A/N: Sorry for the late update. For some reasons, I lost a bit of the plot while I tried to write more for this AU. Idk, but I feel that it's the beginning of another writer's block which happens to me a lot. So if ever the next chapter comes so late, I apologize in advance. For now, please enjoy this new addition.

(It's the Independence Day here in the PH, so consider this as a "gift" for the celebration of our autonomy from Spain)

Home is Behind the World Ahead Chapter IV

Until the Stars are All Alight

"Something is bothering you," the words were spoken more like a conclusion rather than a question. Glorfindel pretends not to hear them and shifts his undivided attention on the on-goings down below.

Outside and inside the gates of Winterfell, both the Northerners and the Dragon Queen's army work hand in hand to make the final preparations for the Night King's incoming attack. Screams and shouts are exchanged from here and there, in different languages; Valyrian, Dothraki and the common tongue for the Northmen and the remains of the population of the Wildlings.

The elf-lord watches them, his heart saddened by the fact that most of these people may not even survive the Long Night. He feels for them, especially for the men and women he had trained for several weeks now. Some had been clueless about the ways of the sword, being raised to work in the fields and farms. Some too young, still ignorant and inexperienced to the wonders and horrors of the world. Others were too old, their long life marked by the deep lines etched on their faces and hands. But all of them volunteered to fight, not only for the sake of survival, but their hearts are also filled with the desire to protect. And this desire does not limit to the lands they have tilled and sown or born in, but they also want to protect those that they love and those further away from the South with no sense of the doom that may yet to come.

There is no certainty of a victory. Brandon Stark, whose abilities he has yet to grasp, deliberately refused to share any forms of information that may enlighten them of a possibility of survival. The things his good-brother told them in the meeting that happened earlier were the only weapon they held against the Night King, that, and the Red Woman's vague assumptions that Glorfindel was the personification of a prophesized warrior sent to defeat the creatures of ice and the dark.

A part of him refuses to accept this fact, or whatever it was, his coming here is a mistake, he was only a puppet to the games that fate had enjoyed. Yet, another part of him embraces it entirely, for it makes sense, somehow, there should at least be a reason for his arrival in this world.

"Is it because you and Lady Sansa fought?"

The new question shakes him from his stupor and he glances to Lady Brienne who waits for his answer expectedly. A misty cloud forms when he releases a long exhale.

"Yes," came his short, exasperated response.

Partially, it was true. The fact that he and Sansa have yet to talk and reconcile is another issue that dwells in his mind apart from Sam's unexpected revelation. After his "momentous" chat with Sam, he has gone out to search for his wife. But Sansa was adamant to hide from him. He thinks he has almost caught her several times this day, his eyes always finding a flash of auburn in every nook and corner of Winterfell where he is sure to see her. Yet, whenever he was positive that he could finally catch her, Sansa disappears, like a phantom in these walls.

"She'll come around soon," Lady Brienne reassures him, her gaze moving towards the darkness that looms over the empty lands ahead of the gate, "She's a very passionate and brave woman, just like her Lady Mother. She won't hesitate to protect those that she loves, you most of all."

There was a deep touch of sadness and longing laced with pride in his friend's tone as she compares the mother and daughter she had served. It appears to Glorfindel that there must be something truly special about the Starks that made every person who served them form a bond more intense than what it normally should. He was no exception.

If the Valar or any forms of gods of this realm is truly playing with his fate, he is more than thankful that they have chosen to send him to the Starks. And to Lossewen.

A strong gust of wind blows past them, almost extinguishing the torches that littered in the battlements, and he tries to adjust the heavy fur cloak he wore to seek more heat. Deciding that he can no longer endure another hour of standing outside, he waves at Lady Brienne and Podrick to follow him.

"Come, let us find a warmer spot."

The three of them rush inside the keep, with one location in mind.

The Great Hall.

It was the only place in Winterfell with a fireplace big enough to chase off the coldness that has seeped deep in their bones. The place would be empty by now, with all the inhabitants occupied with their own tasks. He thinks that Sansa will be in her solar, sitting behind the large desk, face buried on the reports and inventories with Ghost laying by her feet. He wishes to go to her but decides against it in the end.

Their sudden entrance in the Great Hall startles the Lannister brothers, already lounging comfortably in front of the fireplace, cups at hand and deep in a serious conversation.

"Lady Brienne, Lord Glorfindel, Pod," the older of the two, Jaime, stands, raising his cup to welcome them.

"Oh," Brienne stutters, evidently surprised to see Jaime Lannister, "We didn't mean to interrupt. We were only looking for somewhere warm to…"

"To contemplate our imminent death, yes." Glorfindel finishes for her, earning a chuckle from the younger Lannister male, his Lossewen's first husband. "I have reason to believe that you two are also in the same book."

The two of them never had a chance of a conversation, perhaps it was high time that he comes to know the second born son of the infamous Tywin Lannister, the man responsible for Sansa's underage marriage and the murder of her mother and brother.

Glorfindel does not carry bitter feelings for him nor does he feel any trace of jealousy. It was easy to conclude that Tyrion Lannister was the better man from the first two unions his wife was forced to undertake. Sansa admired this man once, for his intelligence and wit, but there was no love there. However, due to his recent actions and choices, Sansa confessed that she was beginning to doubt his judgment and intellect.

"Yes, we have all come to the right place," Tyrion comments dryly. Then as if remembering his manners, he offers them a drink, "Might I offer you this some of this piss? It's not the best out there, but not bad either."

"Thank you, milord," Pod accepts enthusiastically and walks towards the table where the pitchers of alcohol are placed. Some of the containers were upturned and empty, which means either the two Lannisters had been here for quite a while or the other Northern lords had beaten them to it.

"That may not be wise. The battle may start at any moment."

Podrick's enthusiasm falls at his lady's reproach, stopping mere inches from the table, looking like a scolded child. Glorfindel and Jaime share a smile, watching the two interact. Brienne has always been so stern when it comes to Podrick although there was no denying that this is because she cares for her squire's wellbeing more than she will ever let out.

"It's the end of the world, Brienne. Let him enjoy some luxuries," Glorfindel chose to speak on Pod's behalf. He has no idea of how alcohol may affect humans before going to battle but in his experience, a cup of wine or so is soothing to the nerves and helps relieve the tension caused by the increasing amount of adrenaline produced by the body from fear and anticipation.

"Aye, a cup won't hurt," Tyrion encourages further, winking at his former squire. Podrick turns to Brienne expectantly.

"Half-cup," Brienne admonishes her squire after a moment's deliberation, blue eyes narrowing in warning, but Tyrion ignores her and fills Podrick's cup up to the brim, causing some of the wine to spill on the floor.

A movement from one of the open doors grabs Glorfindel's attention and he squints his elven eyes to get a clearer glimpse. From the dark, he could make out a feminine silhouette moving behind the shadows. He nearly expects it to be Sansa, when the light shines on red tresses, but the shade was wrong, it was darker, deeper akin to blood than fire, and his wife never wears her hair lose except inside the privacy of her chambers. Or his. His heart beats a little quicker when blue eyes clashes with those familiar eerie ruby eyes.

It was Melisandre of Asshai.

Upon seeing the recognition that flashed on his face, the Red woman gives him a small incline of her head and she turns around, vanishing into the hallways.

A hand clamps on his shoulder and his body jolts in shock.

"Are you alright? You seemed to have lost it for a bit." Jaime tells him, brows creasing in concern.

Twelve sets of eyes were focused on him now, and he stares back at them absently. There were two additions inside the chambers, ones he failed to notice in his daze, the wildling Tormund Gianstbane, and the Onion Knight, Davos Seaworth.

"What's wrong, lass? You look like you've seen a ghost." Tormund remarks, using the accursed title he has given the Elf-lord.

The man of the free folk, as he would like to correct the Southerners, thought that Glorfindel was a she at their first meeting, he even came into a conclusion that the elf and Brienne were siblings due to their shared golden locks and tall imposing figures. Sansa, who found it amusing, was quick to correct her free folk friend, earning Giantsbane's disappointment. However, much to the Eldar's annoyance, Tormund decided to permanently address him as such.

In a normal day, the golden-haired elf would answer to the jab, but at present, his mind is wrapped around something else.

Another inevitable meeting. One he must have ahead of the fight.

"Pardon me for a moment, I need to be somewhere right now." He states to the occupants of the room, then he half-run half-walks to the part where he saw the Red-Woman disappear.

It wasn't difficult to find Melisandre of Asshai, not when she waits for him in one of the alcoves of the castle.

"Come, we must not tarry," she tells him in her deeply accented tone and he follows her, traipsing through the vast hallways of the castle and ascending some of the winding stairs. They passed by the wing allocated for the Starks, then by the guests' chambers that presently houses Daenerys Targaryen and her retinue.

They continue walking until Melisandre stops in front of a small room reserved for noble visitors of lower birth. She opens the door for him and beckons him to enter. He hesitates at first, his hand grabbing the hilt of his sword, unsure whether to trust her or not. She may be on their side of the war but it doesn't mean that Glorfindel will lower his defenses around her.

The overwhelming heat welcomes him the moment he sets foot inside the cozy chambers she had chosen as her accommodations. The room houses nothing more than the usual necessities found in other rooms in Winterfell; a bed, a fireplace, a desk and table, and a small door that hides the chamber pot. The only difference, however, was the flaming brazier that stands in the center of the room possibly causing the additional warmth. And other than the red cloak that was primly folded on the edge of her bed, he notes the lack of personal belongings.

He freezes when the sound of the metal bolt echoes inside the room, breaking the tense silence.

"You are an anomaly in this world, Glorfindel of Gondolin," she states, slowly stepping closer towards him.

The temperature begins to shift when she stops mere inches away from him, and he feels the little beads of sweat beginning to form at the back of his neck as his heart trashes wildly against his chest.

"You are not supposed to exist here," she says, mirroring the words that Bran said when Glorfindel woke up in this realm, "but you are not without purpose."

"Who are you?" He asks, feigning ignorance to her identity.

"I am called Melisandre and I serve the Lord of Light," she pauses then gives him a knowing glance and her lips curl into a small smirk, "but in your world, he comes by another name. Perhaps you know her better as Varda Elentari."

Glorfindel's sucks a harsh breath, eyes widening at the reveal.

"How is that possible?" He voices his disbelief, his mind trying to knit the pieces together.

"There are many gods, Glorfindel of Gondolin. There are many gods in different worlds and they come in disparate forms. In this world, we know the Lord of Light as the Red God, R'hllor, but in yours, however, she is Elbereth the Star-Kindler, the lover of light. They are unlike one another but similar nonetheless." She explains and the red gem of her necklace seems to glow brighter as she speaks.

"And it was her intention to send me here?"

"Yes, with the blessing of the One." Melisandre adds, untangling the web of perplexity the elf has suffered in the midst of the revelation, "She has heard of the unspeakable darkness threatening to overtake these lands and swallow the lives that nurtured the earth. She and her husband love your kind above all creations, yes, but her heart also holds a special place for the Afterborn, and this world is so akin to yours that she bore a terrible desire to aid us. Thus, she begged the Father of All to grant her wish, and you were sent here."

The room darkens as the hour grows late. Outside he could hear the voices of the people and the strong winds mixing together, forming an obscure melody, too much for his sensitive hearing. However, from the noises that mingled in the air, he distinguishes Sansa's soft tones eclipsing all the other sounds that his ears could gather.

"I…But why me?"

There was a strange relief in his heart when he finally spoke the question that weighed his being ever since he found himself in the Taniquetil. He never had the chance to voice it aloud, for he was compelled with the great need to please the Valar and the Iluvatar.

"Because this world needs a hero, Glorfindel of Gondolin. Westeros has always had a King and a Queen, but now it needs someone more than a ruler to fight in this war, and none is as worthy as you to take on that mantle. You, who descended from one of the noblest houses of the Eldar, are the Prince that was promised, the song of Ice and Fire."

Outside, the foreboding sound of the horn resonates, the first of the many.

The beginning of the end.

A/N: Lol, it was fun writing the part where Tormund mistakes Glorfindel as a female and Brienne's sibling. Also, the last part where Mel tells him that Westeros needs a hero not a King/Queen is a reference to Aquaman. I just thought that it fits a lot in there.

The Varda reveal was a bit messy, I wanted to add more to that but my mind refuses to work. Ugh. However, I promise that once the muse is back and working straight again, I'll try to rewrite this scene to make everything clearer than they appear to be. And lol, how many times did I promise that this fic is almost at its end? I think everyone (including me) will need to wait long for that.

12345678910 - we will see. :)

Burbur - thank you so much! I'm sorry to have kept you and the others waiting. Hopefully, this update does not disappoint.

For the other commenters, thank you so much for all the lovely comments, I'll really try my best to add another (a better one) chapter soon!