Chapter 20: Devils On Your Shoulder
King's Landing
"I want you to do something for me."
He was speaking to her for the first time. He had barely looked at the witch ever since she had entered the castle, and he would have lived his life with the pleasure of not knowing her at all. But desperate times demanded desperate measures, and he was willing to do anything to reach his goal. This was a small price to pay.
A sly smiled spread on her lips. She inched closer to Jon, holding her head high. Jon felt a warmth tingle his skin and he started to grow uneasy in her presence.
"I take no orders from you, Your Highness," she said, her eyes studying him with unveiled curiosity.
Jon narrowed his eyes at her.
"If you take orders from my Father, you will take them from me as well," he commanded.
"I only act according to My Lord R'hllor's wishes. My God shows me my path, no one else."
"No." His voice was high and domineering. "You will do as I say. You will tell my Father that it is necessary for me to go to Arya. You will tell him, and you will make him listen to you."
Melisandre didn't heed.
"I told you, My Prince, only the Lord of Light commands me."
Jon huffed in annoyance. He was in no mood to negotiate with a fanatic. It was torture just to speak to her knowing she was the root of all his damnable problems.
"So, your Lord wants you to play matchmaker?" He mocked.
"Dire threats surround your House. It is my Lord's command that I convince you to do what's right and what you must. Targaryens are the rightful House to sit on the Throne, and the Lord will not allow a godless man to usurp it."
Jon was getting impatient. He couldn't stand still listening to this while there was still much important things to do. Time was not on his side, and wasting it on a fanatic was absurd.
"I don't want to know what your Lord wants. I demand you to help me or I'll throw you out of this castle."
"The King will not let me leave," she replied confidently.
She was right. Rhaegar wouldn't let her leave when he believed in her words so blindly. Jon clenched his fists. All his doors were closing. He had to do something.
"If you do not believe me, let me show you," she said, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. She reached out to him with her hand, offering him to take it.
Jon didn't.
"The girl you pine for. I can show her to you."
Jon sucked in a breath, his heart clenching. He so desperately wanted to see her. More than anything else. But it couldn't be possible.
"I don't believe you," he said in a whisper.
She took a few steps towards him.
"Let me make you," she offered, and slowly slid her hand along Jon's. He didn't pull it away, instead he let him take it in her hand and grasp it. Her skin was warm to his touch, and it almost felt like she was burning.
She pulled him towards the hearth and brought their joined hands closer to the raging fire. She chanted softly as the flames rose wildly and engulfed their hands. Jon felt the stinging heat seeping into his skin, sweat pooling on his brow and he was a second from pulling away when she whispered softly,
"Close your eyes, Jon."
Jon gasped. It was her voice. He stared at the Priestess unbelievably.
Arya...
It cannot be.
"Close your eyes," she said again, but this time it was just the witch's voice.
I must have imagined it, he thought.
Jon closed his eyes shut, hoping that if the Gods truly existed, they show him her. He wouldn't mind being wrong this once, if only he got to see her beautiful face again.
Melisandre was chanting, some words louder than the others. He couldn't understand anything and he felt like one of the fools who believed in such things, people he used to laugh at and mock.
If Egg could see me now, he would laugh at my stupidity.
Suddenly, a cold rush of air brushed past him, his sweat cooling on his skin. His mind was flashing images of snow and cold, barren wilderness, trees with carved faces, tears as red as blood dripping down their eyes. Sounds of wolf howls rang in his ears, as clear as if he was standing amidst them, and he recognized the trees and the snow. He knew what this place was. He had a vague memory of the place from years ago.
The North.
A Godswood...
The next thing he saw after a moment of blurriness was a girl standing on the balcony of a castle, her hair flowing wildly around her, and once he saw her eyes, his grip tightened on the witch's hand.
Eyes as grey as storm clouds and hair tangled and wild and messy. He would recognize her anywhere. She was sad though, and he could see the pursing of her lips.
In a flash, it was gone, and Arya was in the arms of a man now, and she was... Gods, she was-
"Stop!" Jon roared and shrank back, anger burning in his veins. It couldn't be.
She would never.
Melisandre opened her eyes and looked at him calmly.
"You only saw what the Lord-"
"Damn you and your Lord to the Seven Hells!" He yelled. His hand gripped her neck with force.
"This is all because of you," he accused her. She was choking beneath his grasp and her hands were trying to push his arm away frantically but to no avail. Jon tightened his grip on her neck. This was all her fault. Everything.
Jon.
Suddenly, he stopped, his hand falling down on its own.
She wouldn't want this, he thought.
He heard a knock on the door behind him.
"Prince Jon?"
"Yes?" He asked loudly, eyes fixed on the woman before him who was now coughing and breathing raggedly. He was leaning back against the wall, supporting her body against it. He felt no remorse for what he had done. He could do a lot worse to her. After what she showed...
Arya would never let another man touch her. He knew it. It was just an illusion. He was wrong to even believe this woman in the first place. All she knew was deception. She had tricked his Father and now she was hoping to trick him by showing him false visions.
"The King is asking for you, Your Highness," the man replied. "He wants you in his solar."
"I'll be there!"
When the footsteps retreated, he looked at Melisandre one last time.
"You will tell my Father," he commanded. "And don't you dare come before me again or I'll kill you myself."
He was just opening the door to leave when he heard her voice again, as calm as ever.
"If I hadn't told the King about the prophecy, you wouldn't have met her in the first place. What you saw was nothing but the truth. There are many things you just don't know, Jon Targaryen."
0-0-0-0-0
He was roused from his sleep by a series of impatient knocks on his door. He quickly grabbed the tunic from his bedside and put it on, cursing under his breath and leaping out of the bed when the knocks didn't stop and were getting more and more loud by the second.
He pulled his door open and peeked to see the intruder outside. It was the last person in the world he had imagined to knock at his door at this hour.
"Prince Jon?" He asked disbelievingly.
"I am sorry to disturb your sleep, Lord Loras, but there's something I must discuss with you."
"Can't it wait?" He asked, trying his best to hide the hint of irritation in his voice.
"It is more of an order, My Lord," Jon said, arching his brow. "And pray, bring your cloak. You're going to need it."
It this was any other person, Loras would've brought his sword too. But Jon Targaryen was many things except a fool, and no matter how much he detested him, Jon would never try to hurt Loras. He was an honourable man, and honourable men seldom lose their temper. Besides, it would paint a dark portrait of the future King among the people.
Loras nodded and headed back to his room. His cloak was discarded by the chair. He picked it up and pulled it around his shoulders, not wanting to carry it instead. A quick glance through the window made him realize it was likely past midnight, and sleep evaded him the moment he walked out of his room.
Of all the people in the castle, he believed Jon was the one who mistrusted him and his sister the most. Only the afternoon before, he and Margaery had been summoned to the Throne Room and there had been a inquisition as to whether they knew about the traitorous works of their Father. But Loras had done but a little. He had to give credit to Margaery for an outstanding display of her acting talents. It took but a few tears on her part for the Court- or at least half of it- to believe they were innocent. Later, instead of being thrown into cells, they were allowed to stay in King's Landing as guests.
Sometimes, Loras couldn't help but be in awe of her sister. Maybe her time with their grandmother, the Queen of Thorns, had finally began to bear fruit.
They were out of the castle and walking through the grounds when Jon stopped in his tracks and turned to look at him with cold, grey eyes.
"You and your sister put up quite an act the other day," he said.
"It was far from a act, My Prince. I believe your Father believes so as well."
"We're not here to talk about my Father's opinion." A stableboy appeared from the darkness with a saddled horse. Jon took the reins and dismissed him with a nod.
"Are you going somewhere, Your Highness?" Loras asked curiously.
"You are," Jon said, and handed him the reins.
"Pardon?"
"You are leaving the city," Jon began. "You are riding to Storm's End."
Loras narrowed his eyes. It was definitely not the perfect hour to jape.
"I believe I do not follow you. Why would I-"
"Oh, you will," Jon said, interrupting him. "You are leaving. Now. You are to ride until you reach the Stormlands, then you are to bring my Arya back to me."
This must be a jape. I cannot leave my sister.
"I know you are no less innocent than your Father," Jon spat. "Don't even try to convince me otherwise. So, before I tell the King to imprison both of you, you do as I say."
"My sister is here," Loras said. "I refuse to leave Margaery."
Jon smiled mockingly.
"You have no choice. If you want your sister to be free, bring Arya back. Or else, both of you are stuck in the enemy's lair and how long do you think before the truth comes out? Bring her to me, Loras, and I will let your sister go. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. No harm will come to her from this day till the day you bring Arya back."
They will never let me, he thought.
Jon was acting like a child. Plans had already been made to ensure that he and Margaery could get out of the city without any harm befalling them. And now, he was given a chance to leave and Loras knew that no matter what he wanted, his Father would never let him bring Arya back. Never. Not even if he begged.
"If you don't go," Jon spoke again. "I will make sure that when the sun rises in the morning, your sister is thrown inside a cell down in the dungeons."
"You have no proof," Loras countered.
"I have more proof than you think, My Lord. Now, will you leave or are you staying?"
Jon couldn't possibly have any proof. But he was a Prince. He could buy proof if he wanted to. He could give poor men coins and they would say everything he wanted them to say. Loras didn't want to see his sister in the dungeon. But he knew that no matter what, he couldn't bring back Arya even if he wanted to. It would all be a big deception.
"I will bring Arya," he lied. "I will leave. But you must keep your promise and make sure no harm comes to my sister."
"You have my word," Jon said, in a voice that sounded relieved.
Jon handed him a bag of gold and Loras mounted the horse, and briefly nodding at Jon and glancing back at the castle, said a silent goodbye to Margaery.
"Godspeed, Lord Loras," Jon called.
He wanted Arya back and for that he was letting an enemy get out of his reach without thinking of the consequences.
You are wrong in trusting me, he thought, as his horse galloped into the night.
Such fools love turns men into.
0-0-0-0-0
When she entered the room, it was as dark as night with a small flame of a candle swaying back and forth. Melisandre chanted a prayer to her Lord, and instantly all the wicks of the candles in the room bore a flame. The solar was bathed in an yellow-orange light.
"You must not keep everything so dark, Your Grace. The Lord of Light smiles upon those who light a fire in their homes and keep it bright in the night as it is during the day."
"I do not wish to hear your advice, Priestess," the King said. "I asked you for a solution. Do you have it?"
Melisandre smiled.
"I told you the solution many moons ago, Your Grace. But alas, you haven't heeded it still."
"My son will not marry Sansa Stark. He will not have her and I cannot force him to."
"But it is the only way, Your Grace." She approached him slowly.
"You said a Northern girl. Arya Stark is also a Northerner. She is as fierce as my Lyanna is, and I can see my son loves her. How will it matter if it is her rather than Sansa?"
Melisandre shook her head.
"I have seen her, Your Grace. Sansa Stark stood beside your son as a Queen would beside a King. And my visions tell me Lady Arya is in ties with another man. Your son saw it today as well, and while he was less than gentle after seeing it, it is but the truth."
She could still feel the tightening of his fingers around her throat. She could understand him. It would break a man's heart to see someone they claim to love in the arms of another man. To see the object of their love being held and kissed by another- it could make the calmest of men love their patience.
"You talked to my son?" Rhaegar glowered at her.
"He came to me. I only showed him the truth."
"And why should I believe your visions are true?" The King asked.
"When have they not been? I told you about the Baratheons, about the war."
"And you tell me there is only one way!" Rhaegar roared. "Tell me another!"
"There is no another!" She stood beside him and looked up at his lilac eyes. Her hand reached up to place itself on his cheek. "Don't you trust me, My King?"
Rhaegar grabbed her hand and pushed it away, eyeing her with rage.
"The marriage is the only way," she insisted. "Before things get worse, you must have them wedded. Trust in my visions, Your Grace. The sooner they marry, the better."
Rhaegar clenched his jaw and walked out. Melisandre revelled at the sight of his broad back and silver-white hair. The King's beauty was no secret. Rhaegar was beautiful and graceful and someone who could frequent a maiden's dreams even when he was more than forty years of age.
Melisandre had seduced countless men into her bed, and no matter how much the King loved his wife, Melisandre was confident that sooner or later, she would make him have her.
Men were weak creatures at best, and even the most faithful had their days of temptation.