Melisandre restrains a flinch when she takes off the necklace.
This part of her night always tends to reduce her to the little girl she used to be, to the old woman who had cowered. She is not that person anymore. She is no longer a helpless little girl, and nor is she a hopeless old woman. She is--- she is the red woman.
She wonders if she should bring Jon back. Certainly, she had liked the boy. She had undressed herself and pressed her womanhood against him and yet, he had refused. He was rare. A rare specimen in this woeful, godless world. She shakes out her stringy white hair and forces herself to feel every inch of the true creature she is. This is her. This is who she is. The Melisandre who has long brown hair and dark eyes, basalt white skin and hot alluring skin--- she is not her. She is something else.
She slides into her bed under the covers. Jon is worth something she thinks. Jon must be. She had seen him in the fire--- she had seen him fighting at Winterfell. And he could not fight at Winterfell if his body was icing over in the snow, could he?
Melisandre smiles to herself and begins to plan.