In the depths of Dragonstone's volcanic heart, the two stood over the glowing runes carved into the stone floor.
Melisandre held a bowl of obsidian powder and fire oil.
Köinzell unsheathed Aetherbane Fang, and the flames shrank in response.
> "Why do you come to me?" she asked. "You are not of the light."
> "Because I am of the sword," Köinzell replied. "I fight what must be fought. And winter is coming."
He paused.
> "You've seen it, haven't you? The dead marching. The false princes. The mad queens. Fire and ice devouring each other."
Melisandre nodded. "Stannis believes he is Azor Ahai."
Köinzell raised an eyebrow. "He is not. But he may still serve the cause."
They stood in silence.
Then Köinzell spoke:
> "You will lend me your eyes—your fire—to find the darkness before it spreads. I will lend you my blade. Together, we'll prepare this world."
Melisandre poured the obsidian dust in a circle around them. "Then let this be a pact of ash and light."
She whispered in the Old Tongue. Köinzell pressed his palm to the obsidian ring, his essence resonating with ancient power.
The fire flared, showing a horned shadow rising in the far north, and dragons screaming under a bleeding sky.
They pulled back.
Melisandre's voice was quiet.
> "The game of thrones is over, Köinzell. The game of survival begins."
He turned to leave.
> "Then let's make sure the right players remain on the board."