In the dimly lit chamber, where shadows danced across the glossy black walls like whispers of forgotten spells, a solitary bathtub lay in silent repose. Its porcelain surface gleamed faintly under the muted glow.
A few measured steps away from the bathtub stood a woman draped in a crimson dress that halted just above her knees. She was a maid, her hands gently cradling a neatly folded red gown and a towel.
Beside her, commanding the room with an aura of quiet authority, stood Kinvara, the head of the Red Priestesses. Her own gown, a deeper crimson of opulent texture, clung to her form with regal grace. Its neckline plunged daringly, revealing a glimpse of her bosom—emblematic of her position as a leader among the practitioners of R'hllor's fiery faith.
Kinvara, who hailed from the mysterious city of Asshai, often frequented this secluded sanctum to train and recruit new acolytes into the fold of the Red Priestesses.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the depths of the bathtub, water cascading from her dark locks in shimmering rivulets. She bore an uncanny resemblance to Melisandre, yet her hair was as black as the deepest night, cascading in wet tendrils around her shoulders. Adorning her neck was a simple silver necklace, adorned with a gleaming silver stone.
Kinvara commanded her gently, "Step out."
The woman resembling Melisandre emerged from the bathtub with an ethereal grace, her bare shoulders glistening with droplets of water that traced delicate paths down her curvy breasts.
The maid hurried to her side and swiftly enveloped her in a towel that provided modest coverage down to her thighs.
Melissandre's gaze, sharp and penetrating, rested upon the woman who now stood before her, a mirror image of the renowned Melisandre.
"You look exactly like her. But you don't carry a name," Kinvara remarked.
The woman hesitated for a moment, her dark eyes meeting Kinvara's. "I don't remember, my lady," she confessed.
Kinvara's lips curved into a knowing smile, a gesture that held both warmth and wisdom. "That shouldn't be a matter of worry," she reassured, her tone imbued with certainty. "From today, You are Maelle."
The name echoed in her mind as she felt it with a whisper, "Maelle."
"Yes, Maelle," Kinvara affirmed. "Do you remember your sister?"
Maelle shook her head slowly. Memories were elusive, like fragments of a dream slipping through her grasp.
"Melissandre, one of the best ever lived," Kinvara continued, her tone carrying a solemn reverence. "She is no longer alive, for she has served her purpose. But you must take your sister's place."
Confusion clouded Maelle's expression as she sought to grasp the enormity of Kinvara's words. "Where?" she ventured.
"To Winterfell," Kinvara replied.
Drawing closer, Kinvara leaned in, her breath barely brushing against Maelle's ear as she imparted words meant for her ears alone. The maid, discreetly attending to her duties nearby, remained oblivious to the exchange.
Maelle's countenance shifted, a mixture of puzzlement and fear flickering across her features like shadows dancing on the walls.
Kinvara's smile softened with relief. "Don't trouble your mind. I am here to tell you everything about your sister and the Starks before you depart from Asshai."
Maelle lowered herself before Kinvara and pressed her lips against her bare feet. "I am grateful, my lady," she murmured.
Meanwhile, the maid, discreetly attending to her duties, couldn't help but blush as her gaze inadvertently caught sight of Maelle's exposed backside as she bent down.
After almost a week of travel that seemed to stretch on endlessly, Maelle arrived at the inner courtyard of Winterfell. The journey had taken her through unfamiliar lands.
Yet, alongside the novelty, she endured lewd glances from both men and women along the way.
Now, standing amidst the snow-covered ground of Winterfell's inner courtyard, Maelle's eyes fixed upon Sansa Stark.
The Lady of Winterfell sat with an air of quiet contemplation, dressed in a sky blue gown adorned with a great fur mantle that spoke of both elegance and practicality. Sansa's gaze was drawn to the heart tree, its ancient face watching over the sacred Godswood with solemn wisdom.
"Lady Sansa of Winterfell," Maelle spoke.
Sansa turned her attention to Maelle, her expression guarded yet curious. Recognition sparked in her eyes as she observed the woman before her, unmistakably the twin of Melisandre.
"The red priestess… Weren't you dead?," Sansa acknowledged with disbelief.
Before Maelle could utter a word in response, Sansa's demeanor shifted, betraying a flicker of panic beneath her ladylike composure. "Who let you in?" she demanded, her voice rising with a mix of incredulity and concern. "Why didn't the guards kill you right at the entrance?"
Maelle's graceful bow was a gesture of respect amidst the frosty air of Winterfell's inner courtyard, "I am not Melisandre, my lady," she began softly. "She was my sister. I am Maelle from Asshai at your service."
Sansa, ever poised and guarded, regarded Maelle with a measured gaze. Her mind raced with skepticism and caution, preoccupied with the weighty responsibilities of ruling Winterfell. "I don't see any requirement," Sansa replied coolly, her voice tinged with a hint of dismissal. "You can go back to where you came from."
Maelle's voice remained steady. "My sister was known for her prophecies. I am no different than her."
Sansa sensed an underlying tension in Maelle's words. "You want to scare me with some prophecy," she countered.
"Not my intent, my lady," Maelle assured. "But you must hear it once. It has everything to do with the Starks."
The mention of prophecy, a realm where belief and skepticism intertwined, seemed to draw a fraction of Sansa's attention. She observed Maelle cautiously as the woman approached, each step echoing softly against the courtyard's ancient stones. Sansa glanced around, ensuring their conversation remained private amidst the watchful eyes.
Maelle leaned in closer, her voice a whisper that carried the weight of unseen truths. "One Stark must die, or the whole family is bound to perish."