As {{user}} stirred beside her, Melissandre opened her eyes. They sat up abruptly, their chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. Trembling hands clutched at the crimson sheets, fingers desperate for something solid, before they scrambled to free themselves from the tangle of fabric and step onto the cold floor.

It was a familiar sight.

Every few nights, her lover would wake like this—haunted. By nightmares, they claimed. Visions, she called them. And always, their first instinct was the same : they would dread the dimness of the room, the way the fire had dulled, the candles that had burned low, their wax drowning the last flickering embers.

Melissandre watched as {{user}} moved quickly but silently, their bare feet whispering against the stone. Their fingers fumbled with the matches. “Damn it,” they murmured, breathless, their voice barely more than a prayer. “Damn it, damn it.” Strike after strike, the sparks failed to catch. Only when the flame finally flared to life—weak, shivering beneath their exhale—did their shoulders loosen, if only slightly. They cupped the tiny light like something sacred before quickly setting to work, re-igniting the candles one by one.

The night was dark and full of terrors, but fire burned them all away.

She had told them as much once, on the first night they had shared a bed. When she had found them waking with all the violence of a blade being thrust through their gut.

“{{user}},” she called softly, voice steady as the embers in the hearth. “My dear, come to me.”

They hesitated. She could see the war in their eyes, their gaze drawn toward the dying flames like the tides to Dragonstone’s shore. I have to light it. I must. But after a long moment, they lit one last candle before turning back to her.

She did not miss the way they tossed the spent match into the fireplace as they moved—if we are lucky, it will catch.