Volantis, Essos
People—both masters and slaves of Volantis—poured out of their homes or stood on their balconies, gazing up at the comet. Comets were rare, but not rare enough to warrant such awe… unless it was because of the color and intensity of this one. Not to mention the size of the trail it is leaving behind.
Winter had come, and though Volantis had never known snow, they certainly knew the sharp, cutting winds of the cold season. Yet on this night, the winds did not bite. Instead, a wave of summerlike warmth rolled through the city, startling every soul from the Old Blood mansions to the slave barracks. Murmurs rippled through the streets as the heat lingered unnaturally in the air.
Then the sun dipped beneath the horizon, and the first star bled across the sky.
The comet glowed brilliantly—visible even before full dark—and that alone sent shivers of fear and wonder through the crowds. All across Volantis, thousands looked up as the sky burned crimson, streaked with gold and dark blood-red, a color that resembled blood too much.
"Mother, what is that?" a child asked. His mother, her cheek marked with the tattoo of a jug, tore her gaze from the heavens and knelt beside him.
"It is a comet, my child," she whispered. "A star bleeding its way from the heavens to the world below. It means change. And with this heat, in the middle of winter…" Her voice faltered, eyes flickering back to the blazing red light. "The world will soon know great change. May R'hllor protect us all from whatever darkness is coming."
She pulled her son close, her embrace warm but her eyes uncertain.
The comet was not Volantene's to see alone—the whole world saw it.
And many were far more shaken than the Volantenes.
In Ghis, the proud Ghiscari snarled at the sky, muttering ancient curses in their ancestors' tongue, which is almost forgotten to many except few families. Blood-red omens had never brought them anything but ruin. And this one is bigger than anything recorded in the history of Ghis.
In QARTH, the House of the Undying had been in uproar since the first glimpse. Their chanting, screaming, and prophetic wails did not stop—not even when the moon rose high.
But the Jade Gates did not mark the comet's end.
Farther east, in the great empire of Yi Ti, and even in Asshai-by-the-Shadow, the blazing streak was seen clearly. And Asshai… Asshai reacted as no other place did.
A city where the streets were normally deserted suddenly swelled with people—pale, thin, almost skeletal figures whose eyes glowed with unnatural light. Purple, opal, emerald green… from above, the dark streets looked as though jeweled lanterns were drifting through the black fog.
They gathered as one, tens of thousands of them, crawling out of places that were forbidden to go near, and began to chant. Loudly. Unceasingly. Their voices echoed off the shadowed obsidian walls in a forgotten tongue few in the world remembered.
The merchants and foreign traders who dared remain in the city trembled through every word. To them the the sound was inhuman and dreadful to hear. They tried to mute the voice by putting their hands over their ear, but it was of no use. The voice still made its way into their head.
Then, after nearly an hour, the chanting stopped.
The robed figures slipped back into the shadows from which they'd emerged. Only then did the outsiders breathe again. But as the sorcerers of Asshai retreated, the merchants noticed something chilling:
Every face among them was twisted with grief.
With loss.
With disappointment, as though some long-awaited prophecy had failed to unfold.
And above them, the comet burned on—blood-red and blazing—promising that whatever change it brought, none would escape it.
Soon, the world would learn of the event that happened in Asshai, and it would eclipse even this blazing comet—an occurrence so rare it would be etched into history alongside the red star itself.
In Yi Ti, the comet was welcomed as a glorious omen, for only one dynasty that is. The Scarlet Emperors proclaimed it a divine blessing upon their dynasty, a sign that the gods favored their eternal rule.
But in Westeros, no lord saw it as a good omen.
None.
They whispered of war. Of blood. Of death. Because to them, the red comet only means a bad omen.
Many of the great and wise lords had already known that conflict was inevitable—succession was far from secure, and tensions simmered beneath every smiling facade. But the comet? The comet made them wary of just how destructive and ruinous the coming strife might be.
The Citadel and the Faith, both troubled, reacted for entirely different reasons.
The Faith of the Seven seethed. The Father of the Faithful had proclaimed the comet an affront to the Seven-Who-Are-One, something unnatural and adversarial. The Most Devout split into factions—some parroting their High Holiness's fiery condemnations, others quietly doubting the old man's judgment, wondering if age or zeal had finally eroded his reason. Maybe they need some young to hear the voice of the seven.
The Citadel, meanwhile, remained outwardly calm—quiet halls, shuffling novices, the usual musty odor of ink and vellum.
Until one stepped into the Seneschal's court.
Here, every Archmaester and assistant stood gathered around the Valyrian glass candles, staring at them with fear and dread.
Candles that had been dead and cold for centuries now burned with violent, blood-red flame—mirroring the comet blazing across the heavens.
One by one, every Archmaester and every assistant had attempted to use the candles—cautiously, reverently—yet none managed to draw visions or dreams from the jagged glass. Some called that a blessing.
"I want all eyes on these candles," the Seneschal commanded, voice tight as his gaze stayed fixed on the crimson flame. "Day and night. Whoever stands in this room is to watch the fire. Anything—however minor—must be reported to me at once."
The Archmaesters nodded grimly, each turning to assign their assistants shifts for the watch.
Two weeks had passed since the grand feast announcing the betrothal, and most lords had already departed the capital. Only a handful remained, lingering in King's Landing for reasons of their own—some political, others personal, and many no doubt stirred by the comet burning above them.
Dragonstone
The servants, the guests, and the royal family present on their ancestral seat learned of the comet's arrival in what could only be called a grand unveiling.
As evening fell and the first star began to bleed across the sky, every dragon in the world—even Dreamfyre, long chained in King's Landing—melted through its restraints and took flight for Dragonstone moments later. Then, as though answering some ancient summons, every dragon roared in unison for half an hour straight, the sound shaking the black stone and soul alike.
And when the roaring ceased, they ascended, one after another, erupting into the sky and breathing great torrents of flame, twisting and diving in a spectacle that could only be described as a dragon dance.
Even the Targaryens and Velaryons—who understood exactly what this heralded—were spellbound. The Volantene guests stood stunned into silence, and Daena Valarr stared upward with her mouth open, unable to speak.
"Wh… wha… what was that?" Maelon Sehlaeros finally managed as dragons started to return to Dragonmont, to rest in their lairs, the Essosi's eyes wide with disbelief and a flabbergasted look on his face.
"That, my lord," Laenor said as he released a breath he'd been holding, "was a warm welcome."
"Whose welcome is this??" Daena Valarr asked, her eyes never leaving the blazing sky.
"Oh, you'll know soon enough, my lady," Daemon answered with a strained smirk. He lifted Daena's hand and pressed a kiss to it, though his eyes flicked anxiously toward the keep. "As much as I'd love to enjoy the comet's beauty with you, it seems my presence is required elsewhere." He forced a thin smile, then turned to Laenor. "You're coming as well, I hope?"
"Yes." Laenor nodded and excused himself. The two made their way toward the family apartments, meeting Rhaenyra and Laena along the hall.
"Where do you think King Viserys will be?" Laenor asked.
"With Corlys and Rhaenys," Daemon replied without hesitation. "Surely in his solar by now."
He was correct. Ser Criston Cole stood guard with two Velaryon men-at-arms outside the king's solar. Inside, Viserys stood at the window beside Corlys and Rhaenys, staring out at the comet blazing bright as a miniature sun in the star-ridden sky. It outshone even the full moon.
"Brother," Daemon announced as they entered.
Viserys turned, as did Corlys and Rhaenys, and after one last glance at the sky, the king motioned for them all to sit on the nearby couches.
"If the blood-red comet wasn't enough of a sign," Daemon said as he leaned back, "the dragons' little show should be proof enough. Valyria has returned."
"Yes, brother. You're right," Viserys said after a stretch of silence. "But still—I want you to use your glass candles and see what is happening."
"Very well. I'll go fetch them," Daemon said as he rose, but Viserys lifted a hand.
"No need. I already sent Ser Erryk to bring them as soon as the dragons began roaring. He was fearful—skeptical—but he did his duty."
Viserys stood, retrieved the two candles burning in the corner—both aflame with unnatural blood-red fire—and set them upon his desk. One look at their black-obsidian frames told all present that the candles themselves were as magical as their flames.
Daemon took one candle, nodded, and closed his eyes in concentration. The blood-red flame shifted—deepening, darkening, turning into a swirling crimson-black—while Daemon's own eyes faded into pure, eerie white.
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