Castle Black
A large group gathered in the main courtyard of Castle Black. The solemn faces of the wildings were focused on the scene before them.
Melisandre stood at the back of the group, her eyes never leaving the woman who haunted her thoughts and dreams.
A young woman, who's presence rivaled even her own in intensity.
Lady Bellegere Stark examined the bound man at her feet with a critical eye. Her long, braided hair swayed slightly in the wind.
"He tried to flee with the others after the murder, but the wildlings captured him, my lady," Ser Daavos said, scowling at the man.
She nodded to him and he retreated back into the circle of men that surrounded her.
The man on the ground looked up at her with tearful, pleading eyes as she advanced on him.
"Please, milady," he begged. "It was not my idea. I only did as I was told and I regret it."
Bellegere nodded to herself.
She kneeled down to his level and placed her hand on his shoulder comfortingly, and he sniffled, leaning into the touch like a puppy.
"I cannot punish you for being loyal," Bellegere said quietly. "It is an honorable quality."
The man looked hopeful, recognizing the sympathy in her voice.
"But I can punish you for being a traitor."
At her words, the man became a sniveling mess.
Melisandre moved closer as the young Stark stood and turned to her audience with a severe expression.
It altered her striking features into a mask of terrifying wrath.
"This man betrayed my brother, Lord Commander Jon Snow of the Night's Watch, and the price for this crime is death," Bellegere said loudly, glancing at every dirty face in the crowd.
"Because of this, I intend to give his soul over to the judgement of the Old Gods. Unless, of course, enough of you step forward to advocate for his life. Show me. Which of you would vouch for this traitor?"
She waited patiently, her eye moving from one person to the next.
Inevitably, not one man stepped forward.
"Then it is decided," she said, turning to the sobbing man at her feet.
"Gag him."
Her guards, Ser Blackwood and Ser Carsten, did as told and then picked him up roughly.
Once he was positioned over an old, rusty anvil she had ordered to be placed here, she unsheathed a jagged, sinister looking daggers.
As the man's muffled cries and the sound of wildlings cheering echoed in her ears, she raised her hands to the sky.
The influence of her gods was strong in this place. She could feel the strong presence of magic.
"Under the eyes of the Old Gods and the new, I bring forth a gift that shall not be reclaimed," Bellegere prayed reverently.
Of their own volition, Melisandre's feet brought her to the forefront of the crowd.
As Bellegere Stark gazed down at her sacrifice with a distant expression, the red woman realized she had insulted the devout faith of this young lady and, perhaps, the influence of the Old Gods.
"Cold winds of the old ones roar an arrogant laughter at the pleading lamentation of my sacrifices. Curse the irreverent ones who would attempt to challenge your divine will," her voice thundered with devotion.
"Masters of the insatiable conflagration, accept my offerings this night. Bless this man's flesh with your sharp kiss, and may his agony echo eternally into the everafter. So begs your faithful servant."
Melisandre held her breath.
She watched intently as Bellegere grasped the man's hair and yanked it backward, placing the dagger to his throat.
By chance, one eye caught her gaze, and she felt the presence of something with immense power.
A presence that was not R'hllor.
Looking around her, she could see that the wildlings could feel the presence as well.
Many of them had closed their eyes, and some began to sway and mutter prayers in hushed tones.
She was not surprised.
Beyond the wall, the Old Gods were the only gods.
"May my gift, in this way, sate your thirst," Bellegere murmured, closing her eye.
As the dagger sliced through the man's throat like butter, Melisandre did not look away.
Even as Lady Stark, unexpectedly and with gruesome determination, took to removing the man's head from his body while he still choked on his own blood.
Once his head was free, Bellegere calmly cleaned her dagger and placed it back into it's sheath.
Then, as if in a trance, she slowly raised a bloody hand to her face and drew a crimson trail from her eyes to the bottom of her chin.
A haunting image reminiscent of a weeping weirwood tree.
"I bathe in your blessings with everlasting praise," Bellegere muttered to herself, gazing up towards the clouds.
In this moment, a powerful inner peace and the sensation of being surrounded by love flowed through her soul.
For, the gods were accepting her gift.
"I shall continue to honor thee, in blood and fear...in blood and fear."
Melisandre took in the visage of the young woman before her, bloodied and relishing in the unwavering favor of gods that the priestess could scarcely comprehend.
Moved to the core of her being by this gorey display of worship, Melisandre took it upon herself to kneel.
For, this act was so powerful that even she felt the presence of gods she did not worship.
"Show your respect," Melisandre demanded, lowering herself into the mud.
"Kneel before the Champion of the Old Gods."
Slowly returning to herself, Bellegere frowned in confusion.
She glanced around the crowd of wildlings as they followed the red woman's example.
One after the other, falling to their knees.
"Champion of the Old Gods," they murmured amongst themselves.
All of them, with their heads bowed, and their knees in the dirt before her.
In her mind, this was not an act of submission to her, but an act of respect for the Old Gods.
One she appreciated wholeheartedly.
Bellegere caught Melisandre's eye for a moment and inclined her head in acknowledgment of her selfless display.
With that, she carefully gathered the head of her sacrifice and returned to her brother's side, where she was needed.
For, she still had a duty to fulfill.
Through the night, Melisandre lurked outside the room where Jon's body was being kept.
Behind the black door, the newest object of her obsession worked tirelessly to renew her brother's flame of life.
She could hear the younger woman chanting in a language she did not know, and that, in itself, caused the fire of intrigue within her to roar ever brighter.
Melisandre continued to wait outside that godforaken door until the dull rays of the northern sun peeked through the windows.
Eventually, after some time, the woman emerged.
Bellegere looked worn from her effort, and her clothes were ruined.
Her hair was disheveled and her eyes tired, but she was a aglow with a new flame of hope.
"Are you well, my lady," Melisandre asked, reaching toward her.
"I am fine," she said, retreating from her touch. "My job here is finished."
Her face, hands, and everything on her body was covered in dry blood.
Only the gods knew what gruesome, dark arts and blood magic this young woman had practiced in the name of love.
And only the gods knew what else she was capable of in the name of hatred.
"I can feel Jon slowly returning to his body," Bellegere said, exhaling tiredly.
"But, I fear the process will take time. I intend to bring him back to Winterfell while I wait. This place has immense power, but Winterfell oozes with it."
Melisandre nodded her understanding.
"May I ask what rite you performed," she asked, unable to keep her curiosity at bay. "I could not understand the words you spoke."
The wolf became silent and unblinking.
"None you would understand," she said simply.
Thoroughly insulted, Melisandre held back a scowl out of respect.
"I hail from Asshai. I understand much and more," she said indignantly.
Bellegere hummed, pursing her lips.
"If that is so, you would not have to ask me what rites I performed."
The Lady Stark's footsteps echoed in the hall as she walked away, and Melisandre watched her with trepidation.
"Wait, my lady."
Bellegere halted, heaving a sigh as she turned around to face her.
In a split second, Melisandre made a decision.
She decided that it was her responsibility to follow the she-wolf wherever she might go.
Until R'hllor set her on another path.
On the journey back to Winterfell, Bellegere could feel eyes on her.
Ser Royce Blackwood, ever the loyal servant, did not know how to broach the delicate topic of his proposal the Lady Mya.
Yet, it seemed, he would not have to.
"The answer is yes, Ser Royce," Bellegere said, stifling a grin. "On one condition."
Startled, the knight lost his military bearing.
"I apologize for my ignorance, my lady," he stuttered clumsily.
She chuckled quietly, offering him a smile, despite the ache in her heart.
"I will bless your betrothal and subsequent marriage to the Lady Mya Stone," Bellegere said, sitting forward in her seat.
"On the condition that you vow to never harm her in any fashion. Be it physical or emotional."
Ser Blackwood stiffened as his lady's smile slowly faded, only to be replaced by an intense expression.
He knew within his heart that he bore no ill will toward Mya, but the eye holding him in place made him second guess himself.
Even with years of standing by Bellegere's side, she still managed to unnerve him with only a glance.
"I swear it, my lady," he said honestly, bowing his head to her. "Before the Old Gods and the new."
Bellegere's smile returned anew, and so did the pain of another loss.
"Do you understand the consequences of breaking an oath to me, Ser Royce?"
He nodded, swallowing thickly.
"Then don't," she said.
When they finally arrived back at Winterfell, the sun was falling.
Yet, they were greeted by a feast.
A definite result of sending a raven to announce the return of Jon Snow.
Bellegere appreciated the act, in and of itself, but she truly wished to retreat into the solitude and safety of her rooms.
Instead, she spent the night watching her people dance and drink themselves blind, lifting their cups to thank the Old Gods for the safe return of their lady and her brother's body.
After the long celebration came to a close, Bellegere finally returned to her chambers.
As if the gods wished to toy with her, a knock sounded at her door.
"Enter," she called.
Unsurprisingly, Ser Carsten opened the door to reveal a familiar face.
Her eye followed Mya Stone as she cut across the room, heading towards her with a smile.
When she finally sat down beside her, in front of the hearth, her face shone with happiness.
"I am grateful for your safe return, my lady," Mya said, softly. "I trust your journey brought you the closure you seek."
Bellegere turned to her friend, refraining from rolling her eyes.
"Ser Blackwood informed you that I blessed your union."
Mya did not speak but her face flushed with red.
Bellegere shook her head fondly.
"In all honesty, I can tell he loves you. Even if he has not spoken the words," she said, sighing heavily.
"I know that he will make a wonderful husband and you will be the best wife any man could hope for, even a man as good as Ser Royce."
Lady Mya Stone turned to her friend with a yielding softness in her eyes. She reached out and grasped her scarred hand, caressing the back of it with her thumb.
Bellegere glanced at their joined hands and then back into the watering eyes of her friend, feeling a sense of inner peace come over her.
"You are good, too, my lady," Mya murmured softly. "More so than you realize."
"No. I am not."
"Do not argue with me on this, Belle," she said frustratedly.
Mya released a deep breath and squeezed her friend's hand.
"I apologize for my tone, my lady," she whispered.
Bellegere nodded her acceptance, wholly unbothered by it.
"It is just that...I wonder, sometimes, if you are too good for this world," she said, looking down. "Especially as of late."
Bellegere listened, wondering where her friend was going with this.
"How can you do it with such ease?"
Confused, Bellegere frowned.
"Do what?"
Silence loomed for a moment.
"Let me go," Mya said, looking away.
"Watch me marry someone else and start a family. I could not display the same selflessness."
Bellegere inhaled a deep breath and turned her eye to the dancing flames of the hearth.
"I haven't let you go, Mya," she said simply. "And I will not. Even if you and Ser Blackwood leave the north for some unknown land. My heart will follow."
Mya nodded slowly, understanding the powerful message behind her words.
"We are two sides of the same coin."
The flames reflecting in her lady's eye warmed her skin more than the blazing hearth did.
Mya's hesitant fingers began to wander up her arm against her better judgement, but her heart was guiding her.
A gray eye lingered on her lips for a long moment and she licked them unconsciously.
"We mustn't," Bellegere said, her voice just above a whisper.
Mya's stomach twisted in knots. Never had she said those words.
"I am not yet married, Belle," she whispered. "I am still yours."
As Mya leaned in to capture the only the lips she had ever known, a strong hand held her at bay.
Bellegere could not betray Ser Royce in such a way. No matter how badly she desired to.
Mya was, in fact, not her lady any longer.
"I think it would be best for us to separate for the night. Lest we do something unforgivable."
Mya Stone heaved a sigh and slowly released the other woman from her grasp.
Blue eyes traced her beautiful face, recognizing the familiar look of desire that her lady was giving her now.
Mya turned away with a heavy heart, knowing this would likely be her last visit to this room.
"I agree, my lady," she said hoarsely, standing up on shaky legs.
"I must retire to my own bedchamber."
Mya swiftly moved toward the door and tried not to glance over her shoulder.
"Please, remember," Bellegere said somberly. "You are still my closest friend."
She stopped just before the door, staring down at her feet with tears in her eyes.
"And you, mine."
For the sake of their friendship and her betrothed, she promised to never allow her traitorous heart to tempt her again.
A promise she would fight to keep.
The next night, Lady Bellegere lingered beside her brother's bed. Jon Snow lie there, still lost in a deep slumber.
Her eye traced the ancient runes she drew on his body with the blood of her sacrifice. Every inch of his face and chest was covered in her writing.
Feeling another presence in the room, she sighed to herself.
"I can never enjoy a moment of solitude."
A light chuckle echoed.
"I am only admiring your work," Melisandre said, stepping from the shadows.
"Although, I do not understand the language in which you wrote."
Lady Bellegere turned to her, then.
"It is the Old Tongue. The language of the First Men," she said, smiling faintly. "I assume they do not have records of it in Asshai."
Melisandre chuckled.
"You assume correctly, your grace."
Bellegere rose a bushy brow at the red woman as she slowly moved closer. The fire in the hearth seemed to glow as she passed.
"I am no queen."
"Not yet," Melisandre said, smirking. "But, in time, your reign will begin and all will fear you."
Bellegere's eye narrowed, still distrusting of the priestess despite allowing her to stay in Winterfell.
It was not her own decision, however.
She merely followed the orders sent to her by the gods she worshipped, and for some reason, they wanted her here.
"R'hllor delivered a vision of you in a dream and again in the flames," Melisandre continued, holding her gaze.
"You will wear the weirwood crown and your path will be a trail of blood."
Lady Stark listened intently, completely still and unblinking.
Although she did not follow R'hllor, she would not deny his existence.
"Just last night, I dreamt of you. Crowned and covered in the blood of a thousand men, standing under the gaze of the heart tree," Melisandre murmured, closing her eyes in remembrance.
"Behind you, the Kings of Winter stood watch. And under the crescent moon, thin and sharp as the blade of a knife, the silhouette of a dragon cast a shadow over the godswood."
Bellegere tilted her head slightly.
"The silouhette of a dragon," she restated, pondering the meaning.
Her first thought was that dragons were gone from the world, but that was false.
For, she remembered whispers of a Targaryen woman who had awakened three.
At once, she understood.
Melisandre clasped her hands in front of her, studying her companions face.
"Many wars are brewing in this land, your grace. In the east, the south, and the west," she said solemnly.
"However, the greatest war of all will begin in the north. Only Azor Ahai, the warrior of light, can win the war for the dawn and end the Long Night."
Lady Bellegere frowned deeply, feeling a sense of urgency come over her despite not fully understanding.
She stiffened, noticing how close the red woman was to her now.
Somehow, the flame of the hearth was alight in her eyes although she was facing away from it.
"I have been searching for Azor Ahai for years beyond count," Melisandre whispered, tracing the planes of the wolf's face.
"And now, my search has ended."
As Bellegere became lost in the devoted gaze of the red woman, Jon Snow opened his eyes.