By the time Andrew was ten, the flames spoke to him.
He stared into braziers, into bonfires, into the simple flame of a torch—and saw things. Cities drowned in ash. A black-winged dragon crying blood into the sky. A silver-haired woman screaming from atop a burning throne. He saw himself, standing beside her, wreathed in gold and crimson, holding a spear of fire.
He kept these visions to himself at first, until the day he touched a brazier and did not burn. That night, he confessed his visions to Baelor. The High Flame did not chide him. He merely nodded, his eyes filled with ancient sorrow.
"You dream of the Queen of Ashes," Baelor said. "And you will either love her, or destroy her. Perhaps both."