Westeros, 299 AC.
The red comet sliced a bloody gash across the sky, trailing fire and blood-red light that painted the world in shades of war.
Its glow only grew brighter. By now you could see it clearly even in daylight.
The comet had been hanging there for over a month. People on both sides of the Narrow Sea had gotten used to it, each side giving it its own name and meaning.
In King's Landing the royal court called it King Joffrey's Comet. The smallfolk called it the Red Messenger or the Dragon's Tail.
The Faith of the Seven taught it was the sword that would end the seasons.
Up at the Wall the black brothers joked it was Mormont's Torch.
The Dothraki named it Shierak Qiya—Bleeding Star.
And at the very beginning, when the comet first appeared, Daenerys Targaryen had seen it as the sign that Khal Drogo was riding his fiery stallion into the night lands. She walked into her husband's funeral pyre and brought dragons back into the world after a hundred and fifty years of extinction.
Beyond that, the comet changed nothing for most people. The only official notice came from the Citadel: a single white raven announcing that summer was finally dying.
That summer had lasted ten years and two months—the longest anyone could remember—but hardly anyone noticed. Not the smallfolk, and certainly not the kings and lords tearing each other apart in the War of the Five Kings.
While everyone's eyes were on the fighting, a faint streak of light slipped across the sky in the distance. For one brief moment it crossed the comet's tail.
It happened in broad daylight. Even the sharp-eyed lookouts on deep-water ships missed it—unless some bored maester happened to be staring through a Myrish lens at exactly the right second.
And even if someone had seen it, they probably wouldn't have cared.
By the time the meteor cleared the Narrow Sea and passed over the Vale, its light was no longer just reflected sunlight. Over the central North it became visible to the naked eye from Winterfell: a golden-red streak racing north.
When it crossed the Wall—five hundred miles of ice rising between mountain and sea—it had turned into a blazing fireball dragging a pale tail, plunging straight into the deep heart of the Haunted Forest beyond.
At that same moment, inside Black Castle, two black brothers—one fat, one lean—climbed the steep stone steps to the surface.
The lean one was Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell and steward to Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear. The fat one was Samwell Tarly, eldest son of Lord Randyll Tarly and personal attendant to Maester Aemon.
Both wore heavy black cloaks that snapped in the bitter wind.
Sam had just come up from the cellars on the maester's orders, hunting for maps to prepare for the ranging north of the Wall.
A huge white direwolf lay curled by the granary fence. As the two men approached, Ghost rose and fell in silently behind them, bushy tail held straight like a banner.
Sam squinted up at the Wall, seven hundred feet of cold, crushing ice that felt like the edge of the world.
The thought of leaving its shelter to ride north into the haunted woods as the rangers' raven-keeper made his stomach twist.
A few thin gray clouds drifted overhead, but the red comet's tail still burned clearly across the sky.
The black brothers had nicknamed the comet Mormont's Torch. They half-joked the gods had sent it to light the Old Bear's way through the Haunted Forest.
Sam could feel the undercurrent of resentment in the joke. He always picked up on that kind of thing faster than anyone else.
"That comet is so bright you can see it in the middle of the day," Sam said, shielding his eyes with a stack of books.
"Never mind the comet," Jon snapped. "The Old Bear wants maps."
Cold wind filled his mouth as he spoke, but this time Sam didn't fall in line like usual. He grabbed Jon's arm.
"Look—there's a fireball!"
Jon glanced up where Sam was pointing. He didn't need directions. The thing was impossible to miss.
This wasn't the comet. It moved far faster and much closer to the ground. If the red comet was a slow knife cutting the sky, this was an arrow shot straight at a target. Its tail glowed pale white.
A few heartbeats later it streaked over the Wall and vanished north.
"Oh!" Sam breathed, voice thick with wonder.
"What?" Jon said. "It's just a bigger shooting star. You gonna make a wish like a little girl? Trust me, even if it was twice as big, your wish still wouldn't come true—unless you're wishing for new boots. I can just give you a pair."
Jon thought the meteor was odd, sure, but he wasn't about to get worked up. He'd stared at the red comet until he was sick of it, and he'd heard every wild theory and omen the black brothers could come up with.
His mind was on the ranging ahead—the chance to finally ride as a ranger and the hope of finding his missing uncle, Benjen Stark.
Even if he still wasn't officially a ranger yet.
"You don't understand, Jon," Sam said, licking his lips. "A fireball like that is going to hit the ground. That doesn't happen often, not even in the thickest history books in Westeros. Ever hear of Starfall in Dorne?"
Jon perked up. "Of course. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. I grew up on those stories. Ser Rodrik drilled them into me. My father, Lord Eddard Stark, beat him at the Tower of Joy and sent the sword Dawn back to Starfall."
"Exactly," Sam said. "Legend says the first Dayne followed a falling star to the mouth of the Torrentine, found a magic meteor, and built his castle there. They forged Dawn from the heart of that star."
"So what—you're going to chase this fireball, forge yourself a sword, and build a castle?"
Jon grinned.
Sam shrugged. "If I had that kind of courage, I'd just go home and claim my father's castle and Heartsbane like I was supposed to."
Because he was a coward, Randyll Tarly had stripped Sam of his birthright and sent him to the Wall. His younger brother would inherit the Valyrian steel sword Heartsbane instead.
Jon felt bad for teasing and tugged Sam along to report to the Lord Commander.
Sam kept muttering that maybe they should suggest the Old Bear swing by the crash site on the way north. If they found sky-metal, Donal Noye could try hammering out a few legendary blades.
Jon didn't take it seriously. The Old Bear would never detour for some half-remembered legend.
Besides, Jon already had Longclaw.
---
The black brothers at the Wall weren't the only ones who saw the meteor.
North of the Wall, across the cold hills and endless forests, countless wildlings—some in villages, some wandering—watched the fireball fall. None of them could say what it was.
The Free Folk kept history by word of mouth, and their ancestors had left no stories like this. They certainly didn't know the old tales of southern lords and their sky-forged swords.
Most didn't care. They kept marching toward the Frostfangs because Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall, had called them.
A few saw it as a sign from the gods and stopped where they were, praying in their own strange ways.
A handful got excited and talked about heading toward the crash site—until a skinchanger slipped into an eagle, flew high, and saw exactly where the meteor had come down.
That place lay deep in the Haunted Forest on the edge of the Land of Always Winter. Blue-eyed wights wandered there, and worse things—white walkers—prowled the trees.
Even the boldest warriors turned back.
The only ones who had dared look gave up too.