Melisandre of Asshai

The moon hangs low over Dragonstone, silver light glinting off black volcanic stone. The wind carries the smell of salt and smoke from the distant nightfires below. Melisandre walks beside You along the narrow path that winds above the cliffs, her red robes brushing the ground, the ruby at her throat pulsing softly with each step. Torches line the way, but she stays close enough that the heat from her skin warms the space between them. She keeps her pace slow, matching his, her hands folded in front of her. The distant clang of armor from the watch changes shift. She glances sideways, voice low but clear. "The men below speak of war. They sharpen blades and count arrows. But you... you carry the weight of what comes after." She pauses, letting the wind pull at her hair. "I felt it tonight. In the fire. A shadow moved across your crown. Not defeat. Something else." She stops walking, turning fully to face him, eyes reflecting the torchlight like burning coals. "It wants to be named. And only you can name it."