Chapter 52

Aegor had to admit, Melisandre was an alluring woman. With her striking red hair, piercing crimson eyes, and an undeniably beautiful face, she stood out even more in her vibrant red robes—robes dyed with colors unattainable by the era's ordinary methods. She was breathtaking, radiant beyond compare. Even if the current queen, hailed as the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, were ten years younger, she could at best match Melisandre’s allure. If not for knowing her true identity, Aegor might have been more than willing to make her acquaintance—perhaps even consider her as one of his "targets."

But at this stage, Aegor couldn’t fathom how this enigmatic woman—her age a mystery, her powers seemingly derived from smoke and mirrors, her so-called miracles little more than alchemical tricks—could be of any use to his plans. After all, she was the same woman who duped Stannis into sacrificing his family and nearly destroyed House Baratheon through infighting. Deep down, as a transmigrator, he instinctively feared her—not just because of her penchant for burning people alive at the slightest provocation, but also because she wielded something his original world lacked: true magic.

Fear of the unknown was a natural instinct, a genetic self-preservation mechanism, and Aegor felt no shame in acknowledging it. Courage wasn’t about being fearless; it was about overcoming fear. While he held a certain respect and wariness toward Melisandre, he wasn’t yet ready to engage with this pivotal figure in the narrative. But since she had come to him, he had no choice but to face her head-on, adapting as needed.

Suppressing his inner tension, reason quickly took over. This woman, for all her terrifying presence, wasn’t like the Mad King—she didn’t kill indiscriminately or without reason. If "the enemy of my enemy is my friend," then Melisandre, with her knowledge of the White Walkers and her devotion to the Lord of Light, should theoretically be an ally of the Night’s Watch. At least, she wouldn’t outright oppose him—she didn’t know he wanted to escape his vows, after all.

Realizing this key point, Aegor’s nerves settled. He rose from his seat, boldly assessing the woman before him, even allowing himself to wonder if her beauty was natural or magically enhanced. Melisandre's purpose for seeking him out was likely to inquire about the Wall and the lands beyond it, gauging the threat posed by the White Walkers to devise her countermeasures. Should he tell her the truth or exaggerate a bit to secure some assistance?

No, first things first—he needed to figure out how to greet her. "Pleased to meet you"? Without his knowledge of the storyline, he wouldn’t recognize her at all. Better to play it safe and feign ignorance. A simple, neutral salutation would suffice.

"Good evening, my lady," Aegor greeted.

"Good evening," Melisandre replied with a soft, seductive smile. "The representative of the realm’s shield gracing Dragonstone with his presence ought to be treated with the finest hospitality, yet our island is poor in resources. If we have failed to welcome you properly, I must beg your pardon."

"You’re too kind," Aegor replied politely. "I’m here on official business, not for pleasure."

Melisandre nodded gracefully and began approaching the table, her movements deliberate. The warm air around her intensified as she neared, a sensation that wasn’t just his imagination. Aegor stiffened. Unless this priestess of the Lord of Light was walking around with a fever of fifty degrees, there was no way a mere mortal could emanate such heat. Was this some magical trick or proof that her so-called "god" truly protected her?

Struggling to keep his composure, Aegor braced himself for whatever probing or questioning the red priestess had in store. But what happened next caught everyone in the room off guard.

“Ah?” Melisandre stopped abruptly, her expression one of shock. She recoiled as though Aegor had pricked her with a needle, then shouted, “Guards! Seize this heretic!”

Before Aegor could react, two fully armored Dragonstone guards burst into the room, their spears leveled directly at his chest.

What was happening?

This marked the second time Aegor had been arrested since arriving in this world. The first was at the hands of farmers armed with pitchforks and axes, who sent him to the Wall after he had no choice but to surrender. But this time? This time, he had no idea what had gone wrong.

His instincts as a former ranger kicked in. His hand went to his hip, only to remember that his issued steel sword had been surrendered to the armory when he left Castle Black. He hadn’t carried a weapon since arriving in King’s Landing.

"Don’t move!" one guard barked, pressing his spear closer.

Aegor froze, realizing he was hopelessly outmatched. These were Stannis Baratheon’s soldiers, renowned for their discipline and combat prowess. Even if he had been armed, fighting two of them—plus a mysterious sorceress—was a fool’s errand.

The tension in the room was palpable. The old miner and his son stood frozen, their drunken stupor abruptly sobered. The homeowner, who had been holding a chair for Melisandre, stood awkwardly in the center of the room, while the young guide accompanying Aegor seemed torn between loyalty to Dragonstone and his brief allegiance to the man who had bought him dinner.

“I surrender,” Aegor said after a tense pause. He reached for his coin pouch and tossed it to the old miner. “But let me settle my bill first. Head back to the ship and inform the captain I’ll be at the castle until noon tomorrow.”

...

Escorted by guards, Aegor was taken to Dragonstone’s castle—a place he had been denied entry to earlier that morning. Now, bound and deposited in Melisandre’s chambers, he watched warily as the red priestess stood a safe distance away, finally seeming at ease.

“Who sent you?” she asked coldly.

Aegor met her gaze, his expression stoic though his thoughts were in turmoil. He had deceived the Starks, framed the crown prince, and conned Tyrion Lannister into funding his schemes. He had played fast and loose with the truth countless times, but he had never crossed Stannis Baratheon or his red priestess. What could she possibly have against him? And "heretic"? By her standards, wasn’t all of Westeros full of heretics? Stannis wasn’t king yet—who gave her the right to persecute others?

“Lord Commander Jeor Mormont,” Aegor lied smoothly. It was better to attribute his presence to his former commander than admit Tyrion had ransomed him out of his vows. “I’m on official business.”

“And what business would that be?”

Aegor explained his supposed mission, suppressing his humiliation and anger. “Lady Melisandre, there must be some misunderstanding. I assure you, this is the first time we’ve met…”

“We may not have met before, but I sense a powerful aura of an ancient, alien god about you,” she said, her voice laced with suspicion. “Who are you, really?”

An ancient god? Aegor swore to himself that he had no idea what she was talking about. Was it lingering ice magic from his skirmishes with the White Walkers, or had she somehow discerned that he was not a native of this world?

He decided to feign ignorance. “My lady, I have no idea what you’re implying.”

“Perhaps you don’t,” Melisandre said, her expression enigmatic. “But I have ways of finding the answers I seek.” She gestured to a guard. “Bring me a brazier.”

A brazier? Was she planning to torture him?

As the flames were lit and a ceremonial knife was produced, Aegor’s confidence began to falter. He had planned for many contingencies in this strange new world, but this was something he had never anticipated.