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The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning wood and charred flesh. Hundreds of people had gathered at the city gates, their faces illuminated by the glow of the raging fire as the statues of the Seven were consumed by the flames.
Waves of heat rippled through the air, distorting the scene like a fevered dream.
A tense, uneasy silence loomed over the coast, as if the very sky held its breath.
By the fire, a red-robed woman whispered her prayers, her voice carried by the wind. Lady Selyse stood beside her, fervently repeating the words.
Watching them without expression was Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone. His face, hard as iron, was unreadable—neither joy nor anger touched his stern features. A short beard shadowed his jaw, his blue eyes cold and unyielding.
Donal Noye, the master blacksmith of the Wall, had once spoken of him:
"Stannis is pure iron—black, hard, and strong… but brittle. Like iron, he will break before he bends."
The blacksmith had once served House Baratheon, watching over the three brothers as they grew. Robert, the eldest, had been true steel—strong and unbreakable. Renly, the youngest, was bright copper—handsome, flashy, but ultimately weak.
Now, the sept of Dragonstone lay in ruins, overthrown by the queen's followers. In its place, they welcomed a god from distant shores—the Lord of Light, R'hllor.
(R'hllor is a deity known as the Red God, the Lord of Light, and the Heart of Fire).
When the fire finally devoured the wooden statues, reducing them to blackened husks, thick plumes of smoke spiraled into the heavens.
Melisandre's voice rang out above the crackling flames. "Azor Ahai, chosen of R'hllor! Warrior of Light! Son of the Sacred Fire! Come forth—your sword awaits you!"
Without hesitation, Stannis strode into the fire, his leather cloak billowing behind him. Heat and smoke engulfed him as he grasped the burning blade and pulled it free. Sparks clung to his gloves as he staggered back, cursing under his breath.
The servants rushed forward, slapping at the smoldering embers on his body. With a scowl, he thrust the sword into the damp earth.
Behind him, Melisandre and Selyse rejoiced, crying out praises to the Son of Flame. But Stannis had no patience for it. Stripping off his scorched gloves, he tossed them to the ground and turned sharply, dragging his wife back toward Dragonstone Castle.
As the last embers of the statues smoldered, wisps of smoke curling into the night, the crowd remained divided. Some wept, others cheered. Some watched in silent grief, while others whispered amongst themselves.
A group of Essos merchants muttered quietly.
"That is no holy sword," one scoffed.
A curious onlooker turned to him. "What makes you say that?"
"The true Sword of Light was forged by Azor Ahai after a hundred days and nights in fire. He failed three times before succeeding, and in the end, he tempered the blade in his wife's heart."
"I thought he drove it through her chest?" another merchant questioned.
The first shrugged. "Who knows? Every red priest tells a different tale."
A sudden clap of thunder silenced their murmurs. Dark clouds had begun to gather over the sea.
The wind howled through the port as uneasy voices rose from the crowd. Some whispered that the Seven were angry.
Then, the storm came.
From the horizon, a monstrous vortex churned, swallowing the sky in a gaping maw of darkness. White-capped waves crashed violently, surging higher and higher, while the heavens burned with flashes of lightning. The storm's fury was raw, primal—a wrath that sent men scrambling for shelter.
A bolt of lightning struck the cliffs, shattering rock into fragments. Towering waves battered the shoreline like the fists of giants.
Out at sea, a lone raft struggled against the tide, tossed about like a toy in the raging waters. A massive wave surged beneath it, threatening to swallow it whole.
Then, a blinding flash—lightning speared through the sky, striking the raft with a crack like splitting bone. Waterlogged wood burst into flames. A second bolt followed, illuminating the drowning vessel for the briefest moment before the darkness swallowed it again.
At Dragonstone's port, warships rocked violently, their masts swaying as the storm raged on.
Among the gathered men, some muttered anxiously, fearing the fleet would be torn apart before morning.
Inside Dragonstone Castle, Stannis stood by the window, staring out at the endless coast. His face was grim, his thoughts unknowable. Lightning flashed in the distance, briefly illuminating the turbulent waters.
And across the Narrow Sea, in the high tower of the Red Keep, another pair of eyes watched the storm unfold.
Varys, clad in fine velvet robes, observed the tempest from King's Landing, his expression unreadable.
This was no ordinary storm.
It was a warning.
Thinking of the father and daughter who had just set sail, Varys let out a quiet sigh.
—
Cole had no idea how long he had been climbing. The path ahead seemed endless, shifting with each passing moment. What had begun as a blood-soaked hellscape soon transformed into a mist-shrouded palace of ethereal beauty.
Then came the pyramids, filled with the dead, followed by the looming figure of a shadowy reaper, his massive scythe carving through the void. Horror and grandeur alike passed before Cole's eyes—visions of towering cities, bustling streets, echoes of a world both familiar and strange.
He was exhausted. Every step he climbed required an agonizing effort, each foot gained demanding a long, weary pause.
Then, snow began to fall.
Tiny white stars drifted down, settling on his shoulders, bringing a biting chill.
He stopped. Letting himself sink into the cold embrace of the snow, a thought surfaced—he had come into this world in a storm of wind and ice, and perhaps he would leave it the same way.
His fingers slackened on the chain. He wanted to let go, to surrender to the abyss. But something deep within him whispered against it, urging him to hold on.
Then, the sound of hoofbeats shattered the silence.
The wind howled, snow and frost swirling wildly, blinding him. The pounding hooves drew closer, and as the mist thinned, a figure emerged.
A knight, encased in ice and snow.
His armor shimmered like frozen crystal, his eyes a piercing, unnatural blue. The warhorse beneath him was just as unnatural—undead, wreathed in the storm, its skeletal form wrapped in frost.
Despite everything Cole had seen, a deep, primal fear coiled in his gut. A White Walker.
The knight extended a gloved hand, an invitation cold as death itself. His lifeless blue eyes held no emotion—only an infinite, unrelenting chill.
Cole hesitated. Against all reason, his own hand reached out. Their fingertips were mere millimeters apart when—
Thunder cracked.
A storm unlike any before erupted from the heavens. Lightning and fire collided, shattering the blizzard, dispelling the fog.
A roar—ancient, deep, and unfathomably vast—echoed through the fabric of the world, like a celestial bell tolling at the end of time.
Bolts of lightning split the sky, cascading in waves, trapping the ice-bound knight in a web of electricity. In response, the White Walker hurled his weapon—a spear of black ice, long and jagged—toward the heart of the storm.
But from the depths of the black clouds, a new force emerged.
A tidal wave of fire, pure and all-consuming, surged forth.
It swallowed the ice spear, engulfing the undead knight in a storm of flame.
Then—snap.
The explosion rocked the world. The impact struck Cole like a hammer, his mind reeling. The iron chain he clung to shattered, and he plummeted.
Darkness.
And then—warmth.
Cole drifted in a daze, submerged in something thick and fluid, as if floating in a pool of warm spring water. Slowly, he forced his heavy eyes open, only to find himself trapped in a confined, shadowed space. Beneath him, a sticky, unfamiliar substance clung to his skin.
He tried to move. His body would not obey.
Then, he saw them.
Hands—no, not hands.
Talons.
Eagle-like claws extended from his arms, connected by thin, membranous wings.
Panic surged through him as he realized he was moving—his head slamming against something hard. Bang. Bang. Bang. Again and again, he struck the unyielding barrier around him.
A shell.
He was inside an egg.
He didn't know how or why, but the urgency in his heart was undeniable.
He had to break free.
He rammed the shell over and over, desperation mounting. Then—finally—cracks splintered through the darkness. A sliver of light pierced through.
Beyond the fragile wall of his prison, the world raged.
Over a battered raft adrift in the churning sea, lightning cracked like war drums, deafening and relentless. The sky burned with fire and fury, a tempest of thunder and flame drowning out all other sounds.
And yet—beneath it all—something stirred.
Something rose.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the storm faded.
The world fell into an eerie stillness.
From behind the receding clouds, the pale moon cast its light upon the waves. The stars, distant and cold, glittered in the night sky.
The Dothraki believed the stars were the spirits of fierce horses galloping across the heavens. But tonight, among them, a crimson streak cut through the darkness—
A red comet.
A mark of fire and blood, seared into the fabric of the sky.