The camp was at the centre of a labyrinth, which held no point of reference for the lost souls wandering apart from the pack. Thick pebbles of snow layered upon each other as they fell to the ground, piling around the trees and freezing on Luvnac's lashes. From far enough up the hill and set into the tree, Stannis Baratheon's camp appeared to be another cluster of rocks leading down the slope of the Wolfswood. If one were to approach closer, however, they could see the shadows of the guards moving throughout the camp, their hollow figures giving them a skeletal appearance.

He pitied them, he really did. These men were hungry, cold and likely in fear for their lives after the Bastard's attack. Luvnac had seen the carnage they had left behind, buried within the snow, buried in singed wolf-furs, his large grey eyes peering throughout the camp. Yet that did not justify what they were about to do: he had seen it with Hephaesta when he had looked into the flames. Every single man, including the little girl's father and mother, would stand silent as their Princess burned.

As his eyes circulated the camp, he noticed a few soldiers, including Davos Seaworth, ride out of the camp and slip between the clusters of pines that surrounded the camp. Luvnac's heart sank: they had seen the departure of the Hand at the high noon before the evening when the burning was to take place. The Princess had hours to live.

"I have spoken with Quaithe," Hephaesta spoke softly behind him, her voice flickering like a small candle fighting against the wind.

"And?"

"We must do what we must do for the greater good. We agree that Stannis must win the battle against the Bolton's. Yet for their success there must be a sacrifice."

"So what are we doing?"

xxxxxxxxxxx

"No! No, please! I want to speak to my Father! Father! Father!" Shireen screamed desperately for him. She could see him just over their shoulders, his eyes empty and lost. As if everything between them was a giant ocean and he was stranded where he couldn't reach her.

Why did he look like that? Of course he could reach her! All he had to do was call one word and the entire army would drag her from the stake and throw the witch upon it in her place. "Please! Father, please! Help me! No!" The witch held that burning torch aloft, an evil smirk on her face as she lowered that thing to the logs. It looked so harmless, something so small that it shrivelled as strong wind tunnelled into the camp. Please! Please blow out! Blow out! Then the wind died and the fire bloomed again as it touched the logs shifting beneath her feet. It slipped towards her, taunting her like that witch's smile.

Where was her father? "Father! Father, please! No!" Why wasn't he coming? Why were they just standing there watching her scream? He had told her he loved her! That he'd summoned the world to heal her as a baby! Why wasn't he coming? I don't understand! "Father!" She met his eyes across the field, but they were bare and empty. He feels nothing! He doesn't love me! He's a liar! He lied to me! He wants the throne more than he loves me! "No! Mother! Mother, please!"

Shireen didn't know what made her call out for her mother, who had never shared even a smile with her daughter ever. Who had told her she was a disgrace, nothing but an embarrassment to the House Baratheon. It burned from her throat as the smoke began to scratch at her lungs. Her insides were melting, shifting, as if that fire had buried its way inside her already and consuming her from the inside out. They were at her feet, catching her leather boots, eating into them. "Mother! Help me! No! Mother! Mother!"

"No! No!" She looked up. The smoke was green and thick, she couldn't see through it. Her father remained still, but he was now alone. Amongst the soldiers, her mother was waddling, almost running but held back by her sickly frame. A few reached forward to stop Selys, but she clawed at their faces and hands. Even closer through the snow and smoke, and Shireen could see her mother's eyes ignited with their own fire. "Shireen! Stop! Shireen!"

"Mother!" Shireen called out again, her heart pooling with hope, overflowing, settling her body for a moment. Just hold on a little longer! She's coming! Mother's coming! She's coming for you! She loves you! She'll stop them! "Mother!"

"Shireen! No, no get off me! Shireen, I'm coming!"

Everything was so thick now, so, so dark, she couldn't see anything. Mother continued to scream for her and she screamed back, but it was so hard. Her feet were searing, the blood in her legs boiling. The fire was catching her dress and roaring up her body. It filled her hair, stealing the little stag from her hand. Shireen screamed so hard, she didn't even know she could make those sounds. She sounded inhuman, like some demonic spirit rising to scorch the world with fire and blood. Everything was death – the grey and white stinging her eyes, the fire on her body, the sounds coming from her mouth. That was all she could see.

"No!"

Then, suddenly, the fire cloaking her body exploded white and blue, hitting her eyes like someone had spat molten lava inside them. Her vision swam from grey and white to obsidian black, as if she had suddenly been thrust into a vision where light could not penetrate. After that burst of heat though, the heat numbed her, almost falling away, leaving a sharp tingle behind, shaking her body, the logs beneath her, the pole holding her up. Ropes around her cracked, with an unusual sound, like glass and stung her hands as they fell away. What's happening? Am I dead? Am I with the Great Other? She threw her hands out to find her bearings, then screamed as a hundred hands, sharp and skeletal reached out to twist her, throwing the ground out from beneath her.

Melisandre has sent me to R'hollor! He's coming to take me! Shireen opened her mouth to scream again, but ash simply filled her mouth and her voice died. Instead, her insides began to melt again, rolling around inside her body, burning her up. It stung so painfully, but when she opened her mouth, she felt a hot steam burning her gums and teeth.

"No! You won't take me! Mother! Mother! Help!"

Then the hands stopped. Maybe R'hollor had heard her and was taking pity on her. Maybe he was going to throw her back into the world. Not daring to breathe, Shireen held herself still, trying not to provoke him. A few hands shifted beneath her, gently lowering her to the floor. Above her a few sharp definitions began to come into focus, sharp and angular, like supports for the great hall where she had played in as a baby. Grey curls began coiling on either side of her, brushing her skin like cool air.

The pain in her chest suddenly burst out and she gasped for breath, panicking when the hands beneath her started and began to gently shift her, lowering her, carefully, shifting. One hand on her arm softened and stretched across her back, supporting her. Another did the same. As her sense came back into focus, Shireen realised how disorientated her brain must have been in those final moments. The hundreds of hands she had felt pulling her probably only numbered eight at most. Eight hands. Four pairs. Four people holding her. Lowering her to the ground. Four strangers. In a cold, empty room where she could breath, and her skin was cold. Jerking an arm free, Shireen brought it towards her face and held it close as her vision became more defined – there wasn't even a scratch on it. No burns. No blisters. Even her clothes were intact. The leather boots on her feet. She could feel one hand pulling on her long, greasy hair.

What has happened?

Shireen began squirming, moaning. "Mother?"

"Hush Shireen," someone whispered in her ear. Her whole body was now cradled, cocooned. Their hands felt so light, yet so bony. "You're all right now."

What? "What? Wait… where? R'hollor?"

"No, Shireen, relax, you are not dead."

I'm not dead? She had just been burned alive. She remembered the flames eating into her body, into her hair, into her mouth. Of course she was dead. "No, wait! Please! What?"

"You're not dead. We have saved you."

"No! What? Get off! Wait! I don't…" Shireen struggled against them as they finished lowering her to the ground, letting her body fall to the floor as softly as possible. From this position, she could see they were wearing strange masks, clinking softly as they moved around her, indicating they were made from some form of metal. What felt like straw shifted beneath her, poking at her neck, colder than snow. Stretching out to gather her surroundings, Shireen felt her arm brush something hot, and she cringed away. Turning her head, she noticed a small coal glowing red with a blue flame shrivelling in a pile of ash. "Argh!"

"Hush, Shireen, hush," the tallest of the group knelt before her, brushing some strands of hair from her face. "The fire is out. It cannot burn you."

"No!"

"Look see," the woman continued, brushing her hand into the flame for Shireen to see. Taking the coal in her hand, Shireen watched in terror as the woman held it tightly without being burned for several moments, before the coal began to crumble in her hand and fall apart like snow. "The fire is harmless."

"Oh!" Shireen moaned, pushing away, feeling the ash cling to her body, grotesquely sinking into her clothes and hair. "Where? Where am I? Mother! Father! Mother!"

"They're not here, Shireen," another one of them spoke, younger, a boy. He stepped forward gently, but with sincere authority. Reaching behind his head, he slipped the clasps open and let the mask fall from his face, but in this deep darkness Shireen couldn't see anything. One of the figures moved away from the plane of ash bedding the floor. Once she was in a position where their figure couldn't be defined, she heard a small shuffle as if their hands had been rubbing together, before several small flames blossomed from their fingertips.

"No!" Shireen flinched away, dragging her body through more ash, away from the fire. When the fire bounced from the person's fingers and into several torches adorning the walls, which seemed to be defined in a hexagonal shape. As they settled down, Shireen felt the panic returning and boiling her insides all over again. "No! Put them out! Put them out! Put them out! Mother!"

"Shireen, please…"

"How do you know my name?!"

"Our friends helped to save you. We overpowered Melisandre's magic and used the fire as a portal to bring you to us. She and all of those people think you are dead. You never have to fear them again."

"What? Wait! Who are you? Where am I? What do you mean portal?"

"Shireen, please stop panicking and we can explain," the boy repeated again. This time, neither of them spoke for several minuets, breathing hard, forcing air into their lungs to keep as calm as possible. With slow, deliberate movements, he lowered himself to his knees, his arms spread wide, bringing his face into view. His features were sharp, well defined and strong, with thick black hair falling on either side of his face and eyes so translucent, they were almost white. When he spoke again, he did so slowly and patiently. "We heard of Melisandre's association with your father shortly after the Battle of Blackwater. Her fanatical practising's of the Lord's will troubled us, especially after we heard that Robert Baratheon's bastard escaped her clutches by a matter of hours. We dispatched one of our most trusted Priestesses and her apprentice to Westeros to examine the situation more clearly. They eventually tracked her and your father's army to the North and into the Wolfswood. When they arrived they saw your sacrifice in the flames at a time when the Onion Knight would not be there to save you."

"You saw me die?"

"Not I specifically, but our friends did. They infiltrated the camp and combined their magic to overpower Melisandre's summoning of R'hollor to take you. What we performed was called the ignis peregrinatione, an ancient ritual whereby a Priest or Priestess of the Lord of Light may travel using his sacred fire. It was an incredible risk – the practice has not been invoked for centuries but as you can see…" the boy gestured at her alive and whole body… "it was a success."

Shireen's head screamed in confusion, throbbing in panic. "You… you're like her! You serve R'hollor!"

"We are nothing like her!" The figure who had lit the room boomed in a deep, throaty voice. "She is a fanatic, and a power-hungry one at that! She believes the Lord should be stained with parlour tricks and that her unsanctioned burnings are his work! She willingly misinterprets our doctrine for her own ends!"

"Quiet, Yarren," hushed their leader, who saw Shireen was cringing again. Casting a disdainful glare over his shoulder towards his companion, the boy began speaking again.

"We follow the Lord of Light, R'hollor. But we do not follow Melisandre's code, or rather she does not follow ours. Though it is true R'hollor can be appeased by King's blood that is not the only course available to her. She simply chooses that course as a mode to increase her power over people – be they royalty or common." The boy's eyes narrowed in disdain for a moment, before he blinked and softened his expression again. "You need not fear. You are safe here, Shireen. We swear upon our Lord of Light, we will never let Melisandre ever touch you again."