A/N: I don't own anything.


She gazes into the flames, sees life and death dancing within. She bows herself backwards, hands twirling above her head as the heat from the flames licks her body like a well-known lover. Her eyes drift closed; her mouth partially opens to exhale breathy prayers in the Valyrian tongue. She slowly rolls herself upward, bowing and swaying as a tree does in a storm's wind. She twirls, skirts flying outward in a whirlwind of red. She dances around the flames, praying for guidance, for a vision, for victory, and for the defeat of her enemies. Sweat beads along her body and begins rolling down her skin. The flames pop and sizzle, grow higher, turn white-hot. They feed on her prayers and energy, taking from her and in return, giving her the visions she needs. Her eyes fly open, but she does not see the world around her, not anymore. Instead, she sees a fortress in a land covered in ice, black smoke roiling upwards from the ruins, a white godswood with an old man lying dead at a weirwood tree's feet. She sees a crown clutched in the grips of bloody hands. She hears a dragon scream somewhere above her, a war cry. The dragon's shadow flies over her head. She smells blood in the air and sees a king with a wolf's head sitting in a great gilded chair. Wildfire dances around her body, burning her alive. Screams pour from her mouth, but they are not her own. They are the screams of dying men, women, and children. They are the screams of anguished mothers, and children who have long since been abandoned by their parents. Within the green flames, she sees a helmet in the shape of a bull, the horns pointed and the metal polished to a high sheen.

As quickly as the visions come, they begin to fade. She comes back to the world around her, kneeling on the hard stone floor in front of the brazier. Sweat rolls off her body, making the cloth of her gown stick to her skin. She smiles, breathing harshly, and gently touches the stone at her throat. She pushes herself to her feet, smoothing her gown and straightening her hair. She bows before the brazier and extinguishes the flames with a final prayer. Her footsteps echo as she leaves. The red priestess returns to her king, dipping into the prettiest curtsey and proving her faith once again. Melisandre smiles as he takes her into his arms and whispers his desires in her ear. Her king never sees the flames that dance within her eyes.