Chapter 260: The Witch's Warning

Melisandre was not wearing her usual red robes.

She wore nothing at all, save for the ruby necklace at her throat, its gem glowing faintly in the firelight. She sat cross-legged near the hearth, so close that the flames seemed to kiss her skin.

Yet, she was not burned.

The fire was her master.

Her eyes were closed as she chanted a prayer, though her voice lacked its usual steadiness.

The flames sensed the unease in their mistress and danced more fiercely.

Melisandre opened her eyes, gazing into the fire. The golden and crimson hues interwove, forming a series of horrifying visions.

Two entangled bodies twisted and clawed at each other, consumed by a wave of flames. From the inferno emerged a shadow, transforming into a grinning skeleton, its blood-streaked eye sockets fixed on her.

Her body trembled. Blood mixed with smoke seeped from her eyes, streaming down her cheeks but igniting into flames before it could fall.

She felt death. She felt rage.

It was the wrath of the divine.

The wrath of her god, R'hllor, against her wavering faith.

Melisandre had never felt so lost, so afraid.

Was it because of the blasphemy of the Prince That Was Promised?

She suddenly doubted. Could Samwell Caesar truly be the prophesied prince?

"Oh, great R'hllor," she prayed to the flames, "show your servant the truth. Who is the Prince That Was Promised? Who is the reborn Azor Ahai? Who is the hero destined to save the world?"

The flames twisted and surged, coalescing into mist. A face began to emerge within the hearth.

It was Samwell Caesar.

Still him.

Melisandre stared as Caesar's fiery visage roared and howled. The flesh on his face melted like wax, revealing a crimson skull.

The skull signifies death, she thought.

Was this punishment from the divine?

A sudden understanding gripped her, and her trembling intensified.

A deep sorrow engulfed her, stirring emotions she had not felt in years.

For a moment, she was no longer the Red Priestess but the girl who had been sold to the temple of R'hllor by her mother.

The echoes of her mother's voice returned, calling her by her birth name, "Melony…"

Like smoke, like fire, the memory burned through her mind.

Melisandre had never felt so weak.

Was it Caesar's words that unsettled her? Or something else?

Her hand unconsciously moved to her swollen belly, round and heavy.

Her trembling grew worse, but her gaze softened, an unfamiliar tenderness glinting in her eyes.

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound of knocking broke the silence.

Melisandre knew instantly who it was. She could sense Samwell's presence.

"Come in."

Samwell entered, but at the sight of the nude priestess, he quickly averted his gaze.

"Am I interrupting?"

"No," Melisandre replied calmly. "Come in."

Samwell stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

They had seen each other naked before; there was no need for pretense. Still, Samwell couldn't help but feel awkward seeing her heavily pregnant form.

"I'll be leaving for the Reach at dawn. Are you coming with me?"

"Do you want me to?"

Samwell hesitated before shaking his head.

"No, you'd better stay here at Storm's End."

He didn't want Margaery seeing Melisandre in her current state. As for dealing with rebellions, her shadow assassin wouldn't be much use this time. He was saving that for a more critical target, perhaps someone like Tywin Lannister.

"Very well," Melisandre agreed without resistance.

Silence settled between them.

After a moment, Samwell glanced at her swollen belly and finally asked, "If I don't give you a new target, what will happen to… that?"

"If death isn't offered?" For once, Melisandre smiled—a rare, soft expression. She gently caressed her belly. "Then it will result in life."

"Are you sure?" Samwell's expression was skeptical.

"Life and death are two sides of the same coin, balanced in R'hllor's hands," she explained. "One can be exchanged for the other. If no death is taken, a life will be given."

Samwell pressed further. "So, if I don't give you a target, you'll… give birth? To a normal child?"

"Yes," Melisandre answered seriously, meeting his eyes. "But are you sure you want to waste such a valuable assassination opportunity?"

Samwell fell silent.

After a long pause, he finally said, "Life shouldn't be a tool."

Though he had several enemies he wanted dead, he couldn't bring himself to name one—not when the alternative was the creation of a life.

Melisandre laughed, a sound more radiant than Samwell had ever heard from her.

"I lied, Lord Caesar," she said with surprising playfulness.

Samwell blinked, startled. "So… what really happens?"

"In ten months, the shadow will be born, even without a target. It just won't have a purpose and will dissipate harmlessly. Our efforts would be wasted."

Samwell sighed in relief. The idea of Melisandre bearing his child had felt strange. But now, he felt a flicker of disappointment.

Had she been testing him?

"Fine," he said. "Let's hope I'll still have use for it when I return."

"You will," Melisandre replied with certainty.

Her fiery red eyes seemed to glimmer with hidden knowledge, making Samwell wonder if she had foreseen something.

Before he could ask, she spoke again:

"Lord Caesar, you're right—life shouldn't be a tool. If you want to save your brother, tell him one thing."

Samwell's heart leapt. "What?"

"Remember who you are."

As she said this, the ruby at her throat flared brilliantly, glowing like a third eye.

"'Remember who you are?'" Samwell repeated, puzzled. "That's it?"

"That's all," Melisandre confirmed.

Though doubtful, Samwell nodded. He would relay the message.

After a pause, he asked, "Why are you helping me?"

Her radiant smile returned. "Because I, too, believe that life shouldn't be a tool."

Samwell wondered if she feared becoming a tool of R'hllor herself.

He shared a similar concern about his own destiny.

As the prophesied prince, the reincarnation of Azor Ahai, was he also destined to be a tool?

After all, the story of Azor Ahai spoke of his forging the blade Lightbringer by plunging it into his wife's chest. It was a tale of sacrifice and heroism—but to Samwell, it sounded like madness.

Would he be expected to make such a sacrifice?

"I suppose you've seen something in the flames again?" Samwell asked.

"Yes," Melisandre replied. "I saw the Prince That Was Promised reborn in smoke and salt, bathed in blood and fire."

Samwell sighed. It was the same old prophecy. He shrugged and left the room.

As the door closed, Melisandre turned back to the flames, murmuring to herself:

"Remember who you are, Lord Caesar."

---

Across the Narrow Sea, Qarth

"Make way! Make way for the Mother of Dragons!"

Ser Jorah Mormont's voice rang out as he cleared a path through the crowded streets of Qarth.

Daenerys Targaryen sat in an open carriage, feeling like a spectacle on display.

She wore a gown of green silk, cinched at the waist with a belt of black and white pearls, accentuating her graceful figure. Her silver sandals added a playful charm.

Though she had been adorned to perfection, her beauty almost otherworldly, Daenerys felt like a fool—or worse, a beggar.

The people of Qarth admired her dragons, but they dismissed her pleas. She had come here following the red comet, hoping for aid—ships and soldiers to reclaim her throne in Westeros.

But Qarth offered none of that.

To the ruling elite, she was an afternoon diversion. To the commoners, a girl with exotic pets.

Perhaps she should accept the invitation to visit the Warlocks of the House of the Undying.

A commotion nearby snapped her out of her thoughts. She turned to see a firemage performing in the street.

He conjured a flaming ladder that spiraled upward into the air, its orange-red flames flickering like a living serpent.

The crowd cheered in delight, but Daenerys noticed pickpockets weaving through the distracted spectators, cutting purses with practiced ease.

The firemage climbed the blazing ladder like a nimble monkey, each rung vanishing into silver smoke as he ascended.

When he reached the top, both he and the ladder disappeared in a burst of flame, leaving the crowd roaring with applause. The thieves slipped away with their spoils.

"A clever trick," Jorah muttered, clearly unimpressed. He had seen through the firemage's collaboration with the thieves.

"It's not a trick," a woman's voice interjected.

"What do you mean by that, madam?"

The woman in the red-painted mask said, "Six months ago, this man couldn't even start a fire with dragon glass. He could only use dust and silver flakes to perform some small fire tricks, at most attracting a few ignorant fools to watch, so his thieving companions could have something to do.

But now he can cast sorcery, real sorcery.

His power has increased. Daenerys, this is all because of you."

"Because of me?" Daenerys laughed, "How is that possible?"

The woman in the red-painted mask placed her finger on Daenerys's wrist: "You are the Mother of Dragons, aren't you?"

"Of course she is." Ser Jorah pushed the woman's hand away, "A shadowbinder cannot touch her!"

The masked woman stepped back and said again, "You must leave this city, Daenerys Targaryen, or you won't be able to leave."

"Where should I go?" Daenerys asked. She certainly wanted to return to Westeros, but without an army and ships, she couldn't go back.

"To go north, you must journey south. To reach the west, you must go east. To go forward, you must go back. To touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow."

Asshai is known as the land of shadows. Daenerys thought. This woman wants me to go to Asshai.

"Will the people of Asshai give me an army?"

The masked woman shook her head.

Daenerys felt a bit disappointed: "Then what can I get in Asshai?"

"The truth." The masked woman bowed and disappeared into the crowd.

Ser Jorah disdainfully said, "A person would rather swallow a scorpion than believe the lies of A Shadowbinder. They don't even dare to show their faces in the sunlight."

Daenerys remained silent.

The place where the fire mage performed was already deserted, with only wisps of smoke lingering in the air.

In a daze, these smoke transformed into the face of the woman wearing the red-painted mask from earlier. She fixed her fiery red eyes on Daenerys, her tone ethereal and profound:

"Remember who you are, Daenerys. The Dragon Knows. Do you?"

(End of Chapter)