A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 4: A Realm in Ashes

Ser Barristan Selmy

The great hall of Dragonstone was dimly lit, the shadows of carved dragons flickering along the walls as firelight danced in the torches. Barristan Selmy stood tall, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his face a mask of discipline as he absorbed the grim news.

Aerys had done it.

He had burned Lord Rickard Stark alive in his own armor. He had strangled Brandon Stark with a cruel device of his own making. The realm was on fire, and the rebellion that had once been whispers in the wind was now a roaring inferno.

And Rhaegar was missing.

"He lives," Thoros assured him. "The rebels think him dead, but he has not fallen. He has gone to ground, hidden until the time is right to return."

Barristan exhaled sharply, relief and frustration warring within him. "If he lives, he should be fighting. Not hiding like a—" He stopped himself, gritting his teeth.

Thoros' red eyes flickered with something unreadable. "The prince has his reasons."

Barristan turned on him. "Reasons? Our king is mad, the realm is in open war, and you speak of reasons?" He took a step forward, his voice low and firm. "Rhaegar is the rightful heir, the man I have followed into battle, the man I would die for. If he is alive, he should be raising his banners, not skulking in shadows while the world burns."

Thoros did not flinch. "And yet, here we are, Ser Barristan. Sent away. Commanded to guard a babe while kings and rebels clash." His lips curled slightly, not quite a smile. "You think your prince would have done differently? That he would have stood for his father's madness? That he would have fought for the realm?"

"Yes," Barristan said without hesitation.

Thoros only shook his head. "Then you have not seen him as I have."

Barristan's jaw tightened. "I know him. He was our best hope, the truest knight among us."

Thoros sighed. "Once, perhaps. But now? The world has shifted, Ser Barristan. Rhaegar let this happen. He left his father on the throne, knowing what he was. He left the lords to scheme, knowing what they would do. And when the time came to stand, he vanished."

Barristan stepped forward again, anger flaring in his chest. "You dare call him a coward?"

"I call him what he has made himself," Thoros answered, unshaken. "You speak of honor, of duty, but tell me—what has your prince done?"

Barristan's hands clenched into fists. "He is the prince that was promised."

Thoros let out a dry chuckle. "A prophecy. A song. Empty words while men die." He gestured to the bundle in the cradle nearby, where the infant Aerion Starborn slept, oblivious to the fate of his family. "That is all that matters now. Not Rhaegar. Not Aerys. This child. Our orders are clear."

Barristan looked away, his heart warring with his duty.

"I will fight for Rhaegar if he calls for me," he said finally, his voice like steel.

Thoros shrugged. "And I will fight for the one who still has a future."

Silence stretched between them, heavy as the storm clouds gathering outside.

At last, Barristan turned and walked away, his shoulders stiff with frustration.

Thoros watched him go and sighed.

The storm had only just begun.

Tobho Mott

The heart of Dragonstone burned.

Beneath the castle, where ancient Valyrian forges still smoldered with the heat of the earth, Tobho Mott worked. Sweat dripped from his brow as he studied the chunk of black ore resting on the forge's stone anvil. It was no ordinary metal. It was a piece of the heavens, a relic of the comet that had fallen on the night of Aerion Starborn's birth.

The metal pulsed with an unnatural heat, its surface dark as the void, yet streaked with veins of deep red that shimmered in the firelight. Tobho had worked Valyrian steel before, had reforged swords for lords and kings—but this was something different. Something greater.

He turned to the chest beside him, filled with jewelry pried from the royal treasury. Necklaces of Valyrian steel, heirlooms of the dragonlords who had ruled before. The castellan had tried to stop him, had balked when he saw Tobho melting down the treasured relics of House Targaryen.

"You cannot do this," Massey had warned. "These are the legacies of kings."

Tobho had only stared at him, eyes glinting in the firelight. "The king commanded it."

Massey had relented. Fear of Aerys still held power, even here.

Now, as the molten Valyrian steel swirled in its crucible, Tobho worked tirelessly, shaping the new alloy with delicate precision. The crossguard took form first—great dragon wings, unfurled as if ready to take flight. In the center, he set the ruby that Melisandre had worn in life, a stone that seemed to hold its own inner fire.

For the hilt, he selected another ruby, one that had belonged to Rhaegar Targaryen himself, salvaged from the treasury. He embedded it within the grip, binding the sword to both prophecy and legacy.

The blade itself was unlike anything he had ever seen. Black as midnight, yet when it caught the light, it shimmered with red veins, like fire trapped within the steel. When he ran a finger along its edge, it parted skin as easily as silk.

But the final step remained.

He carried the blade to the heart of the forge, where molten rock churned like the lifeblood of the earth. No water. No oil. Only fire.

With a whispered prayer to forgotten gods, Tobho plunged the sword into the flames.

The forge roared, the heat consuming the blade in a burst of red and gold light. For a moment, it seemed as if the metal itself was alive, drinking in the fire, hungering for it. Then, slowly, Tobho withdrew it.

The blade gleamed in the dim forge light, its edge impossibly sharp, its surface rippling with the essence of the fallen star.

It was finished.

A sword for the last dragon.

A sword born of fire and prophecy.

He named it Starfyre.