Chapter Text
Somewhere there is movement. All she feels is her hand being pulled, her body stumbling forward. Instinct kicks in, and she panics. Her hand darts within her red sleeves to find the right powder, any powder, anything to stop this man—
But this man knows her better than anyone. Before she can fling her sorcery at him, he catches her delicate fingers in his rough ones. Melisandre throws her weight in the opposite direction, and then she finally glimpses him. Relief floods her veins, but her heart is still hammering.
She composes herself and asks him to forgive her. She will not admit that he startled her.
He will not point out that he already knows. For a long minute he does not let go, and the wind and snow whip around them in an urgent beat. It is far too noisy, yet so very silent.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” he says dryly. She has no idea what he means. All amusement drops from Stannis’s face. “You truly don’t know?” Her white fingers are still held in a bruising grip. He brushes them against his lips.
Scarlet eyes widen as if in accusation. This is her king, and she is relieved it is him. All the same, she jerks back her hand as if he has harmed her, as if he is the one who burns.
It is entirely silent now; she is sure that the wind has ceased to blow, and the dark North itself has succumbed to rest. She opens her mouth to apologize again, but he shakes his head. By the time he pulls her hands back to him, they are shaking, no matter how forcefully she tries to calm them. He coaxes ten white fingers to his mouth this time, presses ten clumsy kisses to her trembling fists.
Somewhere in a distant lifetime, the priestess has heard songs of lovers and maidens. She knows it is not supposed to happen like this.
Somewhere, in some hidden part of her heart, she is glad that it did.