Dragonstone loomed like the jagged teeth of an ancient god—black stone, ash-choked skies, and winds that howled with forgotten names.
Köinzell's boots made no sound on the narrow causeway leading to the gates. His cloak whipped behind him, wet with salt and mist. The guards, clad in Stannis Baratheon's black and red, raised their spears.
> "State your business."
Köinzell held up one hand.
A sudden pressure filled the air, like gravity had doubled. The torches flickered—then flared brighter, as if fearing the void he carried.
> "I've come to speak with the Red Priestess. The fire knows why."
The guards staggered, breath caught in their throats. They didn't understand why, but they felt it in their bones—this wasn't a man. It was something else.
The doors opened.
Inside the volcanic hall, Melisandre of Asshai waited by a brazier. Fire danced around her, casting her crimson robes in flickering warmth. She did not smile when Köinzell entered. Her eyes studied him like a riddle wrapped in shadow.
> "I saw you in the flames," she whispered. "A sword carved from starfire. A shadow that kills kings."
Köinzell stepped closer.
> "I'm no servant of R'hllor. But I don't deny his flames whisper truths."
She tilted her head. "You've killed Joffrey. And the Bastard of Bolton."
> "Justice," Köinzell said flatly. "Their souls screamed."
Melisandre looked into the fire. "The Long Night returns. Light must answer shadow… and you are both."
The fire crackled.
> "Then answer this," Köinzell said. "What lies in the fire now?"
Melisandre's eyes widened. In the flames, she saw a vast army of dead things. Ice spiders. Pale kings. A child of the forest burning alive. And an elf with silver blood standing alone before a blizzard of death.
> "You're not in any prophecy I've read."
> "Then write a new one," Köinzell said.