Summerhall burns again.
The once-holy Targaryen ruin groaned under the weight of ancient stone and new fire. Thunder echoed through the rainless sky, though no storm brewed. A blood moon hung above, cloaked in ashen clouds, pulsing red like a heartbeat.
A lone fire priestess lay screaming a top of cracked tiles where dragon eggs had once exploded into ruin. Her hands, charred and cracked, trembled as the child emerged—bloodied, silent, and impossibly still.
The midwives had fled hours ago, terrified by the fire that burned around them without consuming anything. Shadows danced on the walls in inhuman shapes. The priestess, her face lined with soot and prophecy, named him before her breath gave out.
"Andrew... Nocthoris."
She died with a smile.
When the Red Priests arrived—drawn by a vision seen in the flames of Volantis—they found the child untouched by flame, staring silently into the firelight. His skin was dark as midnight stone, his hair the color of spilled blood. His golden eyes shimmered—not with reflected fire, but with fire of their own.
The priests wept. The prophecy had not lied. The Blood Demon had returned.