Disclaimer: I do not own a song of ice and fire or game of thrones.
They're out there.
Sinning on the streets covered in steel husks to crispen their seed-coated flesh. Milling through shanty homes, burning fleas with blood and fire they do not own.
The man in brown woven robes with laden cold grey chains whispered in his ears to open the gates. Maester, medicine man, a man of skin wrinkled by age and not by fire. And now the gates are opened and the lions are running to make the dragon cave their den.
Pious won't save him; only fire will.
His nails dig into his own watered milk skin. Paler than it used to be. Golden honeyed undertones have long left his thinning fat; leaving the uncooked crust lumpy and blanch in his middle years. Unkept, his nails have long overgrown, splitting on the once smooth surface shedding dying scales. They draw blood from his palms and he presses it to the Iron Throne dripping off the melted blades like knights in battle.
'Fire and Blood. Burn them all.'
He repeats these words; a crazed mantra as he is Armida. The Crusaders are coming, on the backs of golden steeds and unscratched armor. They will cook in the city as with all the little people, only the dragons will not burn. When the palace becomes flames, green flames, like a great iron melting pot, he will stand; a little Nacy Candle withering in the flames. His skeleton braided cotton and his blood a melting wax.
His smallest child will live. Wrapped in ply cotton, ribbed linen, and spider silk; she lay at bay on Topheth's bed on her seventh summer burning from twenty torches and twenty candles.
'Dragons cannot burn.'
Skin black and clothes ash, but pull off the chard and see a living, breathing child.
But the fire is waning and a voice, not unlike that of crackling ice, whispers in his ear.
'Burn them all.'
Milk skims over violet bulbs and the fire bringer sees ice.
Cold blue hands, horned white crowns and snow in the throne room. A thin layer of it covered the ground; it wasn't enough to obscure the red stone underneath but it was sticking. He threw a torch to the white sheet but crystals still stuck.
'Burn them all.'
It would not burn. The frozen liquid and the freezing iron. Hard against his palms now and the blood turned to a crystal slush painting red stones redder.
A boy by his side, thin but thickly clothed. Sheep woolen vests with no dye and simple stitched patterns of branches and leaves. Skin of tobacco leather, orange as the heat of flames and thick from physical work.
The boy had a smart face, familiar with fire as his hand was touched by flames; the skin wrinkled with white peaks of tissue sticking up like the tops of mountains.
Aerys beckoned him with the wave of a hand. Bending his head in close to the smaller boy and letting the wool vest soak his bloodied hand, he whispered a secret message.
'Burn them all.'
To anyone else it would have been the same crazed sentence he muttered every day, but the boy knew it's secret meaning, and headed to the dungeons with a golden knight trailing after.
Aerys moved back towards the throne. Dropping candles like crayons to melt the invisible ice.
It crawled up pillars to the ceiling, to the sky; reaching it's frost fingers up smooth clay walls encasing knights stuck in stone under blue glass. The throne of iron glowed white and he moved with a flaming stick across the ground.
This is how Ser Jaime found him. Dancing with the stick of fire and rubbing it against the bare ground leaving black scorch marks, not unlike the day he burned the Starks.
Dragon skulls lined the room hollow black eyes lighting in the midst of ice and fire. But Jaime didn't see the ice, he didn't hear the whispers or the brown haired boy with white eyes and black crows. Jaime only saw the fire.
Then Aerys looked to him; his face set between a smile and grimace leaving pointed white teeth sticking from the thin single line which marked his lips. "Burn them all."
He spoke it once, not as a mutter but as a command. Similar to when he told it to the servant boy but Jaime didn't like the secret meaning.
The concealed message, which, asked for wildfire and churned lions, a churned town.
So, Ser Jaime made no movement. His golden gloves covered in red from the boy who lifted barrels of wildfire. Complimentary to the green liquid slushing against the side of round wood in the servant's clumsy manner; even more so when Jaime ran his sword through him.
Then Arey's looked back to the snow. Wide lilac eyes burning the glistening white.
'Burn them all.'
It's not a command this time. It's not, but the golden boy moves as if it is, his silver sword lodging between the fifth and fourth ribs of the king.
'Burn them all.'
Arey's dies before the senseless mutters cease, in a valley of fire and ice.