A song of Fire and Blood

280 AC - Westeros

Chapter 1: The Starborn Son

The year was 280 AC, and the great tourney at Harrenhal was in full bloom. The gods of old and new seemed to watch in eerie silence as the finest knights of Westeros clashed beneath the towering ruins of the cursed castle. Yet, amidst the feasts and whispered plots, something far greater was unfolding in the dead of night—something only the trees would remember.

Within the ruined walls of Harrenhal, in a hidden chamber far from prying eyes, a woman lay dying. She was red, red as fire, red as the comet that streaked across the sky like a blade of flame. Melisandre of Asshai, secret wife to Aerys II Targaryen, the Red Queen in shadow, had given birth to a son. A child whose coming had been prophesied in her flames. A child who would be both fire and shadow.

Aerys had trusted her whispers, her promises of a world ruled by flame, her faith in the Lord of Light. She had convinced him to cleanse his court of the spider's influence, to purge the unbelievers, to stoke the fires of his paranoia. She had promised him a son like none before, a son who would be the living embodiment of R'hllor's will.

And now, that son was here.

The moment Aerion Starborn entered the world, the sky burned. A shard of fire fell from the heavens, crashing upon the Isle of Faces in a storm of divine fury. The weirwoods, ancient and silent, drank in its power. Their leaves, once ghostly white, turned the color of fresh blood. And Melisandre, prophetess and queen, took her final breath.

Aerys did not weep. His violet eyes were wide, his silver-gold beard damp with sweat, as he held his son in trembling hands. The boy's hair gleamed like a crown of spun gold, yet it was his eyes that struck fear into the hearts of those present—red as coals, red as the comet that had marked his birth.

"Aerion," the king murmured, voice thick with reverence and madness. "Aerion Starborn. My dragon. My fire reborn."

The midwives dared not speak. They had heard the stories. A son born in fire, under the gaze of a burning star. A mother slain the moment life left her womb. It was said that the old gods and new waged war that night, and in the end, it was fire that had triumphed.

The boy did not cry. He stared, unblinking, as if he had already seen the fate of the world and found it wanting.

Yet, beyond the ruined castle, beyond the blood-kissed Isle of Faces, the storm of his birth had only begun to whisper through the trees. The secret son of Aerys Targaryen had been born, but Westeros had yet to understand the fire that had entered its veins.

And in the dark corners of the Red Keep, where shadows stretched long and whispers slithered like serpents, Varys watched with silent dread. The Red Queen was dead, but her fire had not been extinguished.

Aerion Starborn lived.

And fire, once kindled, is not so easily tamed.