.
True Warrior of Light, she thought, but the sentiment was a dull ache in her breast as she studied him from afar. No matter how fervently she prayed, it was becoming more and more difficult to believe in her own prophecy. But Melisandre was an unrelenting woman, and she came to Stannis even in these darkest of nights. He is still my Azor Ahai, her heart whispered selfishly.
More importantly, he was still her king, and he currently knelt in the snows a distance away from the castle yard at an abandoned rangers' post – nothing more than a small shelter of decaying wood and a lone fire pit burning a feeble column of heat against the icy wind. The spires of Stannis' crown cast twisting shadows before the bloody, dancing fire he now found unlikely refuge in. Melisandre longingly considered his lean form for a moment – the ever-tense lines of his back, the clenched, stubbled jaw, the rigid grip of his hands – before approaching him as one would a flighty fawn.
And with good reason, she mused. The moment her red skirts pooled next to him, Stannis' eyes shot open suspiciously, the quiet winter night disrupted.
"My lady," he addressed her tersely.
His eyes raked quickly down her form before settling back on the fire with a soft sigh. A pause; then,
"You do not wear the furs I purchased, so I'll not bother with the merchants for shoes."
Neither King nor priestess took their gaze from the flickering fire, a comfortable silence falling between them. Still, Melisandre's lips quirked slightly in pleasure. She would never confess it, but she delighted in his dry concern for her wellbeing, even if his words were always rough, always weary.
"Your Grace," Melisandre greeted him. She paused for a long moment before continuing softly, "I did not believe the steward, yet here you are." Another pause. Her words were deliberate, calming. "Most of the Castle has retired for the night..."
Stannis turned tired eyes upon Melisandre once again, this time to carefully study the gentle curve of her ruby lips, her cheek; the enticing lift of her brow. Whole worlds weigh upon him, she thought sadly, studying him in return. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and began to rise, but the red priestess caught his arm and dragged him gently back down to the snow.
"But stay, my king," she entreated, "just another moment before the fire."
Stannis sighed but conceded with a pained grimace. "The snow may not affect you, but I am not so immune to its chill." Nor to the heat of your fires, he thought, before forcing the irrational thought from his mind.
Melisandre's melodious laugh drifted suggestively into his ears, and he felt her heat as she leaned closer to his body. Could she read his mind? Did she know the power she had over him?
"Then permit me to warm you, Sire."
Of course she knows, you damned fool. Her flushed hand found its way up the wiry muscles of his shoulder, up to to his neck, sneaking beneath the stiff collar. Stannis' breath caught harshly at the feel of scorching fingers dancing upon his cold skin.
Understanding her intent, he caught her wrist firmly in warning. "We cannot."
The red woman's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Is winter not coming, my king?" Melisandre teased, yet her gaze was dark with desire. "Shall we not save each other from the frozen night?"
The King scowled, knowing well that she referred not to the cold of the snows. Still, he relaxed his grip on her delicate skin, grudgingly allowing the red priestess to shift in front of him. As she did so, she replaced the dancing flames of the fire with those of her own body. She is fire, Stannis thought uselessly as Melisandre's lips met his own. The crimson hair that kissed her waist now tickled his arms, tempting, inviting his arms to encircle her heat. Streams of fire melting hard iron, came the next absurd thought. How many times had he fallen into her fire? The flesh is weak, rebellious, depraved...
Melisandre smiled triumphantly against his mouth as he yielded to her insistent lips and hands. His priestess was just as blunt and impatient as he; she wasted no time in their illicit consummation, pushing her king into a sitting position upon the chilled ground and lowering her scarlet form onto his lap. This is wrong, this is reckless, this is foolish… A violent parting of fabric, a few fluid motions, and Melisandre had enveloped his hardness into the liquid heat of her body. Stannis groaned unwillingly, a guttural, discordant cry as his forehead pressed against hers.
"Woman, if someone sees – "
"No one will see, my king. And if they do, they will see that we are simply keeping each other warm." Melisandre laughed breathlessly again, grinding her pelvis against his and coaxing another deep groan from her king's clenched jaw. "I only see two people warming each other whilst they pray."
Stannis was clearly scandalized even as he roughly gripped her hips through red silks. "What would the Lord think of such sinful talk? Surely a priestess should not speak thus of her faith." As if to punish her, he brought Melisandre down forcefully, sheathing himself fully within her...and she willingly allowed him to take control. He needs this, she realized. Again and again the King clutched bruisingly at her thighs, her hips, her waist, establishing an angry tempo to match the deafening rush of blood in his ears.
Melisandre stifled a cry at his harsh lovemaking, answering his accusations with the raking of her nails down his neck. As she rode him in a haze of pained pleasure, she delighted in the red rivers that began to trickle beneath his collar, salty and hot despite the chill of the air around them. "The Lord created us man and woman. He finds no shame in the union of His children. And..." the red priestess quickened their pace still, an unspoken challenge; "Is this not the most ecstatic of prayers, my king? "
The King did not answer. As he grit his teeth harder, Stannis only felt the onset of vague disappointment, the inevitable, prickling discomfort that flooded him after failure to control the primal instincts of his own body. He most certainly did not feel ecstasy. Not even the red priestess could fully extinguish his deeply imbedded shame of lust, of passion, of feeling.
But Melisandre did not care. She dragged her teeth down his rough jaw and neck, relishing the jagged texture against her tongue. "Give yourself to the fire, my king...there is power...beauty...in surrendering to the Lord…" She felt her own elation build in time to their savage thrusts; she felt the fire hot at her back, streams of perspiration trapped beneath her tight gown, sticky in the valley between her bound breasts; she felt the heat within her belly burning to a white-hot climax. Her eyes fluttered shut, and the devotion spilled from her lips before she could contain it: "Oh, Stannis…"
And at the sound of his name on adoring lips, the King came to a violent understanding of the ecstasy she spoke of, the sweet, painful surrender of their adulterous communion. He followed her over the edge, tumbling, down, down, into the very flames of his fire priestess, choking on her heat, on her. "Melisandre…" was all he knew, and she was Stannis' anchor even as she clung to him tightly.
The King and his priestess remained in that forbidden position, intimately entwined and half-frozen before a fire far from the Castle, hearts pounding and breaths hitched in the stillness of the winter night. After several languid moments, Melisandre shifted achingly and felt his seed trickle down her thigh.
Hazily she wondered if she would fall pregnant again, not with a shadow, but with a real son, a son to be the living image of Stannis Baratheon. Would he be pleased? I doubt it. The time had passed for that opportunity; if Melisandre were to carry a child now, Stannis would force her to remain at Castle Black for her own safety and the safety of the babe. Frozen at the Wall with the ice, with the distrustful, bitter exchanges of Lord Snow and Queen Selyse, with the ashes of dead men and false gods. I cannot be without Stannis. In a stabbing moment of clarity, she admitted: he is not Azor Ahai. She felt hot tears choke her throat. But Lord, I cannot leave him. The fire still warmed her back and the snow cooled her bare feet, enticing her to curl into the defeated embrace of her king.
Yet he stiffened instantly, as he always did, quickly composing himself. As he abruptly pulled away, avoiding the unnatural gleam of her eyes, Melisandre desperately prayed for a moment more of intimacy with her king. The road ahead is unclear, Lord; I see nothing in your flames. I am afraid. Alas Stannis was a pragmatic and prudish man, and he set about righting their snow-dusted clothing and bringing them both to stand on shaky limbs.
Even so, he allowed calloused fingers to linger a moment over her ethereal, pale skin, and there was the sad ghost of a smile upon his own gaunt face. "A prayer indeed, my lady."
The red priestess raised an eyebrow, tightening the fiery silks around her burning – always burning – body as she did so. Still, she gratefully leaned into his rare caress. He wanted to pray, now?
Understanding her confusion, Stannis dropped his hand from her cheek and shook his head curtly. Turning on his heel toward the Castle, the King spared not even a glance back at her, but all the same, she heard his quiet sigh and murmured confession:
"My priestess is the only prayer I know."