So, the first episode of House of the Dragon is out (by the time you read this, two will be, but my criticisms remain the same), and… I'm conflicted, to be honest (huge spoilers, by the way). I mean, the acting, the cinematography, the music were all incredible, and you'll never hear me complain about dragons. And unlike with GoT, there won't be an issue with running out of source material to adapt. But man, I cannot believe the writers decided to go the route of "no guys, Aegon the conqueror was good actually, and totally only conquered and dominated Westeros to save them from the White Walkers. Sure, he basically turned an entire continent into a mass grave via dragon fire and then subjugated the survivors, but it was for their own good!" I mean, of all the narratives to lean into, that's the one they go with? Really? And yes, I know it came from GRRM, but that doesn't make it better (in fact, it might even make it worse).
I am having fun brushing up on a lot of the lore I'd forgotten, though, so there's that.
Caitie woke with Ramsay's screams still ringing in her ears.
Still clad in her filthy armor from the day before, her hair matted, her body stiff and aching all over, she cracked an eye open to see faint rays of light streaming in through the window of her new bedchamber. It must have been morning; Caitie doubted she would have been allowed to sleep the entire day away. Of course, a part of her wished she could, for she felt anything but rested.
With a groan, she pushed herself into a sitting position, the soft, plush covers falling to her waist—and a good thing too. After so many years of hard living, the heat of Winterfell was almost unbearable. The castle had been built upon an ancient hot spring, and the water was piped through the walls. To most, it would still be too cold, but to Caitie, it felt like standing in the middle of a volcano.
As the sleep left her eyes, she took in her surroundings. She vaguely remembered being led to this room by some steward or other, and her head hitting the pillow of her bed, but the rest was a complete blank. She supposed she must have fallen asleep almost instantly.
Her bed was an oak four-poster and much too large for one person, with three layers of thick, fluffy blankets. The room itself was spacious, allowing for a desk, a vanity, two different armoires, and a small sitting area facing a roaring hearth. Behind a carved wooden panel, Caitie assumed she would find a tub and chamberpot.
She was about to get out of bed when her door opened and shut with a loud slam. Caitie flinched, her hands grasping for her daggers—before she realized she'd taken them off to sleep.
"Oh good, you're up."
The voice which spoke was wholly unfamiliar, but not particularly threatening. Her heart rate calmed slightly, and Caitie looked over to see a woman perhaps about twenty years her senior. Plump and stern-looking, with her brown hair slicked back into a neat bun, the woman quickly introduced herself as Kyra and announced that she would be Caitie's new handmaiden.
All Caitie could think to do in response was blink stupidly.
Kyra pursed her lips in disapproval, her frown only deepening as she took in Caitie's state of appearance. "A bath, I think," she said, and before Caitie knew what was what, the maid had forced her out of bed and ushered her behind the ornamented panel, where, sure enough, there was a tub waiting for her. "Get undressed. I'll fetch the water."
The water was scalding, but Caitie still sunk into it without complaint. As she started scrubbing her skin with a bar of soap, she decided that calling herself filthy was an understatement. Her face and hair were still covered in blood, mud, and guts, and the rest of her body wasn't much better. Her skin and nails looked black from all the dirt. The smell was the worst of it; anyone who didn't know her whereabouts would have thought she'd slept on the ground in the stables for a fortnight.
Still, Kyra helped her scrub off all the dirt and grime without complaint and filled her in on what she had missed while sleeping. There were only two pieces of news significant enough to catch Caitie's attention: one, that the Knights of the Vale were still at Winterfell and had officially agreed to an alliance with the House Stark, and two, that Jon had ordered pyres built in the courtyard to give the fallen a proper send-off, with the exception of Rickon, who would be buried in the crypts alongside the rest of the Starks.
At this point, Caitie tried to shoo her maid away, eager to get out of the bath, out of her room, and to wherever her friends had gone. It didn't matter that she was still dirty; it didn't matter that the only thing she had to wear was her armor. How could she care about any of that when there was so much to do? She wanted to see Wun-Wun one last time before his body burned; she wanted to find Jon and Sansa, Tormund, and the girls—especially the girls, for now that she thought of it, she had quite a lot of questions for how they had gotten to Winterfell so quickly after the battle. A part of her even wanted to run straight to Norwood and find Arthur before anything else—but he was safe where he was for the moment, and unfortunately, she had conflicting loyalties. At the moment, the stability of the North and the Free Folk took precedence.
But Kyra gave her a look so stern it could have rivaled Jeor Mormont himself, and told her in no uncertain terms was she was not allowed to leave until she was both clean and dressed properly—and that if she tried to ignore this, then Kyra would inform the Lady of Winterfell, who had personally ordered her to attend Caitie, because apparently Sansa didn't trust in her sense of propriety. Not that she could be angry about it, of course; after all, Sansa hadn't exactly been wrong.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Caitie relaxed back into the tub, allowing Kyra to untangle all the knots in her hair and finish scrubbing off the last of the dirt. By the time she was allowed out of the bath, her hands had pruned and the water had grown cold. Kyra threw a towel over the dirty water so that neither would have to look at it, something for which Caitie was endlessly grateful.
Thinking that this would be the end of things, she again tried to force the handmaiden out of her room. And again, Kyra refused to budge. She forced Caitie over to the chair facing the vanity and ordered her to sit still.
Since the alternative was putting on the armor she'd just scrubbed off, Caitie complied. But she was really starting to get annoyed with all these gods-damned orders.
It took what felt like a hundred years to finish Caitie's hair, something which seemed entirely unnecessary, since the end product was nothing more than two small plaits pulled back from her face while the rest of her hair flowed freely down her back. And that wasn't even the end of it; afterwards, the infuriating woman brought out some rouge and kohl, poking and prodding Caitie's face and eyes until she wanted to scream.
After spraying her with some perfume that was much too strong, Kyra opened the larger armoire, took something from inside it, then held it out for Caitie to see. To her surprise, it was a dress—and not the riding one Sansa had made for her. This was black velvet, with silvery-blue thread detailing—meticulously embroidered winter roses, it looked like—on the sleeves, hem, and neckline. The skirt was floor-length and full; the neckline, while relatively conservative, was still much more revealing than Caitie was used to. The bodice was made with leather, with loops for her daggers on each side, a detail which she greatly appreciated.
Caitie didn't get much time to admire the dress before she was ordered into it and laced up. When Kyra finished, she surveyed her work, looking for flaws. And finding none to complain about, she finally left Caitie to her own devices.
I am never letting anyone dress me ever again, she thought as she grabbed her daggers and started towards the door. She only stopped when she caught her own eye in the full-length mirror beside it. And before she could change her mind, she took a proper look at herself.
Now, Caitie had never considered herself particularly beautiful. She was pretty enough when she wasn't covered from head to toe in dirt, but compared to someone like Sansa—well, she couldn't compare. Yet, as she looked at herself in the mirror now... she did feel beautiful. After years and years of living at Castle Black, it was a strange feeling, but it wasn't altogether unpleasant, either.
Unfortunately, she didn't have time to stare at herself in the mirror all day. Tearing her eyes away from herself, she swept out of her room, half-remembering the way she came the night before.
The corridors of Winterfell's great keep were near-abandoned as she traversed them. Every so often, she would pass the lone soldier or servant, all of whom were more than willing to direct her to the great hall. They even gave her a brief description of how to find the Godswood, the glass gardens, and the main courtyard. Caitie was grateful for it; she would never have found any of them on her own.
But she knew where she would meet Jon, and that was her first stop.
Light was spilling in from the rows of windows in the great hall and onto the patchwork of stone flooring when she got there. Large circular chandeliers, decked in rows of unlit candles, hung from the ceiling. A central aisle, flanked by two long, empty tables, highlighted the gigantic fireplace that towered over the great table.
This was where Caitie saw him.
His head was bowed, his palms pressed flat against the great table. He was so lost in his own head that he didn't even notice her. And as Caitie looked at him, a surge of anger—hot, prickling fury—almost overwhelmed her. The emotion caught her entirely off-guard; she had never, ever felt something like that towards Jon before.
Writing it off as an aberration born from exhaustion and losing Wun-Wun, Caitie cleared her throat. Jon looked up, and when their eyes met, her mouth ran dry.
"I'm so sorry about Rickon," she said, because nothing else came to mind. "I didn't get the chance to tell you before."
"Thank you." That Jon said nothing else about the loss of his brother worried Caitie enough that she almost forgot the anger. She walked forward, the heels of her boots clicking against the stone. He wound around the great table and walked forward to meet her, stopping in his tracks just as she approached. "You are…" He swallowed, jaw going slack, but his eyes never wavered from hers, and it took everything she had not to let her knees go weak. "You're beautiful."
At these words, her throat constricted with fear, even as warmth pooled low in her belly. And she wanted to scream in frustration—because why could he always affect her so much with only a few words? Why did she want, even now, so much?
But at the same time, she had to fight a smile. He had called her beautiful.
"To be honest," she said, hoping she sounded more composed than she felt, "I haven't felt this clean in years."
Jon chuckled. "Aye. Me too." When Caitie couldn't think of anything to say in response, silence fell like stones between them. "Are you all right?" he asked.
He didn't need to say it aloud for her to know to what he referred. She wondered how she must have looked to those around her, screaming at a dead giant to wake up; sobbing as though the world had ended. It couldn't have been a pretty sight.
"No. But I will be."
"Caitie..." Jon said, moving towards her with a hand outstretched.
She flinched away, for she couldn't bear for him to touch her; if he did, she might dissolve. And when Jon's brow furrowed in confusion, she had to look away, but even staring at some point in the distance, she could still feel his eyes on her. She bit back a sob and said, "You know, I never told him how much I regretted the way I treated him when we first met. I know he knew I was sorry, but…" She had to stop. If she ruined the kohl around her eyes, then Sansa would kill her.
It took a while to stem the tears, but eventually Caitie managed it. "I wasn't just nice to him because I felt guilty, or for peace. He was my friend. One of the best people I've ever met. And I wish I had gotten to tell him that. I wish he had known."
"He knew." Jon's voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible, but his tone was firm. "You might not have told him, but he knew."
Caitie finally forced herself to look back at him. "I hope so. He just... he deserved so much better. From everyone."
"He did."
She couldn't answer. She couldn't go on. Because whatever he'd deserved, it didn't matter now, and that broke her heart all over again.
Jon must have seen it, the way he saw every emotion she had, no matter how deep she tried to bury it, for after a pause, he cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Sansa and I sent ravens to our bannermen last night. They've all given their word to come to Winterfell."
Caitie scoffed, blissfully distracted from her thoughts of lost friends, at least for the moment. "Oh, so now they answer us."
"I thought that'd be your reaction," he said, a hint of a smile on his face. "But like it or not, we need them."
"Fine, fine, I'll be civil. But I refuse to promise any more than that." Though she wasn't even sure she could promise civility. Caitie had nothing to say to Glover or Manderly or Cerwyn or any of the other Gods' forsaken houses, and if it were up to her, she'd turn every single one of them away, strip them of their titles and castles; hell, she'd exile them north of the Wall, and see how they liked it.
Jon smiled properly now. "I wouldn't expect anything else."
Caitie tried to return the gesture, but again that same hot, prickling anger surged through her, and she knew, somehow, that it wasn't directed at Cerwyn or Glover or Manderly. It was directed at Jon. He was looking at her with such trust, such affection, and yet all she could feel was betrayal. She grasped for something to distract her from it, latching on to the first thing which came to mind. "Do you want to talk about Rickon?"
Jon stiffened, all mirth in his eyes gone. "What do you want me to say?" he asked softly, voice thick with unshed tears. "That I'm heartbroken? Angry? That maybe if I had just been a bit faster... He died in pain, because of me. What am I supposed to do, knowing that?"
Without thinking, Caitie laid a hand on his arm. Jon leaned towards her, laying his free hand atop hers and clutching it like a lifeline. A tear trailed down his cheek. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to wipe it away.
"There was nothing you could have done," she said. "You know that. It was a trap."
At the word trap, the anger and sorrow in Jon's eyes faded, replaced by unabashed shame. He looked away from Caitie, and as she removed her hand, that same anger swept over her yet again.
Oh.
After everything else that had transpired, she'd almost forgotten, but now… The memory of him charging away from her hit her in full force. It felt like a knife in the chest; a hot, stabbing pain of heartbreak and betrayal. He had ignored her; he had left her. She hadn't been enough to keep him from suicide, and more. And the worst part was that she didn't blame him. How could she? What Jon had borne witness to was something she could scarcely imagine without breaking into tears, and she couldn't blame him for his reaction to it. But nor could she help the fury that he had done to her the same as Grenn—yet worse, because he'd ruined any chance of success they might have had.
Her anger was one of hurt, not blame. She wasn't sure if that made things better or worse.
And Jon knew it, as he always did. "You're angry with me."
Caitie's stomach dropped, but she could not deny the truth—not now. "I... We almost lost yesterday," she said, and she could see Jon deflate with every syllable she spoke.
"I know."
"I told you what Ramsay would do. I told you that you needed to prepare for the worst."
"I know."
How am I supposed to forgive you after you left me like that?
Caitie almost asked it, but the words died on her tongue an instant later. She remembered the last time she had told Jon to let his brother go. A different life, it felt like, now. She wondered if he would have listened to her, had he found Bran at Craster's Keep, or if he'd only accepted her advice because he'd had no other choice. After yesterday, she had a feeling it would be the latter.
It was not a mistake he could repeat.
"You can't do that again," she said. "I know how horrible it must have been to…" She cleared her throat. "But we almost lost; if we had, the consequences would have been devastating—for all of us. And you know this won't be the end of it. When the White Walkers come, if something happens to Sansa or me or—"
"Am I supposed to just sit back and let the people I love die, over and over, until you're all just gone?"
She flinched, remembering all those Jon had let go. But still, in a soft voice, she said, "That's what I did."
He slumped, his expression contorting into one of unimaginable pain and sorrow. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His voice broke on the words. "If I could go back and change it, I would. I'd do anything."
The anger drained out of her, leaving exhaustion and heartache in its place. I love you, she wanted to reply. And I almost lost you. But she couldn't.
"No, I'm sorry," she told him instead, because nothing she could say would compare to what Jon was telling himself right now. "What happened… I can't imagine how you must have felt, and I don't know if I could have done differently in your position."
"You would have," Jon replied, with all the certainty in the world.
She swallowed down bile rising in her throat, for as soon as he spoke those words she realized the truth: that she hadn't. She could have fought harder to keep to their original plan. But she had not, because she couldn't bring herself to let Jon die. Lives might have been saved if she'd only kept their formations; and in her hesitancy and selfishness, she had cost them.
Caitie had always maintained that she could love and still do her duty. But she hadn't yesterday. And she knew she could not make the same mistake again, any more than Jon could.
A part of her wanted to tell him the truth of her failure, but to do so would only lead to more hurt, for it would mean admitting feelings she could not. "The point is," she said, hoping the tremble in her voice didn't give her away, "that I'm not angry with you. I can't be, considering all the shit I've done in the years we've known each other."
Jon gave a choked laugh. "Oh, aye. I remember the first time I saw you at Castle Black. I thought you were a madwoman."
"And I thought you were an arrogant ass."
"So we were both right."
Somehow, Caitie laughed too, and for a little while, it was as it always was between them. They were children again, bantering and bickering. But then, without thought, she looked into his eyes, and all her breath left her. They were such beautiful eyes; the deepest, warmest brown she'd ever seen.
Jon's laughter died as he looked back at her. The black of his pupils grew until the brown was no more than a small ring at the edge of his irises. The two of them froze. Caitie watched the stubbled skin of his throat move as it bobbed. In that instant, she knew—she knew—that all it would take was a breath, a word, a look, and she would forget all of her misgivings. She would succumb to her desire.
And she realized, as she watched him respond to her, drawing closer and closer, pulled by an unknowable, unseeable force, that he would, too.
She thanked every single God in existence when someone cleared their throat from the other end of the room.
It was Melisandre, standing at the arched entrance to the hall, her hands clasped in front of her. Caitie swore she saw a flash of fear on the red woman's face, but it must have been a trick of the light, because a heartbeat later, her face was relaxed and neutral. "Excuse me for the interruption," she said coolly.
"It's all right," Jon replied.
They stood in silence for a while; Caitie used it to collect herself. She could hardly look Jon in the eye, but she was acutely aware of his body. He had moved away from her, thankfully, leaving at least a foot between them.
"It must be strange," the red priestess said at last, "to be back here."
Jon looked down at the great table once more, awe and sadness on his face, intertwined together as he ran his fingers along the backs of the chairs, caught up in a memory. "A different life."
Caitie and Melisandre merely watched Jon as he attempted to gather his thoughts, still looking down at the great table. "When we had feasts," he said, "our family would sit up here. And I would sit down there." He pointed to the other end of the great hall.
"Could have been worse, Jon Snow," Melisandre replied. "You had a family. You had feasts."
"Aye, you're right," Jon agreed, with the ghost of a laugh. "I was luckier than most." His eyes landed briefly on Caitie, but they moved away from her not a moment later.
She addressed Melisandre. "Where will you go, now?"
"I will stay until the dead are gone, and I am no longer needed. But then…" Melisandre trailed off, and her left hand rose to clutch the large pendant she wore around her neck.
Caitie had never paid much attention to it before, but now that she was looking, she realized she'd never seen any jewelry like it. The piece looked almost spider-like, with hexagons of dark metal creating a cage around Melisandre's neck. At the center was an egg-shaped jewel, as deep a red as her hair, perfectly smooth, and almost… glowing; pulsating, as if it were alive.
It had to be her imagination.
Caitie opened her mouth to ask what it symbolized, but she never got the chance. Because that was when Davos stormed into the hall, his face clouded with a rage so fierce it seemed to shroud the room in darkness. She had never seen such a look on him before.
He came to a stop in the middle of the hall and tossed something to Melisandre, who caught it in both her hands. Caitie couldn't see what it was; she and Jon exchanged glances, their brows furrowed in confusion, silently asking the other if they knew what was going on.
Melisandre looked down at the object, her face falling.
"What is that?" Jon asked.
"Tell him." Davos's tone of voice was nothing like the kind, soft-spoken man she knew. It was full of disgust and outrage and terrible despair. It was devastating to hear.
Melisandre's face remained blank.
"Tell him who it belonged to!"
She looked down at the object in her hands—in shame, Caitie realized. And then, "The Princess Shireen," she said, her voice breaking.
"Tell them what you did to her! Tell them!"
Caitie froze. What Melisandre did… No. It couldn't be.
The red priestess flinched, her eyes wet and her lip trembling. Unable to meet their stares, her voice came out in a murmur. "We burned her at the stake."
The ground tilted. Caitie's vision blurred. She listed sideways and would have fallen if Jon hadn't caught her, putting an arm around her shoulders to keep her steady. He rubbed her back in small circles, as if to comfort her. Yet she hardly noticed it, for she had no ability to do anything other than watch the scene unfolding in front of them.
Whatever Caitie's state may have been, Davos was worse. Tears streamed freely down his reddening face, which was contorted into a half-snarl, half-sob. "Why?"
"The army was trapped; the horses were dying!" Melisandre argued in a burst of passion. "It was the only way."
"You burned a little girl alive!"
"I only do what my lord commands."
"If he commands you to burn children, your Lord is evil!"
She stared at him, eyes wide. "We are standing here because of him. Jon Snow is standing here because the lord willed it."
"I loved that little girl like she was my own!" Davos cried. "She was good, she was kind, and you killed her!"
A sob bubbled up from Caitie's throat, for it was so much worse than that. The screams of Mance Rayder burned her ears as they had done for so long—but now she imagined, too easily, Shireen's replacing them. I hate watching them burn, the princess had once said. I hate to see them suffer.
And that same girl—the good, kind, brilliant girl who had taught Gilly to read, and teased Sam about being the smarter cousin; who had befriended them all even when forbidden not to; who had believed, from the very start, that the Free Folk deserved a chance, had been tortured, mutilated, murdered, in the way she had feared above all else.
Melisandre shook her head. "So did her father. So did her mother. Her own blood knew it was the only way!"
"The only way for what?" Davos asked furiously. "They all died anyway! You told everyone Stannis was the one. You had him believing it, all of them fooled. And you lied—"
"I didn't lie. I was wrong." Her voice broke on the last word.
"Aye, you were wrong," Davos said. "How many died because you were wrong?"
In the silence which followed, Caitie wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to steady her breaths. Losing herself to grief so thoroughly would not bring Shireen back. Anger might not either, but it was easier than the heart-wrenching devastation that threatened to destroy her very soul.
Davos turned to Jon. "I ask your leave to execute this woman for murder. She admits to the crime."
Caitie had no idea what Jon would do, but neither did she have any idea what she wanted him to do. At length, he looked Melisandre in the eye, and said, with a look of disgust that Caitie had never seen him wear in all the time she'd known him, "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
Melisandre managed a rueful smile. "I've been ready to die for many years. If the Lord was done with me, so be it, but he is not. You've seen the Night King, Jon Snow. You know the great war is still to come. You know the army of the dead will be upon us soon. And you know I can help you win that war."
A terrible hush fell over the room. With Caitie able to stand on her own, Jon took two steps forward, so he was face-to-face with Melisandre, and drew himself up to his full height. "Ride south today. If you return to the North, I'll have you hanged as a murderer."
Melisandre stared back at him, and Caitie saw something pass between them. But it did not last long before she looked down, dejected, and nodded in acceptance of his decision. She set the object Davos had tossed to her at the edge of the great table. For the first time, Caitie was able to see it properly: a wooden stag, a little bigger than her fist. Even with parts of it charred off, she could see the finely detailed carvings. It must have taken him weeks to make.
Melisandre made her way towards the end of the hall, but Davos blocked her path. "If you ever come back this way," he said in a low, deadly voice, "I will execute you myself."
Melisandre stood still as a statue, watching him. Caitie thought she might give a reply. But she merely dragged her eyes away and swept past. As Caitie watched the last of the red skirts disappear behind the archway at the other end of the hall, something compelled her to move. She ran past Jon and Davos. If either called out to her, she didn't hear it.
In truth, she didn't know why she followed. Caitie hated this woman; she hated her arrogance, her blind devotion to this evil god as Davos had so aptly put it. She hated herself for allowing this red priestess within ten feet of Johnna and Willa and everyone else she loved. And yet.
And yet.
This was the woman who had killed Shireen, yes, but she was also the woman who had saved Jon. And Caitie could no more dismiss one act than she could the other.
She caught up with Melisandre halfway down the corridor. "Stop." Her tone was hard, commanding, that of a lady speaking to her subject. At any other time, Caitie might have laughed. Only a year ago, it had been Melisandre in the position of power. She had been the advisor to a king; had believed herself all-powerful, all-knowing, while Caitie had been little more than a prisoner, her position tenuous after barely escaping execution.
Oh, how the tables had turned.
Melisandre turned back around, her face clouded with emotion. "For what it's worth," she said. "I'm sorry."
Caitie gaped. "Sorry," she repeated, an incredulous laugh bubbling from her lips—or was it another sob? "You're sorry." When Melisandre said nothing, she let the words tumble out of her, born from half-formed thoughts. "You know, I told myself you'd changed, that you were worth giving a chance. I told myself that maybe there was something in you that was redeemable. That maybe there was a person beneath all of that—" She bit back a laugh that was more a scream. "I should have known. I should have known you were nothing more than a—a liar and a zealot."
Melisandre's lips formed a thin line. Whether she was holding back an argument or tears, it was impossible to tell. She looked broken, the way she had looked so long ago, on the night she had brought Jon back from the dead.
"How could you?" The question slipped out from the current of all Caitie's conflicting emotions. But she had put her trust in Melisandre, had given her the benefit of the doubt, had treated her with kindness.
Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. She should have known. This was what the Red Woman did; she lied and manipulated and played people like she was born to it. And Caitie had fallen right into her trap.
Melisandre kept her eyes fixed on the floor. "I made a mistake."
"Oh, a mistake. How convenient."
"Is this all you've stopped me for?" she snapped, her composure slipping. "To berate me further?"
"You're lucky I haven't run you through."
Melisandre regained her control and straightened. "You won't. Hate me if you wish, Caitriona Norrey, but you know that I've spoken the truth. You need my help in the war to come."
"If your idea of help is to burn children alive, I think I'll go without it."
"It's more than that; you know it is."
Caitie wanted to strangle Melisandre. "Oh, here we go again. What now? Is the Lord of Light going to send us sunshine and rainbows? Or maybe he'll swoop down from the heavens and destroy the Walkers all by himself with a sword made from fire." She shook her head. "Gods, when are you going to realize it's all just bullshit!"
"It's not," Melisandre insisted, and Caitie knew she was starting to anger the red priestess.
Good, she thought. To make Melisandre angry was to hurt her in the only way Caitie could at the moment—and it wouldn't bring Shireen back, but it would at least make her feel a hell of a lot better. "Oh? Has the Lord of Light graced you with any visions, lately?"
This time, Melisandre looked away, the anger gone, replaced with something almost… pitying. "Yes, he has."
Caitie froze. "What did you just say?"
The red priestess lifted her chin to meet Caitie's eyes with her own. "The Lord of Light has graced me with a vision."
She was lying. She had to be. "Do tell then," Caitie drawled, unable to express the depths of her rage in any other way besides her bitter sarcasm. "What does our illustrious God have to say for himself?"
Melisandre grimaced. "Visions… can be vague. I do not pretend to understand all of it. But I know this—Jon Snow's future, and the future of Westeros, is in your hands."
Caitie moved like smoke, pressing Owen into Melisandre's ribs. It was one thing to threaten her; it was another to threaten Jon. And orders be damned, if Melisandre threatened anyone Caitie loved, she would kill her. It would be as easy as breathing. "I dare you to say that again."
Melisandre sighed, unafraid; somehow, that only made Caitie angrier. "It's not a threat. It's the truth. The future is ever-changing, and I cannot see all its paths. But I know enough to see that your choices will shape it."
Everything inside of her screamed to ignore these ramblings, yet some, stupid part of Caitie was captivated by the words Melisandre spoke. Maybe that was the intent. "You act like I can control the future."
"Of course you can't. But your choices matter—that's all we are, in the end: our choices."
"What choices?"
Melisandre looked at her, square in the eye, and Caitie saw—something. Power. Fire. Her voice seemed to echo, despite the fact that it was impossible in such close quarters. "There will come a time when you will have to let him go, and soon," she said. "It will be difficult for you, for him, but when it comes, you must."
Caitie's stomach flipped over on itself. Let Jon go? As in… let him die?
"What does that mean?" she asked, her voice cold and angry—and she didn't know why she was entertaining anything Melisandre said at this point. She should be letting her leave, to go wherever it was red priestesses went when they failed their missions. Better yet, she should kill her.
But she did not.
"Jon Snow is the Prince that was Promised—he must be—but you are not Nissa Nissa. You are not a child of prophecy at all. And to fulfill his destiny, he must leave you behind. He is ice; he must unite with fire."
Caitie didn't know who or what Nissa Nissa was, and frankly, she didn't care. "Did it ever occur to you," she bit out, "that the prophecy you've put so much faith in isn't even real?"
"It is. I saw Azor Ahai with Nissa Nissa. I saw the Iron Throne encased in snow and ash; I saw him—" Melisandre stopped, and she pressed her lips together to keep herself from continuing a line of thought she obviously hadn't meant to give voice to. Instead, she took a deep, sobering breath, and said gravely, "He is Azor Ahai. It is why the sacrifice brought him back."
Caitie thought nothing could have horrified her more than learning the truth of Shireen's death. But this did it. She reeled back, resisting the urge to vomit. "No. You're lying."
"I wish I was."
"You said it wouldn't require a sacrifice. You promised."
But as she thought back to that horrible night, Caitie realized it wasn't all Melisandre had said. The price is mine, and I have paid it.
Except she hadn't. Shireen had.
Caitie had never seen Melisandre's face so defeated. "Only death can pay for life," she said. "The death of a princess for the life of a king. I thought that king was Stannis. But I was—"
"Wrong. You were wrong—and do you know what? You're still wrong. Jon's not a king or a prince or any other ridiculous notion that thick fucking skull of yours has dreamed up." Caitie shook her head and pulled away, calming the storm in her mind just enough to make one final decision: that she had had enough. She'd entertained these ridiculous lies for too long, and now she was done. Whatever this red priestess did or did not know was irrelevant to her; she refused to give the matters any more thought. "Get out of my sight," she snarled. "I never want to see your face again."
Melisandre's face hardened to stone. With one last wounded look at Caitie, she turned, swept away, and in a swirl of red, she was gone.
Please don't hate me. I know it's awful, but I have a reason, I promise. And don't forget: Melisandre doesn't actually know anything. She's literally just getting scraps of information and making conjectures based on them (and very biased conjectures at that). Some of them turn out to be right, and some wrong. She is right about the Shireen thing though—as much as I hate it, it's a fan theory that I 100% believe is true.
PS: I almost forgot, I reached 200 favorites! It's so crazy that so many of you like what I've written. To be honest, I never expected to get 20 favorites, let alone 200. But here we are. I can't thank all of you enough.