Game of Thrones Iron Stark

The explosion ripped through the Sheep Village laboratory like a thunderclap.

Two sheep staggered out, fur blackened and smoking, coughing hard. Village Chief Slow Sheep followed, waving away the acrid smoke with one hand.

"Failed again," he muttered. "It's like the gods themselves are fighting us."

They had been trying for months to build a way back to their old world. The time machine always failed at the last second. Maybe the gods of this place didn't want them leaving.

"Chief, we'll get home," Happy Sheep said, trying to sound sure.

Slow Sheep put a heavy hand on his shoulder. "If this world has gods, Happy Sheep, then you're the one who can reach them. You're the son of the sheep god, after all."

Happy Sheep's eyes went wide. "That was a joke! You can't be serious."

"I'm not joking," Slow Sheep said. "This world has gods. Horse people have theirs. Sheep people have theirs. Now that we're sheep, you should go talk to them. Visit the priestess. Make offerings. It might open a door."

Happy Sheep swallowed and nodded. He didn't like it, but he would do it.

---

In a cleared patch of ground outside the village, a massive iron pot sat over a roaring fire. Inside, three dragon eggs rested in boiling water.

Daenerys Targaryen stood over the pot, silver hair loose, one hand resting on her swollen belly. Her handmaids watched in nervous silence.

"Khaleesi," one whispered, "you don't have to do this."

"I do," Daenerys answered. "Blood and fire must be one."

She drew a small blade across her wrist. Bright red blood poured into the water. The eggs drank it greedily, shells darkening, veins glowing beneath the surface.

Then Daenerys climbed into the pot.

The water was scalding. She gasped but did not scream. She gathered the three eggs against her belly, holding them close to the child growing inside her. Four lives in the boiling water.

"More wood!" she ordered through clenched teeth. "Keep the fire high!"

The flames roared. Steam billowed thick and white, swallowing everything. The handmaids fed the fire until it became a furnace.

Daenerys's screams tore through the mist—raw, agonized, endless. Then a baby's cry joined them, high and fierce. And beneath it all came three small, hungry dragon roars.

The mist began to thin.

High above, a red comet blazed across the sky, tail stretching like blood spilled across the stars. It streaked from south to north, then east to west, painting the heavens in fire.

When the steam finally cleared, Daenerys rose from the pot.

She stood naked and unburned, one infant cradled in her arms, one young dragon clutched to her chest, two more dragons perched on her shoulders like living epaulets. Her violet eyes burned brighter than the comet above.

She looked like a goddess who had just stepped down from the heavens.

---

The red comet was seen across the known world.

On the Dothraki sea, Khal Drogo was in the middle of swallowing another khalasar when the sky caught fire. He looked up, felt something shift in his blood, and knew.

"Daenerys!"

Power flooded him. He charged alone into hundreds of enemy riders, arakh singing. Men died in sprays of blood and broken bone. Arrows bounced off him. Blades glanced away. He moved like a storm given flesh.

When the last enemy fell, Drogo stood in the center of the carnage, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the burning star.

"My son is born," he roared. "He rides the great horse of the world across the sky. That red comet is the trail left by his mount's hooves."

The Dothraki around him dropped to their knees.

"Khal Drogo! Son of Drogo!"

Their voices shook the grass.

Farther west, the ironborn saw a burning arrow loosed by some angry god. In the Reach, smallfolk whispered of a giant red carp swimming across the heavens. Red priests in their temples fell to their knees and wept, certain they had seen the flaming sword of Azor Ahai reborn.

Maesters in the Citadel noted it as an astronomical event. Septons called it a sign of the Seven's favor. Witches and warlocks across Essos felt old magic stir in their bones and knew the long summer was truly over.

Winter was coming.

And the dead would soon walk.

---

In King's Landing the tourney grounds were packed. Lords, knights, and smallfolk alike stared at the red comet cutting across the afternoon sky.

Robert Baratheon drained his wine cup and wiped his mouth. "Well? Good omen or bad?"

The High Septon stepped forward at once, robes gleaming. "A blessing, Your Grace. The Seven have turned their light upon us. This is a sign of divine favor."

Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat. "With respect, Your Grace, this is a purely natural phenomenon. Comets have been recorded for centuries. They carry no special meaning beyond what superstitious minds assign them."

The two old men began arguing. Robert ignored them both.

He turned to the Kingsguard. "Bring me the champion."

A man in red robes was led forward. A black silk blindfold covered his eyes. He moved with perfect balance despite the lack of sight.

Robert squinted. "A blind man won the melee? How the hell did that happen?"

The man bowed slightly. "I come from the embrace of the Lord of Light. My name no longer matters. I am merely His servant. If you must call me something, call me the Blind Monk."

Robert looked at Ned. "Who put this one forward?"

"Thoros of Myr, Your Grace," a guard answered. "He said the man is his martial uncle. Stronger in both blade and fire than he is."

Ned frowned. "Thoros left with my wife for Winterfell days ago. Then he continued north to the Wall."

Robert stared at the red comet again, then at the blind man in red robes, then at the Wall mentioned in the same breath.

He stood up.

"Enough games for today. Small Council, lords, with me. We need to talk."

As they left the stands, the red comet burned overhead like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere far to the north, the dead were already stirring.