A Song of Ice and Fire

Chapter 2: A Song of Ice and Fire

280 AC - Tourney of Harrenhal

The gods were watching.

The godswood of Harrenhal stood silent and solemn, a sanctuary untouched by the revelry of the tourney beyond its ancient boughs. Moonlight slanted through the gnarled branches, painting silver patterns on the moss-covered ground. The air smelled of damp earth and the faint, lingering scent of pine. A chill wind swept through the clearing, rustling the leaves like whispered secrets.

Beneath the weirwood, its pale face carved with the sorrowful expression of a thousand years, Rhaegar Targaryen stood motionless. His silver hair gleamed in the moonlight, his violet eyes fixed on the woman before him.

Lyanna Stark.

She was dressed in white, the simple fabric clinging to her frame, as if the wind itself had woven her from frost and shadow. Her dark hair, unbound and wild, cascaded over her shoulders, the color of raven's wings against the pallor of her skin. The North was in her veins, untamed, unyielding. And yet, in this moment, she was still.

She should have been afraid. She should have recoiled.

But Lyanna Stark did not fear dragons.

The world beyond these trees would call this blasphemy. The septons of Westeros would curse this union, for no prayers were spoken to the Seven, no golden cloaks stood witness. This was not the way of kings and queens, of lords and ladies.

But the weirwood did not judge.

Its bloody gaze merely watched.

Rhaegar reached for her hand, his fingers brushing her skin with reverence. His touch was light, almost hesitant, as if she might disappear like a wisp of mist should he hold too tightly.

"You do not have to do this," he murmured.

Lyanna tilted her chin, her storm-gray eyes meeting his without hesitation. "Neither do you."

He did not smile, but something softened in his expression, something that had not been there before.

He had to do this.

For prophecy. For the fate of the realm. For the dream that haunted him in every quiet moment.

He intertwined his fingers with hers. "Then let it be done."

The words were spoken in hushed tones, a vow exchanged beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods. There was no need for witnesses—only the trees, only the wind.

A gust rushed through the grove, making the leaves tremble like living things. Then, the sky split.

A streak of fire burned across the heavens, bright as the sun, falling toward the earth like a blade of light. Rhaegar froze, his breath caught in his throat. Lyanna turned, lips parted in wonder, as the burning star raced toward the land, falling in the distance, beyond the lake, beyond the hills.

"It's a comet," she whispered.

"No," Rhaegar breathed. His heart pounded like a war drum, his mind spinning. He had seen this before, in prophecy, in dreams of fire and shadow. "It is a sign."

For years, he had sought the meaning of the prince that was promised. The scrolls of Asshai, the whispers of the pyromancers, the cryptic words of the maesters—he had searched for the answer in books, in battle, in the sadness that clung to his soul like a song unfinished. And now, the answer had fallen from the sky.

His children.

His son, Aegon, was strong, but Elia was frail, too weak to bear another child. The dragon has three heads. His house, his destiny, could not be fulfilled through her alone. That was why he had taken Lyanna. That was why he had followed the call of prophecy.

The star had fallen on the night of their wedding. A new dragon had been born somewhere in the world, a child of fire and destiny. Could it be his own future son, yet to come from Lyanna's womb?

He turned to her, searching her face for fear, for uncertainty. But she was looking at him, eyes dark as a storm, filled not with doubt, but something else—something like fate.

"You think it means something," she said.

"Yes." His voice was hoarse, thick with the weight of the moment. "It means everything."

He did not know that far away, in the ruined halls of Harrenhal, another child had been born beneath that falling star. A boy with silver-gold hair and red eyes, a boy whose mother had burned away the moment he entered the world. A boy named Aerion Starborn.

Rhaegar did not yet know of him.

But prophecy was already in motion.