Forsaken Bloodlines {HP x GOT}

Chapter 5.18: Father-Daughter Reunion

Melisandre's POV (Previous Night)

The fire crackled softly in the cave, casting flickering shadows against the cold stone walls. While Lyanna and Tom eventually fell into a tense silence, Melisandre lay on her bedroll, her eyes fixed on the ceiling of the cavern. She had every intention of resting; the journey back to Karhold would be long and arduous, and they needed their strength. But her mind betrayed her, refusing to let her drift into the solace of sleep.

Her thoughts returned, unbidden, to that day in the Chamber of the Heart of Fire, deep in the ruins of Old Valyria. It had been a place of immense power, a remnant of the old world where fire and blood had been more than just words. She had hidden her unease well, convincing Lyanna, Tom, and even herself that she was fine after the illusions in the mist. But she wasn't. The mist had given them all visions that day, illusions meant to unsettle and unnerve. But what she had seen wasn't merely a trick of the mind.

Each of their visions had held a deeper truth, she knew. Yet the truth clawed at her now, refusing to let her rest.  They weren't random images conjured to confuse them; they were reflections of their souls, their deepest fears, desires, and destinies. Melisandre had always believed herself to be the guide, the one who could decipher the paths of others and lead them to their fates. 

The memory of it was vivid, as though it had happened only moments ago. 

She had been running, chased by shadows that whispered her deepest guilt—her betrayal of Lyanna. Her fear of the young woman's power had led her to attempt to manipulate and control her, rather than guide her. 

And now, with Lyanna possessing two of the three pieces of the Heart of Fire, Melisandre's fear had grown into something she could no longer ignore.

In the vision, she had seen a flame in the distance, burning with an intensity that seemed to call to her. She ran toward it, desperate to escape the voices. When she reached it, she had hesitated, staring into its depths. The fire wasn't destructive; it was alive, pulsing with a rhythm that matched her own heartbeat. She had reached out, her fingers trembling, and touched the flame.

It had not burned her. Instead, it had crept over her skin, a living thing that embraced her in its warmth. She panicked at first, the instinct to recoil strong, but then she relaxed as she realized the flames were comforting, not painful. They wrapped around her like an old friend, consuming her entirely. And then she heard the voice.

"Remember," it had said, soft but commanding. She turned, and her breath caught in her throat.

It was her. A younger version of herself, standing in the fire, eyes glowing like molten gold. The flames danced around her, forming wings that stretched wide, their heat radiating a power that felt ancient and boundless. The younger Melisandre raised her hand, and Melisandre mirrored the gesture, their fingers meeting.

"Remember who you are—what you are," the younger version said, her voice firm yet gentle.

In that moment, memories she had long buried came rushing back. She saw herself as a child, sitting at her mother's feet. Her mother, a stern yet kind woman, had spoken to her in riddles that Melisandre had dismissed as meaningless. "Take care of yourself, my little flame," her mother had said. "Take care of your heart. It holds the key to power passed down from generation to generation."

She had thought it a warning to guard her emotions, to be careful who she gave her heart to. But now, she understood. It was literal. Her heart—her very being—was the source of her magic. There was no god, no Lord of Light. There never had been. It had always been her.