Melisandre was at peace.
The ride south of Winterfell was stormy, but she never needed protection from the cold. The winds eventually killed her horse, but she always found the coin to buy another by offering herself at brothels, as long as the men spilled their seeds on her stomach.
She was on the outskirts of a forest close to the Cape of Eagles, jogging her horse forward, waiting for the moment to arrive. Melisandre had seen it in the flames. She hoped it would change, that she had misinterpreted them, but knew that to not be likely.
It was not long until they arrived. Melisandre heard them before she saw, voices full of merriment and joy amidst the cold. There were eight of them, she saw, youthful boys and girls. Some were pushing a wayn full of rare grass and hay, while others sat on it. Many ignored her as they went past. One broke away from the pack with such hush none of the others even noticed. She was not old. Her face was wrinkled and saggy, eyes alert. They both waited until the rest departed.
As soon as they were out of earshot, the woman pounced on Melisandre with ferocious dexterity, pinning her to the snow. Her eyes were full of rage, boring into hers… but Melisandre was at peace.
The woman seemed to hesitate. “Don’t,” said the fire priestess. “If anyone can, it’s you. Few possess a fire brighter than yours, Arya Stark.”
*
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