It was night in Volantis, yet the streets outside the Great Temple of R'hllor hummed with almost the same vibrancy as if it were still day. Lanterns danced on the breeze, flickering through the cobbled streets as they cast long shadows. Yet within the temple, an eerie silence hung like a shroud, broken only by the occasional whisper of the wind. Here, within the sacred walls, all was still.
Melisandre stood before the flame of R'hllor, her robes dark as midnight, her ruby necklace flickering faintly in the low light. The fire blazed before her, crackling with knowledge and ancient power, yet tonight, something was different.
It had not been her choice to come tonight. A nagging sensation had woken her from her sleep, an urgent pull deep within her chest, as though the flames had beckoned her to come. R'hllor was most anxious to show her something, something important, yet she did not know what. She did not understand why the Lord of Light had called her here, but she was accustomed to answering such calls, even when the meaning eluded her.
With a steady breath, she stepped closer, the heat of the fire licking at her skin. The flame roared, its fiery tendrils flickering higher, and as it always did, the visions came.
First, there were the usual: fleeting glimpses of battles across Essos and beyond, the death of kings, the rise of new factions, the whispers of the Great Other growing stronger in the shadows. But these visions were nothing new. She had seen them before. They did not draw her in, as they once had.
And then, the flame shifted.
The visions began to swirl and spin, drawing her deeper into the flame, spiraling faster and faster until they coalesced into a single, murky image. A chamber, dimly lit.
At the center of the room stood a boy.
He could not have been older than ten or twelve name-days, his silver-blonde hair glowing in the soft light. His violet eyes glinted from the torches on the wall. He moved about the room, touching the cold stone walls seemingly in deep thought.
A Valyrian Child? She mused.
But that could not be all, so she peered harder into the vision and the flames answered. The chamber became clearer in its image. Draconic relics seemed to adorn the chamber, on the walls, and on various pedestals.
Then she saw it, the unmistakable sigils of House Targaryen—the three-headed dragon emblazoned upon banners across the room.
A Targaryen child. She concluded.
But what could be so important about this one? Melisandre was puzzled.
So she peered harder, she tried to focus on him, to learn more. Her god had shown her this boy for a reason, and she was determined to understand.
But then she felt it.
Something was wrong.
The boy's presence was... elusive. The flames offered no insight, no whisper of his path or purpose. It seemed as if the flames danced around him as if he existed beyond its touch, a void in the field of the flame.
And then the flames started to grow erratic. The flames, usually so clear, so responsive, would not yield. They refused to show her more. She reached deeper into them, willing them to obey, but the vision shifted again, the boy moving further out of focus as though he were being cloaked by something beyond her control.
A chill crept up her spine. Never before had the fire withheld its truths from her. She pressed further, willing the flames to reveal more.
The fire roared.
The vision intensified, and suddenly, she could see more. The boy, now seated at a table, poured over scrolls and books, his gaze intent and sharp. He seemed to be scheming, plotting. The fire illuminated his face, revealing something—something unsettling in his eyes.
The visions shifted again, while the boy remained seated at the table, it was his surroundings that changed; instead of the room behind him, she started to see several different views. The boy turned a page, and she saw several artisans working on some kind of trinket, the size of the palm of her hand, but before she could understand more of it, the boy turned another page. This time, she was in a chamber occupied by three people, all of whose faces were murky; they seemed to be making a deal as she saw a man clasping the hand of a...child?
The boy turned another page, and this time, she saw ships, sailors, and shipyards. The boy flipped another page, and now she saw a man with a crossbow bolt lodged in his shoulder, yet he seemed to be bleeding from his neck.
The flames whispered to her, and Melisandre understood then. This boy, this Targaryen child, it was as if he did not belong to the song, as though he had never been written into it. Yet he was changing everything. He had already started to change the course of the song, and the very future had been altered in his wake. She could not understand how or why, but she knew the power of this revelation. It was a knowledge that both thrilled and terrified her.
But before she could push further, the vision changed once more.
The flames swelled, a flash of intense brightness covered her eyes, and then... nothing. Complete darkness and silence all around her. Until two eyes—massive, molten orbs of red, gleaming like twin suns opened from the darkness and engulfed her vision. They burned bright with the fury of a thousand storms, their intensity blinding.
The eyes were draconic, slitted like a beast's, and in their depths, she saw a reflection of her own fear. The world around her was engulfed by fire, and she could feel her entire being boil. Her throat constricted, her limbs locked in place, unresponsive. The flames reached out toward her, their heat suffocating, yet she could not look away.
She tried to pull herself back from the vision, to break free, but the fire held her in its grip. For what seemed like an eternity, she was trapped in the molten gaze of those eyes, feeling as though her very soul was being seared. And all she could hear was her own heart pounding in her ears.
With a violent lurch, the vision ended.
Melisandre collapsed to the ground, gasping, her body trembling as she staggered away from the fire. Her skin was slick with sweat, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
What did I just see? What was that? She mumbled to herself.
Sweat clung to her brow as she steadied herself. The flames crackled softly, indifferent.
Her mind raced to process what she had witnessed. The boy—he was a Targaryen. But there was more. Something in his future could change everything. His existence, somehow, was outside the flame's comprehension. R'hllor did not know him, and that thought struck her like a hammer.
And then, there had been those eyes. She had seen them—two great orbs of molten fire, impossibly bright, unyielding, terrifying. They had consumed her, and she could feel them still, as if they were burning into her very soul.
Her god, the Lord of Light, had shown her this boy, but there was something else to him. Something dangerous, something that defied her god's will.
Melisandre's pulse raced.
She turned sharply, her face set in determination. She had to act. She needed answers.
Exiting the chamber, she hurried through the cold stone halls of the temple, her footsteps echoing, calling for an acolyte.
"Prepare me for travel," Melisandre said, her voice low, almost a growl.
"Where to, priestess?" asked the acolyte, her voice hesitant.
"Westeros."