She watched the guards all dressed fine in the wedding or war attire. It seemed this day, there were both. Well aware of her stature in the minds of noble men, she knew this: her wedding was a blatant act of war. The war, how it raged, burning and curdling all the noble men, their lesser folk. When one guard approached her, she remained as calm as any lady could. "Lady Sansa," he said. He must have been a squire of some nature; he looked no older than seventeen, thin and sallow, with Lannister green eyes and blond hair.
She had seen a Lannister man once. She didn't remember where, but he was old and tall and thin and glorious in his stature, a sort of god like figure. She knew a Lannister when she saw one, though she felt nothing particularly toward him. "Hello," she said, not entirely sure what to call him. Perhaps he was a ward, a hostage…
"The Red Priestess would like to speak with you, my lady." Oh, yes, he was a fine speaker. "Take me to her," Sansa replied, lifting her hand. Her head craned toward her husband. "If my lord will be so kind to excuse me." She saw the way his eyes narrowed on the lad, the way his cheeks reddened with intention. Davos lost his tongue, but simply waved a hand. Sansa nodded her thanks and took the boy's hand.
Down one long, dark hall, up a foreign flight of stairs, down one more hall and taking another turn, there was an enormous wooden door. Red wood, smelling like fresh white paint. The paint wasn't thick enough; it turned the door pink by fire light. "She will be with you in one moment," the boy said, his voice shaking. This didn't frighten Sansa; there could be nothing worse in the world than the feel of a flaying knife and wormy lips against hers. The boy unlocked the door and let her inside, leaving the key on a table beside the opening. "Melisandre would like me to mention the wine on the table over there…"
The room was large and dark, lit dimly by a fire place and a fire pit on opposite walls. The stone was carved round like a cave; an opening exposed the great sea beyond. Sansa took a table and waited, her eyes watching the water as it rushed the great pointed rocks below. Perhaps, some years ago, she would have jumped. Dreams of different scenarios played in her head: a blond Lannister king, a blonde Lannister queen… And the tall, god like figure of the head of House Lannister. Eyes trailing across the floor, she stopped at the closed door.
She knew that boy's name was Joffrey, and it made her skin crawl.
Sansa stood and went to the window, waiting still for the Red Woman. If there was one thing she wanted to ask, it was about the dreams. She had always had them, watching King's Landing from afar, somehow knowing what would've happened if her lord father had not refused her pleading words. In her heart, she knew that leaving her in Winterfell was the only intelligent move he made as hand.
The creaked open. Melisandre held a torch close to her face. Her red eyes darted around the room, settling on Sansa's back. Melisandre made no attempt at speaking until she had hung the torch on the wall and was in relative proximity to the girl.
Sansa recalled how she had been hanging on the Bolton's cross, the last rose being ripped into her cheek and jaw. How Melisandre stormed in, wielding hands of fire and masked by shadows. Sansa knew now that very little emotion graced Melisandre's face but the way her mouth was pulled into a grotesque grimace… The image would never leave her.
No, no matter what Lord Davos said, Melisandre was not all bad. Perhaps the man was only going soft, daft, turning sweet in his old age.
Sansa turned ever so slightly, and she found she was a few inches taller than the woman, red from her head to her toes. Red, terrible, and red, some said.
"I do not understand why you would waste effort on me, Lady Melisandre," Sansa said. "I cannot say for sure if I would rather be grateful or smack you." She was discontented when the Red Woman smiled. She smiled with all her white little teeth, and she was as beautiful as she was terrifying. What little terror was felt in Melisandre's presence was overshadowed by an emotion brought on by the thought of never seeing Ramsay Snow again: Sansa had seen the way Melisandre's shadows had swallowed the man whole.
"Oh, sweet Sansa. There are many, many things we must discuss, and by the light of the Lord, you will understand. Let us have some wine before we rove further." Melisandre walked swiftly, surely on heels that echoed as she strode to pick up the flagon of wine, and two small glasses. "There are many things unknown regarding myself to those around me. I must tell you, as it is of major importance to your future. Or, futures, if you so decide."
Sansa's brows furrowed, a queer feeling racing up her spine as she took a glass from Melisandre's hand. Curiously, they were cold as ice. "What do you mean?" she whispered, the voice of a mouse breaking through the ocean waves crashing against the cliff side.
"Do you know much of the continent called Essos?" Melisandre replied.
"I do not, my lady."
"I was born there some hundred years ago; I was called Melony, and was sold to the Red Temple. There I learned my craft, and I have been preserved for this day." And Sansa was afraid. Where thoughts had come and went, they were instead replaced with pins and needles. Old Nan had told stories of immortal men and women; they had lived in caves, far from the realms of average men. They killed and ate the souls of bad children. Now, Sansa was not so ignorant to believe Old Nan's stories, while some were pretty little things. "This day?" Sansa repeated.
"Serving King Stannis, or whom I know him to be, has been my life's work, the only reason why I have lived in this world. In the flames I saw a woman, a woman who needed her vengeance realized. I am nearing the end of my service to King Stannis. I could have seen anyone, but I saw you. You, the kindness of your hardened soul and the desperation to survive. A little wolf girl, whose gods did not protect her. My Lord cannot always protect me, Lady Sansa. My hair goes grey and my eyes droop: I have lost not beauty, but vitality. Vanity is not in my nature, but the certainty that I had once carried is gone."
Sansa knew that Melisandre had much, much more to say, and she could only watch as the woman wetted her throat with the warm wine. "I know of your dreams," Melisandre said finally. Red hot surprise burned Sansa's cheeks. "I know this because my Lord knows this, and he showed me in the flames. You live two lives, knowing things before all those around you, knowing how difficult your life is now and could have been."
Melisandre's eyes glared into hers, and they gleamed like orange embers; the ruby on her neck beat with what Sansa suspected was her heart. "I… I…" Sansa stammered. "Shh, shh, sweet Sansa," Melisandre said, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, they had changed color, losing intensity.
"How do you feel?" Melisandre whispered, leaning close enough to kiss.
Sansa choked back a whimper, or something like it. "I… I am grateful, Lady Melisandre."
"Tell me honestly. Do this one thing for me, Sansa. Tell me honestly: how do you feel about your life?" the Red Woman's full lips were pulled into a tight line; yet, Sansa couldn't summon the feeling that she was being threatened. Instead, it took all her strength not to fall to the floor a sobbing mess. Her eyes burned, and all she could smell was smoked wood, but it was because of the tears welling in her eyes.
"I… I have never been of any great importance to anyone; I am too young to do as I please and yet I'm too old to be a child – there is no leverage for me to feel, there is no one with whom I can speak privately. Me? I have been made Ramsay… Ramsay Bolton's flower, a weak little thing, and I have seen the lives of many broken in much worse ways, and there was no hope in sight! And then you… You, the dastardly Red Woman of Dragonstone and the Realms of Darkness, you saved me when I would've rather died!" Sansa hadn't realized it, but she was rocking back and forth in her chair, her sentiments ripping through her cries.
Melisandre stiffened, though by most men's measure, she was relaxed. She cleared her throat, intending to say something, though nothing left her throat.
"I am married to a man I don't know; I am surrounded by those I've never known. I am the face of the solitary woman, and you dare ask me how I feel about my life?"