The "diviner who cannot calculate accurately" seemed unusually agitated. The Red Witch, usually so composed and unreadable, now showed a flicker of resentment, and Viserys could hear the slight tremor in her voice.
"Melisandre," Viserys said softly, surprising her with the use of her old name. "You've waited so many years in solitude. You must be tired. Lonely, even?"
His words caught Melisandre off guard. She had expected the same treatment she'd seen from other kings—punishment, humiliation, perhaps even death. In the hands of lesser men, she might have already been executed, or worse. Yet here stood Viserys, speaking to her not with vengeance, but with a strange, almost unsettling concern.
"L-Lonely?" she stammered. The word seemed foreign to her, like an emotion she hadn't felt in centuries. And yet, as Viserys spoke, she suddenly felt an invisible weight pressing down on her, as though she were sinking into deep water. It was an unfamiliar sensation, like a long-forgotten vulnerability.
"You were just a girl, sold to the temple," Viserys continued, his voice calm and measured. "Why should you carry so much on your shoulders? The weight of the Seven Kingdoms and the Nine Free Cities rests on me now. What do you have to fear?"
Melisandre looked at him, bewildered, as if someone had finally seen through the layers of armor she had wrapped around herself. Without another word, Viserys pulled a chair closer and sat down, placing a wooden box of food in front of her.
"Things are as they are," he said, offering no more explanations. "Let's eat."
"I don't need to eat. R'hllor sustains me," Melisandre replied, though her voice was less certain now.
"Try it," Viserys insisted with a smile. "Even the gods make mistakes. And the Jade Emperor and Queen Mother—who supposedly don't eat the grains of the world—well, they still falter."
Confusion flickered in her eyes; she had no idea who these figures were. Viserys chuckled softly and continued, "If you don't eat, how will anyone see you as one of them? How can they believe you want to save them? Only the Others don't need to eat."
From the box, he pulled out a small, neatly wrapped item and handed it to her. "Try it. I call this a meat sandwich. It's made with meat and wheat—simple, but delicious."
Reluctantly, Melisandre took the offered sandwich, still unsure of Viserys's intentions. As she held it, he continued pulling out various foods from the box.
"This is a bun," he said, holding up a soft roll. "And these are dumplings. They're excellent, but the dumplings…"
"What do you want?" she interrupted, a note of impatience creeping into her voice. There was also wariness, a lingering mistrust she couldn't hide.
Viserys noticed, recalling their previous encounters. Back then, when they had only communicated "from a distance," she had seemed almost robotic, devoid of emotion. But now, here in this moment, she had already shown cracks in her cold, impassive facade—not once, but twice.
Smiling inwardly, he leaned back in his chair, sensing that the Red Witch, despite her power and mystery, was not as untouchable as she seemed.
Viserys exhaled softly, popped a dumpling into his mouth, and leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Melisandre.
"Tell me, Melisandre," he began, his voice calm but probing, "why do you think the Long Night is so terrifying?"
"Because of the White Walkers and the cold," she replied without hesitation.
"And how many people do you think will accept the Long Night and the White Walkers?" he asked, his tone edged with skepticism.
"They'll accept them when the time comes," she retorted sharply, as if responding to a foolish question.
Viserys leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "And how many do you think will survive until then? Do you know how many people died when I fought Robert?" He paused, taking a bite of a hot bun, unfazed by the heat. Targaryen blood had its benefits. "The truth is, most people don't care about the Long Night."
Melisandre's expression faltered, a trace of uncertainty flickering across her usually composed face.
"They care about what this season's harvest will be. They care about where tomorrow's meal is coming from," Viserys continued, his voice growing sharper. "You sent a shadow to kill me and Dany for Robert and Stannis. But did you ever stop to consider what would happen if you had succeeded?"
He leaned in, his voice gaining intensity as he spoke. "The Free Cities would be torn apart again. The Sellswords would rise in chaos. The fragile order across the Dothraki Sea would crumble, and Westeros would be plunged into endless war. Tell me, Melisandre, how many would die then? Is your so-called fight against the Night about making sure more people die before they even see it?"
By now, Viserys was only inches from her, his words hitting her like blows. Melisandre's shoulders trembled slightly under the weight of his accusation. He had cut straight to the heart of her beliefs, shaking the foundations of everything she had stood for.
His voice softened again, and he sat up straight, pulling back to give her room to breathe. "I admit it—I am not some savior. I may not even be Nissa Nissa. I can't save the world alone. If humanity is to survive the Long Night, it won't just take one sacrifice. It will take many. One Nissa Nissa won't be enough."
Viserys paused, his eyes locked on hers. "Even Azor Ahai... did he defeat the Night King alone? I doubt it. He needed help, and so do I. You've spent so long searching for a savior, Melisandre. Why not choose one for yourself? Or, better yet, why not see yourself as the savior?"
His words hung in the air, leaving Melisandre visibly shaken. Her chest rose and fell, as if she were struggling to comprehend what he was saying, as if he had voiced something both profound and deeply unsettling.
"But R'hllor—" she began, her voice faltering.
'Fuck R'hllor,' Viserys thought, a sharp edge of frustration in his voice. An absurd thought crossed his mind, like a surgeon who had just finished a thirty-hour operation, only to hear someone say, "Thank God."
"Melisandre!" Viserys's voice rang out, sharp and impassioned. "There's a saying that the torch must be passed on. The beacon may shine brightly, but can it burn forever? The flame may blaze fiercely, but it will die out unless each of us is willing to become its fuel."
He leaned closer, eyes locked on hers. "Faith burns brightly, yes—but we are the endless flame. All of us. So, do you still expect a savior to come?"
We are the endless flame... The words echoed in Melisandre's mind, reverberating like the first ray of dawn piercing the darkness. That simple phrase spread through her heart, expanding, growing, until it split her life in two—everything before this moment, and everything after.
Viserys stood up, a bun in one hand, and extended the other toward her. "Melisandre, save the world with me."
She looked up at him, and in that moment, he seemed like a mountain rising from the earth—immense, immovable, holding up the sky for everyone beneath it. The weight of the world, of the Long Night, didn't seem as heavy now that she wasn't carrying it alone.
Tentatively, she reached out to take his hand, then hesitated, her courage faltering. She withdrew. But Viserys didn't waver, his gaze steady, as if urging her forward without saying a word.
Summoning her strength, she reached out again, this time higher than before. Her wide red sleeves slipped down, revealing her pale wrists and smooth forearms. For a second time, she paused, pulling back. But Viserys remained calm, offering silent encouragement.
On the third try, Melisandre no longer hesitated. She reached for him, her hand steady now, and took his.