Melisandre I

Melisandre had arrived in King's Landing with great anticipation, the promise of a new king burning like a spark within her. The Great Council had yet to convene, but she was certain—Stannis Baratheon would be crowned. The flames had spoken, and the Lord of Light's will was clear. She could already feel the weight of power settling over the city, a city of men whose gods had failed them.

Her eyes roved over the Red Keep as she stood at her window, the city sprawled beneath her like a nest of serpents. The sprawling fortress loomed over it all, casting a shadow of grandeur and decay. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded the chaos of King's Landing below. The stench of politics and rot hung thick in the air, yet in the depths of her soul, she knew this city was about to change. Stannis was the true king, the only choice. She could almost taste the fire of victory.

Yet it was not only Stannis she had come to study. The sorcerer who had helped Robb Stark wrest power from the Lannisters intrigued her. Rumors of his strange powers had reached her, but it was not enough to rely on whispers. She needed to see him with her own eyes, to know his strength, or lack of it.

Bryan had been a mystery, and like any mystery, it demanded to be unraveled. Melisandre made sure he sought her out. When the appointed time arrived, she prepared herself, lighting the necessary candles in her chambers and letting the soft glow of the flames fill the room. She had called for him, and now she would see if he lived up to the rumors.

The door opened, and Bryan entered. He was not tall, certainly not as imposing as Stannis, but there was a certain breadth to him that drew the eye. His robes were long and flowing, and dark as shadows, but they did little to conceal the thickness of his frame. His dark hair, unkempt and messy, framed a face that was not handsome, but grotesque for a man of size. His eyes—blue as the deepest ocean—locked onto her breasts before her eyes.

Melisandre studied him with intensity, her gaze sweeping over him as though she were trying to see beneath his flesh, beneath his very soul. He did not have the arrogance of a man accustomed to power, nor the unshakable confidence of a master of magic. But there was something else in his eyes, something unreadable and dangerous.

"You are the one," she said, her voice smooth and melodic. "The sorcerer who helped Robb Stark claim the North, the one who defeated the Lannisters."

He nodded, his expression neutral. "I have aided Robb Stark with my visions. Yes."

She leaned forward slightly, watching him. "There are many things about you I have heard. But none of them give me the full picture. What manner of magic do you wield?"

Bryan's lips twitched, but he did not immediately answer her question. Instead, he studied her, his gaze intense yet oddly detached, almost lustful. Melisandre's eyes glimmered in the flickering light of the room. Her god, R'hllor, had guided her here—there was no doubt of that. She would not let this man remain a mystery for long.

"I have not seen a sorcerer like you before," she continued, her voice low, almost hushed with intrigue. "You do not feel like the others I have known. You carry something different. What is it?"

Bryan's eyes flickered briefly to the ruby choker that adorned her neck. He did not speak for a long moment, and Melisandre allowed the silence to hang between them, knowing that such moments often yielded the most.

Finally, he spoke. "Perhaps I am not what you expected. Magic is not as simple as most think."

Melisandre studied him closely, sensing there was more to his words. The flames had whispered about him, but they were unclear—fragmented, like a prophecy with many interpretations. She could not yet decide whether he was a threat or an ally.

"I can see that," she said softly, her voice laced with a hint of amusement. "But the question remains—what is it that you truly seek? Power? Knowledge? Or something else entirely?"

Bryan met her gaze, his blue eyes unwavering. "Perhaps I seek to understand. To learn."

Her curiosity deepened. There was something in his voice—something reluctant, yet determined. He was not a man who flaunted what he knew, and that only intrigued her further.

"I will have the answer soon enough," she murmured, almost to herself. "The flames never lie."

Bryan's face fell. "Even the flames do not reveal everything. You cannot let Stannis kill Renly," he had said, his deep voice unwavering, his blue eyes cold and unreadable. "The North will support Stannis, but it will be a song and dance, Melisandre. Stannis will need to play the game of thrones. But the blood of his brother? That cannot be shed."

She had not expected that. The very notion made her pulse quicken with a strange unease. It was a warning she had not anticipated.

"Why do you share these things?" she asked, her voice as soft and rich as velvet, but with an edge of command. The flames had spoken. Stannis must shed king's blood to claim his throne.

Bryan's lips twisted into a faint, knowing smile. "That is the path to the throne. Not the death of his brother."

Her gaze hardened. "You speak of Stannis as if you know him well." Her voice dropped an octave, becoming more deliberate. "What do you want in return for this information, sorcerer?"

Bryan met her gaze without flinching. There was something in his eyes—calm, calculating. "I want to learn from you. Every kind of magic you know. Teach me whatever you are willing"

Melisandre's lips curled in derision, and she almost laughed. She had heard many pleas before, from kings, priests, and beggars alike, but none quite like this. "You want me to teach you?" Her tone was laced with incredulity. "Are you not a sorcerer?"

Bryan did not flinch, did not lose his composure. "Scarcely a sorcerer. Barely a learned man. I want to be more."

She scoffed, the sound harsh and dismissive. "There are far more important matters at hand. Do you think I have time to teach a stranger, a sorcerer who has done nothing but muddle his way into power, how to wield magic? The world does not revolve around you."

Bryan stepped closer, his eyes darkening, a quiet intensity radiating from him. "I don't expect you to teach me everything at once. But I can be of use to you. I've helped Robb Stark. I can help you, too, if you let me."

Melisandre studied him in silence for a moment. Her ruby choker felt hot against her neck, a faint burn of power thrumming against her skin. Could he be useful? She had her doubts, but she could not deny that there was something in his words, something that lingered like smoke in the air, that caught her attention. No.

She dismissed him. She dismissed his words. They were lies. Shadows from false gods.

The sun had barely risen when Bryan arrived at her door once again. Melisandre glanced up from the small fire crackling in her brazier and studied him, her lips curling into a smile that was as sharp as a dagger's edge.

For days now, Bryan had come, each time asking her for the same thing: to teach him magic. The audacity of him, the persistence. She had thought he would tire of it. But each day, without fail, he returned. Some days, he came alone, his expression unreadable, his blue eyes reflecting a quiet hunger. Other days, he would bring a child with him—always a small, blonde girl..

"I thought you would have given up by now," Melisandre remarked as Bryan stepped inside, his broad form blocking the doorway for a moment. His eyes, unblinking, fixed on her with that same intensity, that same strange calmness she had come to expect. He had become a fixture in her life—persistent, determined, almost as if he believed he was entitled to be taught by her.

"I don't give up easily," Bryan said, his voice low and deliberate.

Melisandre couldn't help but laugh, the sound melodic, but mocking. "You believe that you are ready to learn the art of sorcery?" She swept her gaze over him, noting once again the faint hints of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as if he were amused by her assessment.

"Yes," he said simply. "I have learned enough to know that I must learn more."

She raised an eyebrow, leaning against the carved stone of the hearth, her crimson robes pooling around her like a pool of blood. "What you seek is not something that can be handed to you."

He did not respond immediately, his eyes studying her with a hint of calculation. He had become adept at controlling his emotions, hiding whatever thoughts lay behind those cold, blue depths. "I do not want it handed to me."

And then, the next day, he appeared again.

It was the same. Another request. Another promise to persist until she relented.

By now, Melisandre had begun to tire of the daily dance, but something gnawed at her. Something about Bryan—his quiet assurance, his stubborn persistence—made her wonder if he was more than just a man who liked to dabble in magic. If he might actually be able to tap into something deeper. Still, she dismissed the thought. After all, what could he possibly understand about the mysteries of the flame, of R'hllor's power?

But then, on the seventh day of his unrelenting visits, he came once again, this time when Stannis was with her.

The warmth of their bodies still lingered in the bedchamber, the remnants of their coupling making the air heavy. Stannis, brooding as always, had come to her in the early hours, his mind occupied with the politics of the throne. She had shared his bed, as was their custom.

When Bryan appeared, his presence felt almost intrusive—an unexpected visitor who had arrived at the wrong time, unannounced and unwelcome. But he stood there, in the doorway, as if he belonged, as if his request to learn magic was more urgent than anything else in the world.

Stannis glanced up, his dark eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of the man.

"Ah, the sorcerer," Stannis said, his voice gruff, a trace of annoyance in his tone. "You seem to appear at the most inconvenient times."

Bryan, unfazed, bowed his head in greeting. "I apologize for the intrusion, Your Grace. I intended to disturb your priestess, not you. I can come another time."

Melisandre couldn't help but notice the way Stannis' gaze lingered on her, his expression unreadable. He was a man of few words, but she knew him well enough to read the subtle shifts in his demeanor.

"What is it you want?" Stannis asked, his tone flat, as if the request were nothing more than an inconvenience. "You are already here. You should not waste our time more than you already have."

Bryan stood tall, unwavering. "Teach me fire magic, lady Melisandre. Everything you are willing to share. I believe it will be useful to both of us."

Melisandre watched the exchange with a mixture of surprise and hope. Hope that Stannis would kick this man out for the last time. Stannis looked from Bryan to her, as if weighing his options, and then, after a long moment, he gave a slight nod.

"Very well," Stannis said, his voice low and steady. "If it helps the cause, if it puts on a show for the fools who need convincing, arrange for lessons. Let him learn what he can."

Melisandre was taken aback, though she did not show it. She knew Stannis. He was not a man to indulge in foolishness, but if this would help their cause, he would let Bryan play the part.

"Consider it done," she replied, her voice smooth but edged with something that only those attuned to her power might notice.

As Bryan left her chambers, Melisandre stood by the fire, lost in thought. She had agreed to his lessons, but she did not trust him. His motives were unclear, and his persistence unnerving. Still, she could not deny that there was something in his eyes, something that made her wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to him than she had realized.

Melisandre would make time for Bryan. She set aside a brief span of her day to teach him, believing that time and routine would soon wear away his patience. He was no more than a curious man, after all, who sought to grasp at power without truly understanding it. A mummer's sorcerer. Magic was not something to be trifled with. It took years of study, of devotion, to understand its true depth. Surely, Bryan would tire of the tedious lessons, just as so many prodigies had before him.

But he did not.

In fact, from the very beginning, Bryan surprised her.

The first time he produced a flame, Melisandre thought it a mere fluke. She had guided him through the steps, watched him closely as he struggled to channel the faint warmth of R'hllor's power for weeks. She expected him to fail—most did. But instead, a small flame danced from his palm, bright and strong, crackling with a life of its own.

"Impossible," she murmured, watching the flame flicker in the dim light of her chambers. "No one learns so quickly."

Yet the next day, he repeated the feat with ease, as though he had been born to command fire. His flame burned as brightly as any she had conjured herself.

She thought perhaps the comet had stirred the magics of the world. The sky was dotted with its light, a trail of fire stretching across the heavens the day he first made flame. Perhaps it was the comet's power that had ignited something in Bryan. But even after the comet's trail had faded, Bryan continued to excel at his lessons.

Day by day, he picked up new spells. His mastery was swift, startling, and entirely unexpected. Where others faltered at the most basic incantations, Bryan absorbed them with an ease that left her frustrated. When she spoke in Ashai'i, he spoke it back, his voice sounding rough but deliberate as her own.

The speed with which Bryan learned unsettled her. It was as if the magic itself was eager to bend to him, eager to take root in his veins. She had seen few others like him—those whose mastery of magic came so quickly, so instinctively. Yet in all her years, she had never seen one so untroubled by the complexities of magic, so willing to embrace it without hesitation.

At first, Melisandre thought he would tire of it. Magic was a dangerous pursuit, fraught with consequences. He would tire of the spells when they grew more demanding, when the flames became harder to control, when the power pushed against him. He would grow bored. She was certain of it.

But Bryan never grew bored. He never faltered. The spells grew more difficult, but he only enjoyed the challenge.

He was always cautious, always meticulous, his mind focused on the task at hand. The magic had become something more to him. For Bryan, the flames were not just tools; they were lifegiving, his connection to them deeper than Melisandre had first imagined. There was a purpose to the way he wielded them.

Perhaps he would become useful sooner rather than later.

Night came and her king entered her chambers. The flickering flames in Melisandre's chamber cast long shadows on the walls, their dance a silent reflection of the turmoil inside her heart. She listened intently as Stannis spoke, his voice resolute, yet heavy with the weight of his uncertainties.

"The Great Council is proving troublesome," Stannis said, pacing before her. "The North has pledged itself to me, but the rest of the realm has favored Renly. The lords speak of his charm, his youth, his brightness. But they are fools."

Melisandre watched him, her crimson eyes narrowing with both interest and wariness. She had seen the signs in the flames—visions of Stannis' success. She had told him time and again that he was the one, the Prince Who Was Promised. The flames also showed her how to win.

Her thoughts flitted back to Bryan's warning: Do not let Stannis kill Renly. She had dismissed the words at the time, for Bryan had hardly known magic. He had been an enigma, full of strange ideas, but in the heat of the moment, he had never shown the true mastery of sorcery that she wielded. And yet, something in her had not forgotten his caution. But she kept it buried, for the moment, knowing that Stannis needed her faith.

"Do not worry, my lord," she said, stepping closer to him. "The flames will guide you, as they have always done. The lords are fickle, but they will bend. They must. You are the rightful king."

She reached within herself, calling on the shadows that had served her so well in the past. Beneath the surface of her skin, she could feel the heat of R'hllor flowing through her, a fire that burned hotter when she wielded it. She let herself sink deeper into the magic, allowing her connection to Stannis to grow, not just in the way of lovers, but through the power of the red god himself. The moment felt raw, alive—almost as if she were feeding, drawing from him more than just warmth.

Her body seemed to hum with the energy of it. She had always known that her magic came with a price. But here, in this moment, the cost was worth it. Stannis—Azor Ahai reborn—his blood, his spirit, all part of the flame's grand design.

She could feel his strength beneath her, his pulse beating in time with hers. She explained her spells. Stannis' easily agreed. A night of sharing her bed with Stannis' allowed her to carry the child of Azor Ahai's shadow.