Originally written for a competition in the Livejournal Westerosorting communities. The prompt was to center a fanfic around your favorite crazy theory, making it as plausible as possible within the confines of the ASoIaF universe. I chose the theory that all the redheads in Westeros share a hivemind courtesy of R'hllor, as detailed on the TV tropes Wild Mass Guessing page.

The icy grey eyes boring into hers held anger, defiance, and no small amount of disdain. Very well; she did not require the boy's approval, merely his death. He had never trusted her, not since that day in the courtyard where she had repeated the words of his poor, dead spearwife.

He must have believed that she knew of the girl through some magic rite - witchcraft, his men muttered when they believed she could not hear - but this was something much simpler. A gift from R'hllor, the Lord of Light, to his priestess. She had the ability to hear the thoughts of his chosen, the fire-kissed, to see what they saw and hear what they heard. Most were useless, the mundane happenings of the day-to-day, but some brought her information beyond price.

She had known for some time that the boy was important. R'hllor had given her a vision: ice and blue roses spreading through Westeros, dancing with dragonfire, her Lord's blessings gone and forgotten, darkness approaching. What R'hllor had not chosen to reveal to her was why. His brother had been King in the North, but Jon Snow was no true Stark, and no king. He was Lord Commander of the Nights' Watch, but his mandate was to keep back the cold and not concern himself with the world to the south. Filled with light and fire, she had no reason to fear the ice, and so should have no reason to concern herself with him.

Besides, a much greater threat was emerging to the east: the Mother of Dragons looked west with longing, untouchable and dangerous. Dragonsfire was not the fire of R'hllor, and Melisandre had no more kings' blood to sacrifice. No more but Stannis, and she still had need of him.

Then a chance seeing had changed everything. She was aware of the remaining Stark children - the girl in her palace of air, the boys in the darklands, always moving. Aware of them, but she struggled to see them: they were not true firechildren, merely touched by her lord, not blessed. What she saw with their eyes was hazy, what she heard was muffled and faint. But she had heard enough. The older boy had finally found the crannogman, the one who had served his father so faithfully. She knew the boy had some strange powers, born of the old forest and antipathous to her, but at this moment he was no threat, but her salvation.

Through him she heard the crannogman's tale: the prince of dragonfire and rubies, his bride of winter roses, and the child born of blood and death, the child with the blood of kings. Her men took the boy within the hour, and brought him before her bound and ready for sacrifice. Stannis' force had confined the Nights' Watch to their sleeping cells, and there was no one in the frozen courtyard to protest. Two threats would be ended: one with blood, the other with shadows.

She raised her knife high, seeing the pulse beat rapidly in the boy's exposed neck. "You know nothing, Jon Snow." She had the satisfaction of seeing the icy gaze splinter, defiance giving way to sadness and despair. She had nothing to fear from ice. Soon R'hllor would have the world, and it would burn, burn.