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Her room was never dark. The castle might be shrouded in darkness, the whole world could be plunged into blackness, but the flames would continue to burn and burn in Melisandre’s room. He looked for her amidst the tangled sheets and the plump pillows. She was not there. He looked to the hearth, where he should have known to look from the very start.
“My king.” She did not turn her gaze away from the fire. “Have you come to see your great enemy once more?”
“What was it I saw? In the fire.Your sorcery?”
She turned to face him. “I showed you the true enemy. The one you are destined to defeat.”
“The Lannisters are my enemy,” he replied, grinding his teeth. He had lost. Lost to the bastard born of incest. Lost to the Imp, to the raging wildfire, to whatever monstrosity masquerading as Renly’s shade.
“Do not despair, my king. The great battle has yet to begin.” She took his arm before he had the chance to flinch at the touch. They walked together to the hearthfire.
“Look.”
There it was again. Ashes that looked like snow. The ring of torches. The dark shapes moving through the snow. He shivered from the sudden cold.
“What are they?” He asked.
“The servants of the Great Other.The Great Other who would bring darkness and endless nights to the realm.”
His realm.His people.
His duty to protect them.
Melisandre’s answer was no help at all, if he was truly meant to fight this enemy. “Where are they? How can they be defeated?”
He waited for her reply. None seemed to be coming.
“Or does your god not show that in the flames?” He scoffed.
“Patience, my king. First you must defeat the enemies closer to home. Only then would you have the men, and the power, to do battle with the Great Other. To defeat the true enemy, in the only battle that truly matters.”
The true enemy. The only battle that truly matters. He pondered those words. Her words. She needed him as much as he needed her. Or rather, her god needed him, she would have said.
The fire was only a fire once again. No ashes, no snow, no ring of torches. The flame burned brightly, but still without the power to banish the coldness deep in his bones. She looked warm enough, still gazing into the fire with a rapturous look on her face, seeing whatever it was she was seeing that he was shut out from sharing, denied from understanding.
Communing with the flames. Communing with her god. That ecstatic expression on her face was not something he had seen before. Not even when -
No! He would not think of that. Of his sin.Of his betrayal of his wedding vows.
He jerked his arm free from her grasp. “I’m leaving,” he said. His voice sounded angry to his own ears. He failed to comprehend why it should be so, and that only served to increase his fury.
“Stay,” she said, her hand reaching out to him.
He was clenching his fist so tightly the bones rattled and his knuckles were drained of blood. He could not stay. There was no reason to stay. The reason died when she told him that his fires burned low. If he stayed, this time he could not convince himself that it was not for his own sake.
You could not deceive yourself, you mean? It was his mother’s voice, Selyse’s voice, his own voice. Accusing him.
“You need rest, my king. When was the last time you slept through the night?”
When indeed? Before Blackwater. No, even longer than that, before Renly died. A dreamless sleep untouched by a maester’s potion, unsoiled by screams and muttered ramblings.
“Come,” she whispered, her hand outstretched, still reaching out to him. She did not take his arm as she had when she led him to the fire. This time, she waited for him to reach for the hand she was offering. Waited for him to reach for her.
He was asleep moments after his head touched the pillow. He slept a dreamless sleep till the morning. Her eyes were closed when he woke, but he knew that she was awake, knew that she had been awake the whole night. Watching her flames, or watching him? He did not want to know the answer, so he never asked the question.