A Realm in Ashes

Chapter 4: A Realm in Ashes

282 AC - Dragonstone

Ser Barristan Selmy

The hall of Dragonstone was dim and cold, the great carved dragons looming in the flickering torchlight. Rain battered against the windows, the storm outside raging like the war that tore through Westeros. But within these stone walls, there was peace—if only for a moment.

Ser Barristan Selmy sat beside the cradle, the child before him barely more than two years old. Aerion Starborn. The boy with silver-gold hair and red eyes, a child born of fire and shadow.

He was small, his limbs chubby, his expression curious yet solemn, as if he understood far more than he should. He could not yet speak in full sentences, only a scattering of words, though his mind was sharp. Barristan had seen many royal children, had served many princes, but none quite like this one.

Tonight, as the storm howled beyond the walls, Barristan had chosen to tell him stories. Not of the war, not of the chaos that threatened his family, but of legends—of those who had come before. The child sat wrapped in a thick blanket of red and black, staring at him with wide, expectant eyes.

"You are too young to understand war, little one," Barristan murmured. "But one day, you will need to know what came before you. One day, these stories may guide you."

Aerion blinked, his small fingers gripping the edge of his blanket.

Barristan smiled faintly. "Shall I tell you of the Sea Snake? Of Corlys Velaryon, who sailed farther than any man before him?"

The child did not answer, only continued to stare.

So Barristan told the tale—of a man who had built his fortune upon the waves, who had seen the farthest corners of the world, who had commanded fleets that shook the seas. He spoke of the great ships, the dangers of the Summer Sea, the golden wealth of Yi Ti and Leng.

Aerion listened, though his expression remained unchanged.

"Not a sailor, then?" Barristan mused. "Very well."

He leaned back, considering. "What of Daeron, the Young Dragon? The boy who conquered Dorne before he was a man grown?"

This time, there was a flicker of interest.

Barristan spoke of Daeron's campaign, of his victory, his triumph. He did not tell of his death, of the betrayal that had seen him slain in his youth. Not yet. Let the child hear of heroes before he learned of their fates.

Aerion tilted his head, as if pondering.

"But there was another," Barristan said after a moment. "A warrior who lived not for crowns, nor for conquest, but for the thrill of battle itself."

He opened the great book beside him, turning the pages until he found the one he sought. A dragon of a different kind, a prince who had never been a king.

"The Rogue Prince," Barristan murmured.

Daemon Targaryen.

He spoke of Daemon's battles, of his defiance, of his years as a rogue and his wars in the Stepstones. He spoke of Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, the fierce beast who had been as wild and unyielding as his rider.

And as he read, a sound broke the silence.

Aerion reached out a tiny hand, pressing it to the page where Daemon's likeness was drawn. His lips parted, and for the first time, he formed a word of his own choosing.

"Dra—gon."

Barristan stilled.

Aerion looked up at him, red eyes gleaming with something deep and ancient, something that sent a chill through even the seasoned knight.

Not father. Not mother. Not sword.

Dragon.

Barristan exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the book.

"Yes," he said at last, voice barely above a whisper. "Dragon."

The storm outside raged on.

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 Starborn dragon.

A sword born of fire and blood.

He named it Starfyre.