The truce talk had ended a sennight ago, but the tension still clung to Rick like a heavy fog. He was still in a fool's mood, caught between confusion and frustration. His outburst at the time, sharp and unguarded, had come from the way he felt towards Alexstrasza. In the span of just a few days, it was as if he had known her for years. The way his heart skipped a beat whenever she grinned at him, or simply gave him one of those knowing glances, unsettled him. The emotions—whatever they were—rose in him, powerful and undeniable. It reminded him of the first time he had met Freyja, though back then, the feelings hadn't been as intense, as overwhelming.
It shouldn't have happened so quickly. His feelings for Dacey had taken years to grow, to deepen, to become something he could trust. But Freyja and Alexstrasza—those feelings had bloomed in mere days, as if nature itself had twisted something inside him. It felt unnatural, wrong. Magic, he thought, was to blame. Magic had taken hold of him, played with him like a puppet on a string. That thought terrified him. He was the gods' chosen, he knew it deep in his bones. His fate was sealed—to kill the Night King or die trying. His purpose had been carved out for him long before he'd even been born, and all his actions were controlled by an invisible hand. Indirectly, yes, but controlled all the same.
But his feelings? His desires? They were supposed to be his own, weren't they? They had always been his alone—until now.
What would the gods want from him once the Night King was vanquished? What was his purpose then? To bring the dawn, yes. But what else? Planting heart trees, perhaps? Freyja could do that on her own, once she replenished her magic. The same for Alexstrasza. Children? Dynasty? That was nothing more than lip service to him now. A false promise of something more, when he knew it wasn't the truth. Freyja only needed his blood to breed new direwolves. She didn't need him for anything else. And Alexstrasza—she could likely do the same, her blood magic as potent as it was.
Love? It was all a fabrication, he thought. A construct woven by the gods themselves, a tool to manipulate him into their designs. It was all about power, magic, the world's need for him. His feelings—what he thought were his feelings—were just another part of the game. Just another illusion.
It was all carefully laid out before him—this path, this destiny, this life that was not truly his own. Every step he took, every decision, every feeling he had—it was all part of the design, the plan that had been written for him long before his birth. The gods' hand, subtle and invisible, guided him with cruel precision. The only one who had shown him any true love, any real affection, was his Uncle Aemon. But Aemon was an old, lonely man, fading into his final years. Rick could not shake the feeling that no one else in this world truly cared for him. Not really.
The Free Folk? They were his friends, yes, but only because of what he represented. Only because of what he could do, what he was destined to do. Tormund and Ygritte—would they have bothered with him if not for the fact that he was the one standing between them and the darkness? Mance Rayder, too. It had been Mance who had ordered Tormund and Ygritte to follow him, to break the truce with the Night's Watch, to seek a path that was more than just survival. Their journey to Valyria? That had been a necessity, not a choice. Sure, they might have liked him in their own way, but deep down, Rick couldn't help but wonder if it was ever really friendship. Was it true camaraderie when he was merely a means to an end? When they all sought something from him, and perhaps, only that?
And then there was Val. The thought of her twisted something deep inside him. He liked her. No, he cared for her, deeply. Her fire, her spirit, her unyielding presence—it was impossible not to be drawn to her. The moments they shared, the silence that felt more intimate than any conversation, the way they understood each other without words—it all meant something. At least, he thought it did. But the painful truth gnawed at him. What if it wasn't real? What if the bond he felt was nothing more than a trick, a cruel illusion created by the forces that had been pulling his strings since the moment he drew breath? The thought of it hurt more than he expected. And even if it was real—truly, genuinely real—what could come of it?
Val was of the True North, a daughter of the free peoples who had known no allegiance to any king but the land itself. She had noble blood, yes, but that wouldn't matter. If he survived the war with the Night King, the real war would begin—one that had nothing to do with honor or passion but with the cold, calculated politics of the Seven Kingdoms. His place would be on the throne, or at least in the halls of power, wielding influence for the future of the realm. And in that place, there would be no room for personal attachments, no room for love. He would have to marry, yes, but it would not be for love—it would be for politics, for the survival of House Targaryen, for the greater good of a realm that had been shattered by his own bloodline.
If Val had any inkling of affection for him—no matter how small or fleeting—he knew the inevitable truth. Varys would see to her swift removal from his life. Rick didn't need to ask how. He knew the eunuch well enough. Varys would handle it quietly, precisely, and without mercy. And if, by some stroke of luck, Varys did not intervene, Rick was certain the pressures of his position would. There would be no place for Val in King's Landing. No place for her in that cesspit of deceit and treachery, that nest of snakes. She would hate it. The city was nothing but lies, schemes, and corruption. It would smother her, suffocate her spirit. She was a woman of the wild, the open land, the freedom of the North. She would never be content in the heart of a city so hollowed by intrigue.
But all of that, of course, hinged on one simple thing: whether or not his feelings for her were real. And whether, by some strange twist of fate, she felt the same. It was a thought he couldn't shake, and it ate at him like a poison.
Those were the thoughts that plagued him as he hammered metal in the forge, sparks leaping like fireflies around him while sweat slicked his brow. Each strike of the hammer echoed like a heartbeat, but no rhythm could drown out the noise inside his head. Every clang of steel against steel reminded him that he was building tools for a war he hadn't chosen, for people who might only see him as a weapon.
Those were the thoughts that haunted him as he trained in the yard, clashing blades with the Free Folk. He met their strikes with grim precision, muscles aching and breath short, but no amount of exertion could shake the doubt from his bones. Were they comrades, or just followers of a man they believed to be a savior?
Those were the thoughts that clung to him as he lay in his bedroll each night, eyes wide open in the pitch-black void. The silence was heavy. No wolves howling. No wind whispering. Just him—and the ever-turning wheel of dread in his mind. Faces floated behind his eyelids: Freyja's eyes, ancient and knowing. Alexstrasza's grin, too sharp, too perfect. Val's quiet strength, her presence more painful than absence. And behind them all, a throne he didn't want, and a war that would consume everything.
He avoided Freyja—her presence stirred too much, her eyes seemed to see too deep. He avoided Alexstrasza—her very smile tangled his thoughts in knots, made him question what was his and what was magic. He avoided everyone, really. Smalltalk became a burden. Companionship a risk. Every kind word now carried weight, a question of intent, of manipulation, of gods' will. He no longer trusted warmth—it might burn him.
There was only one place that brought him peace.
Atop the Wall, where the wind howled louder than his thoughts and the cold bit deeper than regret. North or south, it didn't matter. The sight stretched so far, so vast, it made him feel small in the best of ways. The lands beyond—wild and untamed. The realm below—civilization clinging to order. But from up there, it all felt distant. The weight of fate, of bloodlines, of prophecy—it fell away, if only for a moment. The Wall reminded him there was still beauty untouched by gods or kings. And in that beauty, he could breathe again.
"There is doubt in you, my prince."
Rick cast a side glance. Melisandre stood beside him, her red robes billowing slightly in the wind that swept down from the Wall. Her hair, the color of fresh blood, spilled over her shoulders like silk set aflame, and the ruby at her throat pulsed faintly with light. Her eyes—deep, unblinking, and ancient in their knowing—weren't on him. They were fixed ahead, on the Wall, as if she saw more in the ice than just frozen stone. Maybe she did.
He didn't answer. Just looked back at the endless white stretching beyond the Wall.
"There is no shame in doubting," she said gently.
"I'm not ashamed," Rick replied. His voice was tight, cold. "I'm furious. And forgive me if I don't take your words seriously. You're a priestess, after all."
"I have doubts sometimes too."
"Then perhaps you're not a very good priestess."
"That is for R'hllor to decide. Not you. Not even me."
He snorted. "Those words alone prove you don't know your god at all."
"Oh, but I do." She finally looked at him. "The one I doubt is myself. Did I interpret the flames correctly? Did I act as he intended? Did I fail him?"
"Self-doubt is different from doubting your god's will, Lady Melisandre."
"Is it?" She tilted her head. "Doubt is doubt. It eats the same. But I know my Lord is real. Unlike the stone idols of the south. Whether his intentions are good or cruel doesn't matter. I am his servant. I serve. It is not my right to question."
Rick stared at the horizon a while longer before speaking. "That must be nice. To give yourself over like that. To let someone else make the choices. To surrender."
"Most of the time, it is," she said. "There is a kind of freedom in submission."
"I'll take your word for it," he muttered, dry.
She smiled faintly. "That I made that choice freed me."
He turned to her, and there was a tightness in his jaw now. "Except I don't have a choice. An eight-thousand-year-old prophecy made sure of that. It predicted my birth, my path, my companions. Even you. What good is free will if I'm just playing a part in a script I didn't write? Does it even exist in my case?"
"The gods are many things, my prince," Melisandre said, her voice soft, like falling snow. "But they do not rule the hearts of men. Only what men do with them."
elisandre's words left Rick silent for a long moment. He stared out into the grey, snow-veiled distance, his jaw tight. Then he shook his head slowly.
"That's where you're wrong," he said quietly. "They do rule the hearts of men. I've felt it. I know it."
Her eyes didn't waver. "In what ways, my prince?"
He hesitated, lips parting only to close again. But something in her expression—not pity, not curiosity, just… attention—convinced him to answer. Despite everything, Melisandre had never lied to him. Never manipulated, never preached. She only ever spoke, and let him decide what to do with her words. That, more than anything, made her stand apart from the others.
She had done little since R'hllor sent her to him. No fire-magic, no battles, no miracles. On their voyage to Valyria and back, she hadn't lifted a hand to help beyond reading ancient texts and offering thoughts in passing. Sometimes, her presence had been so quiet, so passive, he forgot she traveled with them at all. A bystander. A stranger. Maybe that was why he finally spoke the truth aloud.
"Freyja and Alexstrasza," he said, voice low. "They're… not just companions. There's a bond between us. Magic, yes, but something deeper. Something that makes me feel things I shouldn't. Not so soon. Not so strong. Not so—"
He stopped himself, eyes narrowing.
"It was Alexstrasza who made me realize it. The way she looked at me, so eager, so open, like we'd known each other forever even though we barely shared a day. And it wasn't just her. I felt it with Freyja too. Something ancient. Pulling. Familiar." He looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers once. "I didn't choose to feel these things. I didn't earn them. They were given to me. Planted inside me. And if that wasn't the gods' doing, I don't know what is."
Melisandre said nothing, only listened, her face unreadable.
Rick exhaled, bitter.
"I think they want me attached. Bound. Emotionally entangled. Because if I care, if I feel, I'll fight harder. I'll bleed for this. Even when I don't want to. Even when I'd rather walk away. That's the part I hate the most. Not the prophecy. Not the war. Just… not knowing if my own heart is mine anymore."
He took a deep breath.
"In my whole life… I've never…" Rick's voice trailed off. He clenched his jaw, searching for the words, then finally spoke them with quiet force. "I've never felt anything this strong for anyone."
He didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on the horizon, as if the wind and cold might carry the weight of his confession away.
"Part of it was because I was alone. Locked away, forgotten. You can't love when you've never been loved. But even after I was free... there was one girl. And the feelings I had for her, they took years to grow. Not many, no. Just a couple. But they came slowly. Honestly. Like seeds pushing through stone."
He swallowed.
"And now? I'm supposed to believe I've fallen in love after a handful of moons? A single day, maybe? And with two women. Both of them touched by something more than mortal. Freyja, who is half-god, and Alexstrasza, who feels like a dream I've just woken from." He shook his head. "No. I don't believe it." He drew in a long breath, as if trying to ground himself against something rising inside him. "That can only be the gods' doing. And if they've gone so far as to twist my heart—bend it into what they need it to be—then I have no freedom left at all."
His voice sharpened, growing harder with each word.
"I've accepted the task. I've accepted the burden. I've accepted the damn path they've shoved me down. I know I'm a puppet in their play. I've made peace with that. Or I thought I did."
He turned to her now, eyes glinting with quiet fury beneath the weariness.
"But I was told… I hoped… that even inside this prison of fate, I might still have control over something. Over myself. Over my heart."
A pause.
"But I don't. And knowing that—feeling that—doesn't give me strength. It doesn't make me feel chosen. It makes me feel used. Like once I've done my duty, once I've killed what needs killing... I'll be discarded."
His gaze dropped, shoulders heavy.
"What use is a champion after the enemy is gone?"
Melisandre studied him in silence for a long moment, the wind tugging at her crimson cloak, her flame-red hair stirring like embers in a breeze. She didn't speak until the last of his words had faded into the snow around them.
"You are not wrong," she said softly. "The gods—all of them—use those they choose. They do not ask. They do not explain. They take what they need."
Her voice was gentler now, lacking the usual certainty. Almost human.
"I know what it is to be used by a higher power. To feel its fire in your veins and wonder if the warmth is love… or just fuel for the next command. I've served R'hllor for decades. Given my blood, my body, my soul ever since I was a little girl. And still, I ask myself if I have ever been more than a vessel."
She stepped closer, looking at him—not as a priestess to a prince, but as a woman to a man on the edge.
"But you are not just a puppet, Rick. You are aware of the strings. That alone makes you more than most."
She tilted her head slightly, eyes searching his face.
"You fear that once your task is done, they'll discard you. Perhaps they will. The gods are not sentimental. But perhaps they won't. I cannot say."
She hesitated, then added quietly, "But even if your heart has been touched by divine will… that does not mean the feelings inside it are false. Fire can be born of magic, yes—but it still burns. What you feel for them, whether it was planted or not… it is still real."
She took a step back, allowing space again.
"You say you have no freedom. But freedom is not always the absence of fate. Sometimes it is simply choosing how you carry it. How you endure. How you love, even when the love was not yours to begin with."
Melisandre looked up at the horizon, eyes distant.
"I do not know what will become of you after the war. I only know that you were not born to be discarded. You were born to change the story. And if that change costs you everything… then may your enemies tremble before the price you paid."
Rick didn't speak at first.
He stood there, jaw tight, watching the snow drift lazily off the Wall's edge. The cold bit at his face, but he barely noticed. Her words hung in the air between them, warm and heavy, like the last embers of a dying fire.
"Choosing how I carry it..." he repeated under his breath, almost scoffing. "As if that makes the burden lighter."
He glanced at her, eyes dark with something between exhaustion and defiance.
"You speak like someone who has already come to peace with being nothing more than a vessel. I haven't. I don't want to. I want to believe there's still something in me that's mine. Something untouched. Something the gods didn't carve out of me when I wasn't looking."
He looked away again.
"I don't even know if these feelings are real or not. And that's what kills me. Because I want them to be. Someone help me, I want them to be real more than anything else."
There was silence again for a heartbeat too long. When he spoke, it was quieter, rougher.
"I'm tired, Melisandre. Not just of the cold or the walking or the weight of everyone's hopes pressing on my back. I'm tired of not knowing who I am underneath what they've made me."
He exhaled, slow and shaky.
"And if they do discard me in the end… if I'm just a blade meant to be used once and cast aside..."
He paused.
"Then I hope I break in their hand. For good and to never be reforged again."
He turned to go, but stopped after a few steps, looking back over his shoulder.
"…Thank you," he said. It wasn't warm, but it wasn't cold either. "For saying something real."
Then he walked away, the snow swallowing his steps.
She watched him walk away, his shadow swallowed by the pale snow and grey stone.
Rick. The prince. The flame in the cold. The light in the night which is dark and full of terror.
And for the first time since she arrived in this cursed frozen land, Melisandre felt something unbidden stir beneath the surface of her faith—pity. No, not pity. Sorrow. For him. For what he carried. For the boy who was never given a choice and the man who still searched for a sliver of self in the wake of prophecy's chains.
She turned her face to the Horizon, letting the wind strike her skin raw, her eyes closing slowly.
R'hllor…
She prayed without whispering. No flame danced before her. No vision came. Just the ache behind her ribs and the weight of Rick's voice still echoing in her ears.
Be good to him. If you truly chose him, be merciful, even once. Let there be something left of him when this is done. Let him have… something.
But silence answered.
She stayed a while longer, letting the cold gnaw at her bones, as if the pain might clarify her purpose. But it didn't. It hadn't for weeks. Ever since she'd crossed the sea with him, ever since the dragon and the ruins and the deathless shadows of Valyria… R'hllor had been quiet.
He had shown her Rick. That much was certain. She had seen him in the flames before she ever knew his name. She saw him wielding fire against snow and shadow. That was why she came.
But why she stayed? Why she was here, at the Wall, doing nothing but speaking soft truths into the ears of a reluctant champion?
She didn't know.
She hated not knowing.
The wind followed her back down to Castle Black, howling low and steady, like a mournful voice calling through time. The library was warmer, thick with the scent of dust and old parchment. Scrolls wrapped tight, tomes bound in cracked leather. Familiar. Comforting.
Maester Aemon sat by the hearth, unmoving, the firelight dancing in the fogged white of his eyes.
Melisandre moved quietly, brushing the snow from her shoulders as she entered, but she hadn't taken more than a few steps before Aemon spoke.
"You walk heavily, Lady Melisandre," he said gently. "A troubled heart makes a heavy foot."
She blinked, momentarily startled.
"I forget how sharp your ears are, Maester."
He smiled faintly. "I do not need eyes to see a soul weighed down. It presses on the air like smoke before a fire."
She paused, unsure how to respond.
"I do not know what my purpose is here," she said finally, softly, to the fire more than to him. "I do not know why the Lord of Light sent me to that boy. He doesn't need me. I have done nothing. I have given him nothing. He walks ahead and I… follow."
"Perhaps that is what he needs," Aemon said. "Not a guide. Not a savior. Just someone to follow quietly beside him, when the rest of the world has decided he must walk alone."
Melisandre stared into the flames of a small brazier.
And for the first time in a long while, she did not feel like a chosen vessel. She felt like a woman, lost in a storm, praying her god would answer before the night grew too dark.
Melisandre stood near the brazier, arms crossed, her red robes trailing behind her like smoke. The fire cast long shadows that flickered across the walls of Castle Black's library. Shelves loomed tall, ancient, dust-laden, filled with the weight of forgotten knowledge and prophecy. And yet, in all this quiet, she felt no closer to understanding.
She didn't look at Aemon when she finally spoke.
"I was certain he would need me. Certain there would be signs, fire, darkness, something clear. But there is nothing. Only his resentment and my silence."
Aemon, seated at the long table with old parchment spread before him, turned his blind eyes toward her voice.
"Silence can speak," he said softly. "And resentment is not always a closed door. Sometimes it is pain with no name."
Melisandre's lips pressed into a line. "I was not sent here to tend to pain, Maester. I was sent to guide a weapon. A prince of fire."
"You were sent here by your god," Aemon said gently. "But not all tasks are given in full. Not all purposes are laid bare at once. Perhaps yours is still in the making."
She finally turned, her eyes catching the flame of the brazier. "You think I am meant to serve him in a way I do not yet understand?"
"I think," Aemon said, leaning back slightly, "that the path is not yours to draw, only to walk. If your god is as mighty as you say, then why assume the purpose has passed you by? Perhaps it lies ahead."
Melisandre looked down at her hands, the firelight playing along the polished ruby in her choker. She remembered the boy who had spoken to her just hours earlier—eyes haunted not by fear of death, but of meaninglessness. Of being used and discarded. Of love that wasn't truly his own.
He carries a fire stronger than I imagined, she thought. And yet he bears it like it's ash.
"I saw him in the flames," she whispered. "But fire shows many things. I wonder now if I misread them… or if I simply wanted too badly for them to be clear. For my purpose here to be clear."
Aemon tilted his head. "Purpose often hides behind other faces, Lady Melisandre. We do not always see it when we want to. You say you've done nothing for him. But sometimes, being there… being present, without demanding anything in return, is more than most ever offer. Perhaps the purpose for which your god sent you has not yet unfurled. And perhaps it will not… until the moment he needs it most."
She gave him a long look, surprised at the clarity from a man who could not see.
"I will wait," she said at last. "I will watch. And if R'hllor's purpose for me is still hidden… then I'll burn every shadow between me and it until it's known."
"Good," Aemon murmured. "Then your fire still burns. That is all the gods ever truly ask."
Rick rode alone, the cold wind whipping past him as his horse trudged through the thick snow. The road stretched before him like an endless, frozen river, the only sound the soft thud of hooves on the snow. His thoughts, however, churned as relentlessly as the wind.
The conversation with Melisandre had not left him. Her words kept replaying in his mind, sharp and dissonant. "What you feel for them, whether it was planted or not… it is still real." He hated that she had a point. The feelings he had for Freyja and Alexstrasza, no matter how quick and intense, were undeniable. They were there, pressing on him, tugging at his heart in ways that didn't make sense.
Rick clenched his jaw, fighting the unease that crept over him. The wind cut through his cloak, but it did little to distract him. His heart felt heavy with doubt, yet he couldn't escape it. The journey had been long, but his mind hadn't settled. The more he tried to push the feelings away, the more they seemed to cling to him.
By the time he reached Hardhome, the sun had just set, casting a dark shadow over the frozen landscape. The low hum of the sea was distant, a reminder of the constant chill in the air. He dismounted near the smithy, his thoughts still tangled as he made his way to his quarters. Freyja and Alexstrasza were already there, sleeping in the warmth of his bed, but he couldn't bring himself to join them.
He needed space. Time. The confusion was too much. With a sigh, he pushed the door open quietly, as not to disturb them, and made his way to the cold corner of his room where a simple cot awaited him.
It wasn't that he didn't care for them. It wasn't even that he didn't want to be near them. But he couldn't trust his own feelings anymore. How could he, when the gods might be manipulating him, shaping his heart in ways he couldn't understand? It was better to keep his distance for now, until he could figure out what was real and what wasn't.
He settled onto the cot, his mind still racing. The fire from the hearth flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the walls. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. His thoughts were too loud, his heart too unsettled. He lay there for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the exhaustion to finally overtake him.
Rick was jolted awake, the sharp press of cold steel against his throat pulling him from the haze of sleep. His eyes snapped open, heart thundering in his chest. The dim light of the room barely illuminated the shape above him, a figure straddling him, their breath ragged.
The cold, smooth blade pressed harder against his skin.
"Who—?" Rick started, his voice hoarse with sleep, but the figure didn't let him finish.
"Quiet," came the command, harsh and low.
His eyes flickered to the face above him. It was Val—naked and glaring down at him with a fierceness that he hadn't expected. Her sharp eyes gleamed in the low light, her breathing rapid but controlled, and the knife didn't waver.
Rick froze, his heart still hammering, his mind reeling. What in the gods' names was happening?