A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 3: The Star's Remains

The Isle of Faces loomed ahead, shrouded in mist. The lake surrounding it was still, its waters dark and fathomless, untouched by time. The ancient weirwoods stood in eerie silence, their blood-red leaves trembling as if whispering secrets to one another. Thoros of Myr pulled his red cloak tighter as he stepped onto the shore, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. Beside him, Tobho Mott adjusted the weight of the hammer slung over his shoulder, his Myrish eyes wary.

"You feel it, don't you?" Tobho muttered, his voice low.

Thoros exhaled, watching his breath cloud in the cold air. "Aye. This place is… different."

The two men moved forward cautiously, navigating the gnarled roots and twisted trees. The air was thick with something unseen, something that made Thoros' skin prickle beneath his robes.

The comet had fallen here. The Court was still ablaze with rumors of its descent—a burning star, crashing from the heavens two nights ago, on the very eve of Aerys' secret son's birth at Harrenhal. The king had taken it as a sign and sent them to retrieve whatever had fallen.

For hours, they searched, the only sounds their footsteps and the distant rustling of leaves. Then, at last, they found it.

The crater was shallow, its edges scorched and cracked. At its center lay the comet's remains—a jagged chunk of ore, dark and smooth, yet still pulsing faintly with heat. It was unlike anything Thoros had ever seen.

Tobho knelt, running his fingers over the metal. "This is no ordinary stone," he murmured. "I've worked Valyrian steel before, but this... this is something else entirely."

Thoros nodded. "Then the king will have it."

As they carried the star's remains back to the waiting boat, Tobho glanced at him. "You've seen the king recently. Tell me true—how deep has the madness taken him?"

Thoros hesitated, then sighed. "He is not the man he was. He rants and raves, sees traitors in every shadow. He speaks to ghosts and whispers of fire and betrayal." He glanced at his friend. "But there are moments, brief though they are, when he is lucid. When he remembers."

Tobho grunted. "Then R'hllor must be cruel indeed to leave him like this."

Thoros had no answer.

Harrenhal

The ruined halls of Harrenhal echoed with the distant sounds of celebration. The great tourney was in full swing—knights clashing, lords feasting, whispers slithering through the castle like vipers. But the king sat alone in the darkness of his chambers, the flickering torchlight casting jagged shadows across his sunken features.

Aerys' hands trembled as he traced the edge of the dagger in his lap. He could hear them, the voices of his enemies, conspiring in the halls beyond. They thought he was blind to their schemes. They thought him mad.

Perhaps he was.

But not about this.

A son.

Born of fire, born beneath the gaze of a burning star. His true heir, the prince that was promised—not Rhaegar, who had grown soft and poetic, but a child of prophecy. A dragon unlike any before.

Footsteps approached, firm and measured. Aerys did not look up as the door creaked open. He knew who it was.

Ser Barristan Selmy entered the chamber, his white cloak a stark contrast against the gloom. He knelt. "Your Grace."

For a long moment, Aerys said nothing. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asked, "Do you remember Duskendale, Ser Barristan?"

Barristan lifted his head slightly, his blue eyes sharp. "I do, Your Grace. As clear as the day it happened."

"You saved me." Aerys' grip tightened on the dagger. His voice was raw, stripped of its usual paranoia. "You cut through them like fire through dry grass. You were my sword when all others failed me."

Barristan bowed his head. "I am your sworn shield, Your Grace. It was my duty."

The king exhaled, a slow and shaky breath. "I never thanked you."

"You do not need to."

"No," Aerys murmured. "But I will."

The room was silent save for the distant roar of the crowd beyond the walls. Then, the king spoke again.

"I have a son."

Barristan stiffened. "Rhaegar—"

"Not Rhaegar." Aerys' eyes gleamed in the torchlight, something sharp and feverish flickering behind them. "A true son. Born of fire. Born of prophecy. You are one of the few men in this world I still trust, Ser Barristan. And so I tell you this: my son, Aerion Starborn, lives."

Barristan did not move, but his mind raced. He had heard whispers of the Red Woman before her death, rumors of a child born in secret. But he had dismissed them as courtly madness.

"He was born two nights past," Aerys continued, voice steady. "On the very night the star fell. The gods have spoken."

Barristan hesitated. "Your Grace… why tell me this?"

Aerys' fingers tapped against the dagger, his expression unreadable. "Because you are a knight, Ser Barristan. A true knight. And I have made a decision."

The king leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He will not stay here. He must be hidden, kept safe from those who would seek to use him. He will be sent to Dragonstone."

Barristan's breath caught. "Dragonstone?"

"Yes." Aerys sat back, his moment of lucidity fraying at the edges. "Thoros of Myr will go with him. Tobho Mott as well—he brings a gift, a metal unlike any other, fallen from the sky itself. A gift for my son, a gift for the future."

The king's fingers twitched against his dagger, his voice dropping lower, eyes darting to the shadows. "War is coming, Ser Barristan. I can feel it in my bones. They plot against me, all of them. Rhaegar… he thinks I do not see what he does. The lords, whispering in their halls, making their alliances, thinking I am blind." His lips curled, baring yellowed teeth. "But I see everything."

He let out a sharp, breathless laugh, the sound brittle as broken glass. "They think they can take my throne, my son? They think they can steal what is mine? I will show them fire. I will burn their castles, their wives, their children. I will make them weep blood before I let them take what is mine!"

Barristan remained silent, watching as the last traces of sanity slipped from the king's gaze.

Aerys suddenly turned back to him, gripping the dagger so tightly his knuckles went white. "You will swear it, won't you, Ser Barristan? You will protect him. My son."

Barristan bowed his head. "Always, Your Grace."

For the first time in years, he did not see a king.

He saw a man lost to his own mind.

And he feared what would come next.