128 AC
The cobblestone streets of Oldtown bustled with activity as Lord Ormund Hightower and Prince Daeron Targaryen made their way through the crowded thoroughfare. The air was thick with the scent of sea salt and spices, mingling with the calls of merchants hawking their wares.
"Remember, my prince," Lord Ormund said, his voice carrying a paternal warmth, "a true leader must always be aware of his surroundings. Even in times of peace, vigilance is key."
Daeron nodded eagerly, his silver-gold hair catching the sunlight and attention from the common folk. "Yes, my lord. I'll keep that in mind." His violet eyes darted from stall to stall, taking in the vibrant tapestry of city life.
Lord Ormund smiled, noting the young prince's enthusiasm. He thought to himself, 'The boy has a keen mind, if only we can temper that Targaryen fire with wisdom.'
"Look there," Daeron exclaimed, pointing to a jeweler's stall. "Those sapphires would make a fine gift for my mother, wouldn't they?"
"Indeed," Lord Ormund replied, his eyes scanning the crowd even as he addressed his charge. "Though perhaps we should focus on our errands first. There will be time for gift-shopping later."
As they passed a group of septons engaged in fervent discussion, Lord Ormund's hand instinctively moved to rest on the pommel of his sword. 'The Faith grows restless,' he mused. 'We must tread carefully in these changing times.'
The King's health was failing, and the kingdom was on the brink of war. It was a dangerous time, with tensions rising between the Green and Black dragons, threatening to erupt into a civil war. The gods must have mercy on us all.
Daeron, oblivious to his mentor's concerns, inhaled deeply. "The spices here smell incredible, my lord. Do you think we could stop for some of those pastries?"
Lord Ormund chuckled, his weathered face softening. "Patience, young prince. We have duties to attend to first. But perhaps, if you mind your lessons well, we can indulge in a treat before returning to Hightower."
The prince's face lit up, and Lord Ormund felt a surge of affection for the boy. 'He has a good heart,' he thought. 'May the Seven grant him the strength to face the challenges that lie ahead.'
As they continued their walk, the sounds of the market swelled around them – the clinking of coins, the bleating of goats, the laughter of children. Lord Ormund kept a steady pace, his eyes constantly moving, ever watchful for any sign of danger or discord.
Daeron, meanwhile, absorbed every detail with wide-eyed wonder. "My lord," he said, his voice filled with curiosity, "how do you manage to keep track of everything happening in the city?"
Lord Ormund paused, considering his answer carefully. "It's a skill honed over many years, my prince. One day, you too will learn to see not just with your eyes, but with your mind and heart as well. The pulse of a city tells many tales, if one knows how to listen."
The young Targaryen nodded solemnly, trying to emulate his mentor's observant gaze. Lord Ormund suppressed a smile, thinking, 'He tries so hard to appear grown. But there's still much innocence in him. I pray it doesn't leave him too soon.'
As they approached the docks, the scent of salt grew stronger, mingling with the earthy smell of fresh fish. Sailors and merchants alike bowed their heads respectfully as the pair passed.
"Remember, Daeron," Lord Ormund said, his voice low, "true power lies not in titles or crowns, but in the trust and respect of the people. Never forget that."
"I won't, my lord," Daeron replied earnestly.
…
Daeron's eyes lit up as they passed a merchant's stall adorned with an array of colorful trinkets.
"My lord, look! Wouldn't that make a splendid gift for mother?" The young prince's voice bubbled with enthusiasm as he gestured towards a gaudy, bejeweled brooch in the shape of a dragon.
Lord Ormund chuckled, his weathered face creasing with amusement. "Ah, Prince Daeron, while your thoughtfulness is commendable, I fear Her Grace might find that particular... adornment a touch overwhelming." He placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "Perhaps something more subtle would suit the Queen's refined tastes?"
Daeron's cheeks flushed slightly, but he nodded, a determined glint in his eye. "You're right, of course. We'll find something perfect."
Suddenly, a commotion erupted around them. Voices rose in a cacophony of awe and fear, fingers pointing skyward. Lord Ormund's hand instinctively went to his sword hilt as he scanned for threats, but Daeron's gasp drew his attention upward.
"Seven save us," Lord Ormund breathed, his eyes widening at the sight.
A blinding light streaked across the heavens, its brilliance outshining even the midday sun. It moved with impossible speed, leaving a trail of golden like-fire in its wake. For a moment, all of Oldtown seemed to hold its breath, united in stunned silence.
The celestial phenomenon bathed Oldtown in an otherworldly glow, turning cobblestones to gold and casting long, eerie shadows. The light pulsed and flickered, as if alive, sending shimmers across the Honeywine that rivaled the most extravagant Targaryen dragon fireworks.
"By the Seven," Daeron whispered, his violet eyes wide with wonder. "Lord Ormund, what is it?"
Before the elder lord could answer, the crowd around them erupted into a frenzy of reactions. Some fell to their knees, hands clasped in fervent prayer.
"The Mother's mercy upon us!" a woman wailed, clutching her child close.
"An omen!" shouted a grizzled fishmonger. "The Crone's wisdom lights our path!"
Others muttered darkly about dragons reborn or the wrath of forgotten gods. The air thrummed with tension and possibility.
Lord Ormund's jovial demeanor evaporated, replaced by a grave intensity that Daeron had rarely witnessed. The old warrior's eyes narrowed as he studied the sky, his mind clearly racing.
"My lord?" Daeron ventured, his voice tinged with both excitement and apprehension. "What do you think it means?"
Lord Ormund turned to the young prince, his weathered face etched with concern. "I know not, my boy," he said softly. "But I fear this day may mark the beginning of... something. Whether for good or ill, only time will tell."
Daeron swallowed hard, feeling the weight of Lord Ormund's words. He looked back to the sky, where the light continued its mesmerizing dance, and wondered what challenges might lie ahead for the realm – and for himself.
Lord Ormund's eyes hardened with resolve, his voice cutting through the chaos of the street. "Daeron, gather our party. We must investigate this phenomenon immediately."
The young prince nodded eagerly, his golden hair catching the strange light as he turned to summon their companions. Lord Ormund watched him go, his mind a turbulent sea of conflicting thoughts.
Is this a sign from the Seven? he wondered, his gaze drawn back to the ethereal glow above. Or a portent of doom for the realm?
As Daeron returned with their retinue, Lord Ormund straightened his shoulders, pushing his doubts aside. "To the Starry Sept," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "We must seek the wisdom of the Most Devout in this matter."
They set off at once, their urgency palpable. The clatter of hooves on cobblestones echoed through the narrow streets, mingling with the rustle of cloaks and the excited murmurs of the crowd. Lord Ormund led the charge, his face set in grim determination.
"Make way!" Daeron called out, his youthful voice carrying over the din. "Clear a path for Lord Hightower!"
The throng of people parted reluctantly, their eyes still fixed on the sky. Whispers and theories swirled around them like leaves in a storm.
"Dragons," Lord Ormund caught snippets of conversation as they rode. "The Doom of Valyria come again," said another. Each new speculation sent a chill down his spine.
We must be prepared, he thought grimly, for whatever this portends.
As they neared the Starry Sept, the crowd grew denser, more frantic. Lord Ormund's party forged ahead, their purpose carrying them through the sea of humanity like a ship's prow through choppy waters.
…
The Starry Sept loomed before them, its grand dome piercing the sky, dwarfing the surrounding buildings. Lord Ormund's eyes swept over the gathering crowd, their faces held awe and fear as they gazed upward. He dismounted swiftly, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud.
"My lord," Ser Myles, one of his trusted knights, spoke up. "What do you make of this... phenomenon?"
Lord Ormund's brow furrowed as he scanned the area, searching for any sign of immediate danger. "I cannot say, Ser Myles. But we must remain vigilant."
Daeron, his eyes wide with excitement, stepped closer. "Could it be a sign from the Seven, Lord Ormund? Or perhaps..."
"Or perhaps something far more ominous," Lord Ormund finished, his voice low. He placed a hand on Daeron's shoulder, steadying the young prince. "We must not jump to conclusions, my boy. The truth often lies somewhere between hope and fear."
As they approached the sept's massive doors, Lord Ormund's mind raced. If this is indeed a divine sign, what message does it carry? And if not... what force could create such a spectacle?
The crowd's murmurs grew louder, a cacophony of theories and prayers.
"Look!" someone shouted. "It's changing!"
Lord Ormund's gaze snapped back to the sky, his heart pounding. Whatever this celestial event signified, he knew one thing with certainty: the world was shifting beneath their feet, and they must be ready for what comes next.