Sidestory:
When Melisandre first set foot within the Red Temple of Volantis, seven kings still ruled Westeros while dragons plagued the eastern skies. In the centuries since that fateful day, the kings had lost their crowns as the dragons had their wings, yet Melisandre remained in R'hllor's service.
Through her faith, she had found purpose. Through that purpose, she had known freedom, gifted to a young slave who had not owned the blood in her veins or flesh on her bones.
Perhaps that was why Melisandre felt so angered as she held a great flame aloft within the wolflord's halls.
She had not intended to return to this savage land while the Soul of Ice slumbered and Azor Ahai remained unfound. Yet the red priestess sought answers that had evaded fire and shadow.
When winter ended a moon ago, Melisandre had stared into the Great Brazier of the Volanti temple and saw naught but flame. Gone were the visions of the terrible battle destined to eclipse every man-waged war; gone was the specter of the Great Darkness that loathed all things warm and living. What scenes remained had danced in utter disarray, leaving the future impossible to discern.
Never before had Melisandre felt her faith so tested as she feared the loss of her Lord's favor, that the Enemy had returned and she had failed as an instrument of R'hllor's will. Even now, that fear lingered.
She had not been alone: priests and priestesses throughout Essos had lost hold of the Lord's gift.
The High Priest had called a grand assembly, the tenth such gathering in the history of the Faith. The proclamation had been unprecedented, for the last took place not a decade ago, in the wake of a foreign power that had washed over the world.
Melisandre could still recall the strange sensation that had overwhelmed her, altogether familiar yet impossible, like the touch of waves at one's feet while traversing the Red Wastes. But the fleeting magic had faded too quickly, the phenomenon dismissed as the by-product of a passing star.
Now, the world paid for their folly.
The Faith could no longer afford the luxury of self-deception. For two weeks, a thousand voices had cried out, but for all that was said, naught had been done.
With the Faith desperate for answers, the Red Temple of Volantis decreed the great exodus of its priesthood, tasked with pilgrimage to places of power, where the vestiges of magic might bolster the flames and illuminate R'hllor's will.
Where others had ventured eastward, Melisandre had crossed the Narrow Sea. Her command of the Common Tongue and knowledge of the winterlands left no one better suited to journey past the Wall of the fabled Builder.
That had been her duty, a sacred mission now hindered by the man seated upon a weirwood throne.
Rickard Stark.
Even in Essos, Melisandre had heard whispers of the so-called savage who had absconded with Myr's secrets. However hard the glass guilds tried to refute the rumors, their words rang hollow in the face of the three great gardens outside the wolflord's keep.
They called him the Last Direwolf, a legendary figure born too late into a world now mundane. Without ever crossing the Narrow Sea, he had made a mockery of the Free Cities, claiming a prize that Myr had guarded and others had coveted since the Doom, all to forge a kingdom mightier than the one surrendered to dragons centuries ago.
Mesliandre's mouth drew thin.
The high seat of House Stark was a throne by a different name, just as the man who sat upon it was a king without a crown. He had studied her with a face carved from stone and eyes chipped from ice. His impassive bearing echoed a slumbering power, strong with the blood of kings unabated by time.
The direwolf was a man worthy of legend, but he had hindered her path, and that was not to be borne.
Mesliandre had arranged an audience with the barbarian lord, knowing news of her travels would reach his ear. She had sought his aid, for as faithful as her followers were, they were ill-equipped for the coming cold.
When he instead denied her passage, Melisandre chose to remind him of her task, punctuating her words with a great plume of flame. The display of magic, illusion, and alchemy had expended the powders within her robes and set R'hllor's ruby aglow against her breast.
Yet, despite her efforts, the face of the wolflord remained unchanged, untempted by her glamor and unmoved by her flames. He had raised a hand, halting his men from drawing steel while regarding her with barely-held interest, as though she was not Melisandre of Asshai but Melony of Lot Seven, back still wet from fresh lashes, frail wrists bitten black by wrought iron chains.
Without a word, he had stirred her anger more than any man she could recall.
"That was needless, my lady." Though his voice carried no warning, Rickard Stark sat with a naked Valyrian blade resting upon his lap, an apt reminder that he had withheld guest rights. "None here doubt your identity or purpose. But I must advise against this venture, for the dangers beyond the Wall are great, and even the Night's Watch cannot guarantee safe harbor."
The lord's grey eyes grew somber and pensive.
"I can no longer wholeheartedly endorse the honor of the Black Brothers: the death of Danny Flint haunts the order to this day, and I will not add to the mistral's store of tragic tales."
Melisandre felt her anger settle. For all that his words rankled, the lord had spoken without condescension or ridicule, his voice belying good intentions the priestess knew better than to spurn.
"We thank you for your warning, Lord Stark." The red priestess's voice grew rich and warm as she touched the ruby upon her neck and met the direwolf's eyes, "But we who serve the Lord of Light have our own oaths. We are bound to them as you are yours, and we would not abandon our sacred duty for fear of death."
Once more, Melisandre willed the ruby to life, refining her glamor to accentuate her features beyond a mere trick of the light.
"I trust you understand."
Detecting a shift in the wolflord's bearing as he sheathed his blade, the red priestess thought the battle won.
"You have made your intentions clear, and I will not insult your resolve by bandying words." The lord waved a servant forward with bread and salt. "A raven will be sent to Castle Black so that Lord Commander Qorgyle knows to expect your arrival. It will take a week for word to reach the Wall. I ask that you and your followers take that time to rest and prepare for the road ahead. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours, Lady Melisandre."
The words surprised her, and Merlisandre would have laughed had she not been outplayed: Rickard Stark had promised to send a letter of introduction, but introductions did not guarantee a warm reception. No doubt the raven's missive would ensure she found no welcome at Castle Black. The Night's Watch might claim no master, but they would never risk the ire of the lord whose roads saw their men clothed and fed.
"We thank you for your hospitality." Meslisandre dipped her head, recognizing that she had lost this exchange. No matter. The hearts of men were easily swayed, and the machinations of a single lord would not deter her from her task. "I request a place my followers and I may convene for our morning sermons."
The wolflord nodded.
"The First Keep will be at your disposal, but I ask that you not involve my people in your worship." His eyes took on a harsh light that advised caution, "The North has forever kept faith with the Old Gods."
The warning was clear: guest rights had been given. The direwolf would not harm his guests, but the same was expected in turn. Melisandre had little doubt about how the lord would perceive the conversion of his people.
There would come a day when the savages saw the Lord's Light, but it would not be this day, not when her mission took precedence. But that day would come. A great man Rickard Stark may be, but a man he remained, widowed and aging–though Melisandre confessed he wore his age well. She would be his guest for a week's time, and should she return from the Wall alive, his guest again in a moon's turn. There would be time then to see if the direwolf indeed held a heart of stone.
The thought soothed her mind as Melisandre bowed and made to leave, her followers trailing some steps behind. She was halfway to the door when the wolflord called to her. The red priestess turned and found him standing, his sword and throne several steps away.
"Is there something else you require, my lord?"
The lord affirmed the question and drew closer.
"You are a lady well-traveled and well-learned," he said, and Melisandre found it strange to hear familiar words offered without a trace of flattery. "I would ask regarding your knowledge of the higher mysteries."
Had the lord's eyes not been bereft of greed, the priestess would have been disappointed by the question. She withheld judgment, waiting for the lord to proceed.
"Employing magic to grow wheat from a fallow field, maturing crops to harvest within a day…what would be the price for such a task?"
The question caught Melisandre by surprise.
How curious.
She had served R'hllor for nary six centuries. In that time, she had treated with many men with power real and perceived. Those who had not desired her body had sought her sorcery. Many had wanted both. They would ask the red priestess to divine their futures and beseech the shadowbinder to silence their foes, but this was a request wholly new. For a lord to witness magic and inquire how it might aid his people was, without doubt, a form of greed but one that Melisandre found palatable.
Truly, Rickard Stark was a rare man indeed.
"You refer to the deeds of your ancestor, the fabled Greenhand?" The priestess almost smiled as she answered the question with more.
Rickard Stark worded his reply with care. "I speak of magic of a similar vein."
"Then you already have your answer." Melisandre's smile grew as she pressed her point. "You speak of magic lost to legend and myth, of seeding life where naught had been and disrupting time itself to suit your needs."
The red priestess turned from the Last Direwolf, leaving her words to haunt his thoughts.
"If you wish to feed your people, my lord, I would advise the construction of more glass gardens. That at least would be achievable by mortal means."
Rickard sighed into the silence.
The Warden of the North sat at his solar. In one hand, he nursed a tumbler of whiskey. In the other, he held an elegant envelope, one his men had found fastened to the gate of the Workshop shortly after his children left for Harrenhal. Tossing the letter aside, he reached for the small plate of candied pineapples on his desk.
"Sure you should still be eating those, milord?"
Rickard did not attempt to greet his sworn sword as he entered the once-silent room.
"Lady Evetta has gifted me a box every moon for the last five years." The warden slid the plate and its contents toward his old friend. "Were they intended to do harm, I would imagine the damage long done."
Rodrik scoffed, helping himself to a spare glass and fistful of fruit.
"Suppose Fairchild knows better ways to kill a man."
Rickard offered no reply as he poured Rodrik's share of amber liquor. He wasted no words on what they both understood. His old friend seemed to share the sentiment, and the two men sat in silence, ruminating into their cups.
"You didn't warn her away from the Workshop," the knight said at length, voice more curious than critical.
"Lady Melisandre would doubtlessly investigate any place I forbid her to go."
Rodrik chuckled.
"She doesn't seem the sort to leave well enough alone." The humor left his voice as quickly as it came. "The things she said…you believe half of it, my lord?"
"She believed every word she spoke," Rickard answered with as much insult as flattery. "I offered my warnings and said my piece. Her decisions will be her own."
The arrival of Melisandre of Asshai had the whole of Winterfell on guard. The shadowed city was not a place that inspired neighborly sentiments, nor were the red priests–so fond of slaves and sacrifice–a people who evoked trust. Yet, turning the woman away had not been feasible, not while she represented one of the world's great faiths.
Luwin had warned his liege of the dangers that might accompany her, of the shadowbinders and maegi seemingly native to the cursed land. Upon meeting the woman, however, Rickard found his initial assumptions affirmed: the greatest threat Melisandre posed was that of a red priestess visiting the home of the Old Gods. The warden would have to send many letters to as many lords or risk rumors running rampant by week's end.
Strangely enough, Lady Melisandre's attempt to cow him had left Rickard wholly underwhelmed. Most would not have noticed, too occupied with the flames, but the warden saw how the spell had taxed her, how her posture had stiffened and breath quickened after the display. Even now, he remembered how poorly her efforts compared to the small, unintended wonders that Cyril had made routine. The Red Woman was rumored to be a prominent practitioner, so what did that make the Hunter, whom Rickard thought a friend?
'You speak of magic lost to legend and myth.'
Rodrik eyed his liege, seemingly of a similar mind.
"About what she said of Fairchild," the knight's voice drifted off with a shared unease.
"It is nothing we have not already considered," Rickard offered, both men aware his words carried no confidence. "She may well be mistaken."
"Aye, but–"
"I was unaware you held her opinion in such high regard."
Rodrik grumbled at that, waving his empty cup in his liege lord's face for good measure. The Warden of the North allowed himself a smile, eyes drifting again to the well-read letter upon his desk.
Dear Rickard,
Away on business. Will return soon.
Kindest Regards,
Cyril
TBC
Chapter Summary:
Cyril accidentally damaged one of R'hllor's 5G towers when he arrived in Westeros. Now, five years later, the magical wifi went out and everyone's losing their minds.
Also Rickard saw an opportunity to try and quantify Cyril's abilities and well…
Rickard: *Mentions one of Cyril's least impressive displays of (possible) magic.*
Melisandre: Yeah, that's some 'Age of Heroes' shit, my dude.
Rickard: I hate everything.
Authors Note:
Happy New Year, everyone! Hope you're all doing good!
The contents of this chapter roughly coincide with the last one, i.e., right before the melee.
This chapter started life as an apocrypha, but then I put too much work into it and figured I could shoehorn it into the main story. Plus, we haven'y seen Rodrik in a while. It sheds light on how the Essosi are dealing with Cyril's disruption of their daily lives, a parallel to the previous interlude: Those Who Sing the Song of Earth.
That said, the purpose of this chapter was to address how Cyril has RUINED the Starks' perception of magic: Like an old-moneyed family spending cash, Cyril treats magic as no object.
In the same way you'd never see Tywin counting coins before making a purchase, the Starks have never seen Cyril performing rituals, chanting incantations, or offering human sacrifices (As mentioned in Book/Part 1, Rickard keeps tabs on the Workshop, and would have known if smallfolk were going missing). Weird things just happen when Cyril's involved: the Workshop appears in the middle of winter, multiple tons of glass appear in the market square, treacherous lords die of natural causes, etc.
Because of this, Cyril gives off the impression that magic is just another part of noble life beyond the Sunset Sea. Rickard is 99.9% sure if he asked, Cyril would be like, "Magic? Yeah, I dabble a bit," before proceeding to brew more tea. Of course, Richard's not gonna discount the 0.1% possibility that his question might cause offense.
With everything in mind, it's not hard to see why Rickard and the kids would view other magical users (who perform intricate rituals with little to show for it) as charlatans.
Our eldritch cuttlefish is making it really hard for your average salt-of-the-earth red priestess to make a living out in Westeros.
Final Notes:
We don't know too much about Melisandre's past. But seeing how her real name is Melony (sounds pretty Andal/Westerosi to me), Jon Snow compared her hair to Ygritte's (a wildling), and a wildling settled called Hardhome that was mysteriously destroyed ~600 years ago (book, not show canon), we can infer some things.
This interpretation is also 'helped' by the fact that Jorah Mormont sold poachers into slavery in canon, proof that Essos slave traders are willing to travel VERY far to do terrible things (and that Jorah was an ass).
Melisandre isn't terribly suspicious of Rickard's caginess here because she interprets it as par-for-the-course xenophobia. Relations between Westeros and Essos have always been frosty, relations between foreign faiths even moreso. She views Rickard's lack of cooperation as a courteous request for her to take a hike…just not beyond the Wall.
Likewise, she has no intention of having a 'shadow baby' pay Rickard a visit because:
1. She knows she would not survive the attempt. (The North loves the man).
2. Cyril's presence has made it impossible for her to foresee the future. The last thing she wants is to kill the man, get the magic wifi running again, and have R'hllor go, "Hey, good job. Now can you go do this very important thing with Rickard Stark in order to save the world?"
Note: As mentioned above, the purpose of this chapter was to shed light on the magical elements of the crossover. Melisadre visiting the Wall will not be the 'rising action' of Book 2. There will also be NO Rickard x Melisadre in this story. That is all.
Lastly: Short interlude, 'Plans for the Dead' added to Chapter 13!
Many thanks to KnightStar for his help with the edits. Here's to a new year!
