Ashe

Faith is a curious thing, don't you think? I should know all about it, being a red priestess and all. But, what do you call a priestess who has lost her faith?

My story is long and not very interesting. I was born in the Stormlands, in the castle of Blackhaven. I wasn't a noble, nor was I a peasant. My mother was hand-maiden to lady Dondarrion and my father, he was a high-ranking officer in the Baratheon army, back when that house was still rather new. I am very old, even though I may not show it. I was born in 89 AL, more than two hundred years ago. When I was twenty five years of age, something happened to me.

At the time, I was working along side my mother as a hand-maiden to the new lady Dondarrion. The woman loved Tyroshi pear-brandy, something that was rather hard to acquire in Westeros. Because of that, me and my mother went to Tyrosh, one of the free cities in Essos to purchase the lady's favourite drink. I...was the only one that returned from the journey.

We were apprehended by a group of red priests and priestesses. We were poisoned, stripped naked, raped and finally, killed. Burned at the stake. Our bodies were dumped into the sea, charred and blackened by the flames of R'hllor.

I don't know how long I spent in the darkness of death, but then I saw light. The sun was shining down upon me as I lay naked on a beach in Tyrosh, not a single scar on my body, surrounded by onlooking gazes pointed at me. When I managed to stand up, the same priests and priestesses that set me ablaze bowed down to me, chanting in some language unknown to me.

It all felt wrong. Nothing looked the same to me. I was grief-stricken and alone on a foreign continent. All I wanted to do was go home. It took me some effort, but I managed to hire a boat back to Westeros. I never went back to Blackhaven, however. I traveled the continent, alone, until a certain red priestess decided to take me in and teach me the ways of the Lord of Light.

Her name was Melisandre. She was older and wiser than me, but she knew exactly what happened. She claimed that she had "seen it in the flames". She told me I was special to the Lord. That he chose me for some greater purpose. It all sounded like the words of a fanatical religious madman, but I knew there was something more than myself going on. I stayed with her, enjoyed her company and learned the things she wanted to teach me.

After her departure, I hadn't heard from her until I got the letter not too long ago. There was something I noticed all those years ago. From the day I died, I had not aged a single day. I looked exactly the same a decade later, when the war for the Targaryen throne broke out. Wars are pointless conflicts that never solve anything, but if it wasn't for that one, I would most likely still be a nameless red priestess.

I was near Lakeshore when the battle happened. I couldn't sleep at all, the screams and the clashing metal echoed through the night for miles. With the break of dawn, the noise quited down until everything was quiet. I walked through the battlefield, surrounded by corpses and with death looming in the air. Then, I noticed someone. A man with brown hair, a beard and a lance through his chest, lying on the cold ground, dead.

Something drew me to him, like a moth to a flame. A dying flame. I had to do something about it, I knew that. But, what? That's when I recalled Melisandre mentioning a spell. She said it could bring back the dead, but only certain priests could perform it. On top of that, it could only be done if the Lord of Light willed it. I didn't think about that, however. All I knew is that I had to at least try. I knelt down next to him, said the words, and then...nothing. Silence. I thought I had failed. I stood up and wanted to leave the battlefield, when I heard a cough from behind. I turned around, only to see the man, grabbing onto the lance stuck in his chest and trying to pull it out. I immediately rushed towards him and helped him get it out.

His name was Roderick, lord of house Reyne. Ever since I brought him back to life, he hadn't aged a single day, just like me. We've spent the last two centuries together, trying not to get killed by every other person in Westeros and earning money where we can. It's fun, truthfully.

With each passing day of knowing that I'm condemned to live forever, I resent the Lord for bringing me back to life. But, I also resent myself and Ivar for being too cowardly to let it end with a simple slice of a blade. We're stuck in a never-ending cycle of fighting for a life we never wanted to live.