The night over Storm's End had turned from violent to silent in a way that felt unnatural, like the world itself was holding its breath. The storm that had battered the coast just hours ago had stopped, not abated or passed, but halted as if by some force beyond comprehension. The sea roared still, but there was no rain. No wind. Only the distant echo of waves smashing against the cliffs below, their rhythm broken by the tremors that rumbled beneath the earth.

Lord Borros Baratheon, seated in his hall, could feel those tremors even through the thick stone walls of his castle. His hand rested heavily on the arm of his chair, fingers flexing absentmindedly against the cold wood. Something was wrong. Something was...unnatural.

He had sent Lucerys Velaryon away. The boy had flown into the storm, and Prince Aemond had followed. The tensions in his hall had been thick with the promise of blood, and yet, Borros had stayed his hand, refusing to let violence unfold beneath his roof. He was no fool. The Baratheons had stood tall because they did not act recklessly, not when such tides of war were swelling around them.

He hadn't seen the fall of the star. No, he had instead felt it. His guards had come rushing in, screaming of fire in the sky, of gods punishing the land. And then the shaking had begun, rattling through the very bones of Storm's End.

Borros clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing as he stared at the flickering shadows cast by the fire in the hearth. His daughters stood near the windows, their faces pale, whispering amongst themselves. His hall was filled with the nervous murmur of his household knights, of guards who had lived through battle but had never faced anything like this. It was as if the heavens themselves had cracked open, and something far beyond their understanding had stepped through.

"What in all the hells is happening?" Borros muttered under his breath, his voice low, thick with a fear he refused to fully acknowledge.

The maester, who had hurried into the hall, stood at his side, his hands shaking as he tried to speak. "My lord... the earth... the sky... it's as if the gods themselves have unleashed their fury upon the Stormlands."

Borros's grip tightened on the chair. The gods. A storm, fire from the sky, and the land shaking beneath them—it felt like a punishment. Had his actions that night, his decision to play both sides in the growing war between Rhaenyra and Aegon, brought divine retribution upon him? Had he not done what any lord in his position would have done? Both Rhaenyra and Aegon had sent envoys, each seeking his allegiance. Borros had listened, weighing his options, not wanting to leap into the flames too quickly.

But it was Aemond's presence, and the offer of a marriage pact, that had swayed him towards the Greens. The offer had been real—tangible. Rhaenyra had sent her son empty-handed, expecting Borros to fight for a promise already broken. And now… now he thought of Lucerys Velaryon, of the boy who had flown into the storm with nothing but his honor. Borros had refused to see blood spilled in his hall that night, but he knew well enough what Prince Aemond had intended once they had left. He had seen the look in the Targaryen prince's eye, the hunger for vengeance, the cold fury.

Was this his punishment? Had he angered the gods by allowing the death of an innocent boy? Or maybe the myths about the gods wanting to destroy the home of the descendants of Eleinei and Durrandon were true. The more he thought of it, the more his stomach churned with unease. The gods were fickle. Maybe he was wrong, completely so. He was only sure of one thing, what was happening was something greater, something beyond his understanding.

"My lord!" Another voice broke through the murmurs, and one of his bannermen rushed in from the courtyard, face ashen. "The sky… it… it burns." He repressed himself from sighing. As if he didn't already know this.

Borros rose from his seat, his heavy boots echoing in the hall as he strode towards the window. His daughters parted before him, their eyes wide with fear as they glanced from him to the horizon beyond. Borros gritted his teeth as he stepped up to the window and looked out across the sea.

The sky was alight with fire. Orange and red hues danced across the clouds, illuminating the night in a way that should have been impossible. It was as if the heavens themselves had ignited. And then, in the distance, he saw it—a shadow, vast and terrible, plummeting from the sky like a star falling from the gods' own realm. The ground shuddered again beneath his feet, the stones of Storm's End rattling as the impact neared.

He could hear the distant roar—the sound of the very air being torn apart by the speed of the falling meteor. It was deafening, even from here.

The fire, the shaking of the earth, the sea itself boiling… Borros's stomach twisted as he realized just how helpless they were in the face of such power. Before his sight, everything outside of Storm End. Everything was set ablaze.

scene*

In KingsLanding, the first tremors were subtle, like the creak of a ship's hull before a storm. At first, few noticed them. But soon, the rumble grew, the stones of the Red Keep vibrating beneath the feet of its inhabitants, unsettling enough that courtiers and servants began to murmur in confusion.

King Aegon II, seated on the Iron Throne, felt it too. His hand gripped the armrest of the throne, his knuckles white as he frowned, looking around the grand hall. The tremor unsettled him, though he would never admit it. It was as though the very foundation of the Red Keep was shifting beneath him, and Aegon did not like the feeling of instability—not when his own rule was so new, so precarious.

"What's happening?" he snapped at Ser Criston Cole, who stood beside him.

Criston's face was grim, his eyes narrowing as he listened to the growing whispers from the assembled lords and ladies. "An earthquake, perhaps," Criston replied. "Though this is no ordinary tremor."

Aegon scowled, rising from the Iron Throne, his cloak billowing behind him as he stepped down from the dais. "This damned realm... If it's not one thing, it's another." His fingers flexed, itching to grip the handle of his sword or a drink or maybe a wench, anything to make him forget for a moment. He could feel it in his bones. Something felt wrong—very wrong.

As if the world wanted to prove him right, it was then, at that moment, that the windows of the Red Keep shattered.

The explosion of glass was deafening, shards raining down upon the lords and ladies who screamed and ducked for cover. He watched some of them be skewered by pieces of glass, a lord being stabbed in the throat by a shard, others in the back of their heads. He knew without a doubt that so many more similar things were happening around him.

Fortunately, he was untouched. Still,Aegon flinched, his heart pounding as the sky beyond the broken windows darkened with clouds of dust and debris. The air was thick with smoke, and the acrid scent of burning filled his nostrils.

"My king!" Criston shouted, pulling Aegon back as the ground shook beneath them with even greater force. The very stones of the Red Keep trembled, and the pillars groaned under the pressure. The tremor didn't feel like just an earthquake. It felt like something worse.

Aegon's mind raced as he staggered back towards the throne, his breath coming in shallow gasps. What was happening? What force could do this? The smoke outside was thick, blocking out the sun, and the tremors… they felt as though they were coming from far, far away, but the strength of them was unimaginable. Aegon wondered if it was how the Doom of Valyria began.

The doors to the hall burst open, and a maester rushed in, his robes disheveled, his face pale with terror. "Your Grace!" the maester gasped. "News from the Stormlands! It was observed with a far eye that A great fire... a star has fallen... the land is... Most it's most likely gone, Your Grace."

"Gone?" Aegon's voice was sharp with disbelief. "What in the name of the Seven do you mean, gone?"

The maester swallowed hard, trembling. "A great fire fell from the sky, Your Grace. A star—larger than any man has ever seen. I saw it. It struck the Stormlands, near Shipbreaker Bay. The reports are... catastrophic. The land is burning. The seas are boiling. The very earth has been torn apart."

Aegon stared at the man, his mouth dry. "A... a star?" His voice faltered, the weight of the words sinking in. Aegon felt completely out of his depth. Why did it have only days later after being crowned? This last week was truly the worst. If he had known how even as a king, he would have been treated by his council, his mother and his grandfather, like dullard, if he knew a star would have fallen, he would have not allowed Aemond to stop him from leaving to Essos.

The Stormlands…, the stormlands! Panic seized him for a moment. The Stormlands... Aegon's alliance with House Baratheon was crucial. If Storm's End and its lands were destroyed, what would happen to his hold on power? He clenched his fists, his mind racing through the implications. How could he defend his throne when the very land was being torn asunder?

--

In the villages scattered along the coast of the Stormlands, the people had no time to react.

The fire had come from the sky, roaring louder than the fiercest storm they had ever known. The impact had shattered the air, and then the ground had begun to move. It wasn't an ordinary earthquake—it was the very land itself buckling and breaking apart beneath their feet.

Farmers were thrown from their plows, their homes collapsing around them as the shockwave rippled through the earth. The ground opened in great fissures, swallowing entire villages in an instant. Livestock scattered in terror, bleating and crying as the fields burned around them, the heat of the impact setting the very air on fire.

Those who survived the first wave of destruction staggered through the chaos, dazed and horrified. Smoke choked the skies, filling their lungs as they gasped for breath, their faces smeared with ash and blood. Children screamed for their mothers, but their voices were swallowed by the deafening roar of the earth splitting apart. The sea, once a refuge, now rose up in a monstrous wave, as if the gods themselves had cast their fury upon it.

The villagers near Shipbreaker Bay were the first to witness it—a wall of water higher than any ship, higher than any castle, rushing towards them at impossible speed. The waves crashed into the coast, sweeping away homes, trees, animals, and people in a single, devastating blow. The salty foam swallowed everything, dragging entire villages into the sea without a trace.

Mothers clutched their children, fathers called for their families, but there was no time. There was no escape. The air had become thick with heat and ash, and the wind carried with it the scent of burning flesh, sulfur, and salt. The screams of the dying were quickly drowned out by the roaring flood and the relentless tremors that continued to shake the land.

Further inland, those lucky enough to have avoided the initial wave felt the ground tremble beneath their feet. Entire hills collapsed, forests were flattened, and rivers turned black with soot. Animals, both wild and domestic, scattered in blind panic, their instincts driving them away from the encroaching death. But there was no refuge.

The very air seemed to boil. Flames danced along the horizon as firestorms, ignited by the heat of the impact, spread across the fields. Those who tried to flee found themselves trapped between collapsing earth and the unstoppable wall of fire. The ground quaked with such force that even the most solid stone structures crumbled. Castles, thought to be impregnable, fell like children's toys before the might of the cataclysm.

The surviving lords of minor houses watched in horror as their keeps fell, their people burned or were swallowed by the seas. There was nothing left to rule. The Stormlands were no more—nothing but a wasteland of ash and molten rock where once there had been life.

scene*

Borros Baratheon stood frozen on the ramparts of Storm's End, his face ashen as he watched the world around him collapse. He had always believed Storm's End to be impenetrable, built by the hands of the Storm King Durran to withstand any force the gods could throw at it. Maybe he hadn't been wrong to think such because while he could feel cracks in his castle, while he knew some part of it had fallen, in the end, Storm's end and its inhabitants were the only thing still standing everywhere he looked. Everything else had been wiped out. He looked at his stormlands, at the horizon, at his kingdom and only saw ruin. Was this how his ancestors had felt after learning of the fall of Valyria?

The fire, the shaking, the destruction—it was as if the gods themselves had descended to tear apart the land. His daughters huddled behind him, their faces pale with terror, their once-confident expressions now broken by the sheer magnitude of the devastation they had witnessed.

Borros had made his choice. He had aligned himself with Aegon, dismissing Lucerys Velaryon with scorn, believing the boy's claim to be weak, Rhaenyra's cause to be already lost. But now, as he stood atop the walls of his keep, watching the very land he ruled be torn asunder, he wondered if this was the price he was paying for his choice. The gods had sent their wrath, and Borros Baratheon, proud Lord of Storm's End, could do nothing but stand and watch as his world fell apart.

The fire in the sky—it couldn't have been anything but divine retribution. He had allowed Aemond to pursue Lucerys, to enact his petty vengeance, and now the heavens had sent judgment. Borros had thought himself clever, playing both sides in a war that promised blood and fire, but now… now there was only fire. The death of Lucerys was on his hands. He had allowed Aemond to pursue him, knowing full well what the prince intended. And this? This was the price. A price far beyond anything he could have anticipated.

"My lord," his maester's voice trembled as he approached. "The ground… it's still shaking. The sea… the waves..."

"I see it, damn you," Borros snarled, though his anger lacked the usual venom. It was fear—pure, unrelenting fear—that gripped him now.

The maester swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Is it… the gods, my lord?"

Borros looked out at the devastation, his mind racing with the possibilities. Was it the gods? Was it the wrath of Rhaenyra? Had Lucerys somehow called down vengeance upon them from beyond the grave? He didn't know. And the not knowing was worse than any of the destruction he saw unfolding before his eyes.

But one thing was clear: the Stormlands, his lands, were gone. Whatever power had been unleashed, it had obliterated everything. The waves continued to crash against the walls of Storm's End, but even the great castle trembled under the force of the impact. How much longer could it stand? How much longer until even this ancient fortress fell?

Borros clenched his fists, his mind racing. He had to do something. He had to find a way to survive. But what could he do in the face of this?

Borros Baratheon looked at the only thing he was now lord of, Lord of ruins and for the first time since the death of his parents, tear fell from his eyes.

scene*

Far from the devastation, in the Red Keep of King's Landing, King Aegon II stood on the balcony of his chambers, staring out at the horizon. Smoke still rose from the direction of the Stormlands, and the tremors had not ceased. The very ground beneath his feet felt as though it might collapse at any moment.

"What in the gods' name has happened?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the distant rumbling.

Behind him, his advisors and knights murmured nervously, exchanging fearful glances. No one had an answer. No one knew what had caused the fire in the sky, the destruction that had followed. Reports were still trickling in—villages destroyed, the coastlines wiped clean, entire towns swallowed by the sea. The scale of the devastation was unimaginable, and it was still unfolding.

Aegon's hands gripped the railing of the balcony, his knuckles white as he struggled to maintain his composure. The weight of the crown on his head had never felt heavier. He had fought to claim the Iron Throne, to prove himself a king, but now he was faced with a power beyond anything he could control. This wasn't a rebellion he could crush, a rival he could outmaneuver. This was something else entirely.

"What do we do, Your Grace?" Ser Criston Cole asked, stepping up beside him. His voice was steady, but there was an edge of unease in his eyes.

Aegon stared out at the horizon, his mind racing. What could they do? He had no army that could fight this. No dragon that could stop it. It seemed he was no more the king of seven kingdoms but of six. Aemond whom he had sent to the Stormlands still wasn't back. He knew his mother was praying she hoping otherwise but something told him that he had lost his little brother. Still, he hoped he was wrong because without Aemon and Vhagar, his chances against Rhaenyra became worse.

"I don't know," he honestly whispered. "I don't know," he said.

As the tremors continued, as the smoke rose higher into the sky, Aegon could not shake the feeling that he was standing at the edge of something far greater than any war he had ever known. Something in him was screaming that this was just a beginning.

scene*

The survivors of the Stormlands, those who had somehow managed to escape the initial impact, huddled together in the wreckage of their villages. The sky was dark with smoke, and the air was thick with the stench of death and burning. Everywhere they looked, there was devastation.

Some wept for the loved ones they had lost. Others stared numbly into the distance, unable to comprehend the scale of the disaster. They had lived through storms, through battles, through famine, but this—this was something else. This was the end of the world.

As night fell, the fires continued to burn. The earth was still shaking, and the sea had not yet calmed. In the distance, the crater left by the meteor loomed like a wound in the land, still smoldering, still sending tremors through the earth.

The Stormlands were no more. And as the survivors looked out at the destruction, they only felt despair and powerlessness.

scene*

Daemon Targaryen sat in the dimly lit chambers he shared with Rhaenyra, his fingers drumming lightly on the table before him. The flickering light of the hearth cast shadows on the stone walls, the flames dancing in an erratic rhythm, but his mind was not focused on the fire or the warmth of the room. His thoughts were elsewhere, fixated on the events that had transpired, the conversation they were about to have, and, more importantly, the boy who had changed everything—Monterys.

Change, everything seemed to change those last days and not for the best. He lost a child at birth, didn't know long enough yet he had to cremate her. He lost his brother too. He was not able to wish him farewell. He wished things would have been better between the two of them, that they would never able to see each other when there were so many things he wished they could, should have said to each other, done together.

Daemon Targaryen was most considered old yet he still missed his older brother the same way he did when they were separated when they were younger due to their duties.

Additionally, like he had expected, the Hightowers cunt didn't even allow the body of his brother to cool to spit on his desires, his decrees. They crowned Aegon as kid and asked them to bow down to the half-breed. He should have killed Otto hightower and not listen to Viserys.

Rhaenyra stood by the window, her back to him, arms crossed as she gazed out over the dark sea. She hadn't spoken much since returning from the courtyard, where they had confronted Monterys. The revelation of his power, the nonchalance with which he had brushed off both her gratitude and her concern, weighed heavily on them both.

Daemon's eyes narrowed as he studied his wife's tense posture. Rhaenyra was a queen, strong and determined, but he knew her, had known since she was a child, had helped raise her and this is why he could see the fear creeping into her bones. The threat Monterys posed was not one of ambition but of unpredictability. He wasn't like others—he didn't care about the Iron Throne, about dragons, or even about their war. But that made him all the more dangerous. A man with no interest in power could wield it without restraint, without ambition, and without fear of consequence.

"We need to keep him close," Daemon finally broke the silence, his voice low and calculated. "He's not someone we can allow to remain on the fringes, untouched by all this."

Rhaenyra turned slowly from the window, her face pale in the candlelight. Her eyes, usually so fierce and full of purpose, were clouded with uncertainty. "I know," she said softly. "But how? Monterys isn't like anyone else. He doesn't care for thrones or titles. It's also not as if we can coerce him."

"Exactly," Daemon said, leaning back in his chair, his eyes darkening with thought. "That's what makes him dangerous. He has no desire for the Iron Throne, but what does that mean for us? What does he want?"

Rhaenyra walked toward him, her steps slow, deliberate. She paused by the table, her hand resting lightly on the back of the chair across from him. "He saved Lucerys," she said quietly, her voice tinged with a mixture of gratitude and unease. "But why? He claims it's because Lucerys is family, but it felt… casual."

Daemon raised an eyebrow. "Monterys seemed like the kind of man who never does anything unless he wants to. That's clear. But he does seem to have a soft spot for Lucerys."

Rhaenyra sank into the chair across from him, her fingers trailing along the carved wooden armrest. "Lucerys is still a boy. Innocent. Maybe that's why Monterys cares for him."

Daemon nodded, his mind racing through possibilities. "That might be our way in."

Rhaenyra frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. "What do you mean?"

"If Monterys has a soft spot for Luke, we can use that," Daemon said, his voice hardening with pragmatism. "We keep Lucerys close to him. Bind Monterys to him."

Rhaenyra's frown deepened. "You're talking about using Lucerys as a pawn."

"I'm talking about ensuring our survival," Daemon shot back, his eyes flashing. "You know as well as I do that Monterys is too powerful to leave unchecked. If he decides to turn against us, there's nothing we can do to stop him. We need to make sure he stays loyal to our cause—and Lucerys might be the key."

Rhaenyra's gaze dropped to the table, her fingers tightening around the chair. "Lucerys is just a child."

"Which is why Monterys cares about him," Daemon pointed out. "He sees something in Lucerys that he doesn't see in the rest of us—innocence, perhaps. We can use that."

Rhaenyra was silent for a moment, her thoughts swirling. Daemon was sure that yhe idea of manipulating Lucerys, of using her son to control Monterys, sat like a weight in her chest but Daemon knew he was right. They had no other choice. Monterys's power was too great, too unpredictable. If he turned against them, they would be helpless.

"I wish I had daughters," Rhaenyra murmured, her voice laced with regret.

Daemon's eyes softened and his heart ached at the words, at the double meaning of them as he looked at her. He knew what she meant. The daughter they lost days ago. A daughter who could have been used to forge a tighter bond with Monterys. A betrothal, a marriage—something to bind him to their cause more directly. But they had no daughters to offer.

"I didn't pay much attention to him before," Daemon admitted, his voice quieter now, more reflective. Maybe if he had, he would have discovered the Velaryon boy's secret "I should have. But every time I looked at him..."

Rhaenyra glanced up, her brow furrowing. "What is it?"

Daemon hesitated for a moment, his jaw tightening. He hadn't spoken of it before, not even to Rhaenyra, but now the words came, heavy with guilt. "Every time I looked at Monterys, I saw Laena."

The room fell silent, the name hanging between them like a ghost.

"Laena?" Rhaenyra repeated, her voice soft, hesitant.

Daemon nodded, his gaze distant. "In his eyes, in the way he smiles, even in the way he broods... It was like seeing her again."

Rhaenyra's expression softened and for that he was thankful. She knew how deeply he had loved Laena, how her death had wounded him. She understood him and didn't judge him for this. Now, instead, she looked as if she wanted to comfort him.

"To see her reflected in Monterys must have been a painful reminder of that loss," she spoke softly.

"She was my wife, Rhaenyra," Daemon continued, his voice thick with emotion. "I would have given up the throne for her. I would have never come back here in a place where I wasn't wanted, in a place that didn't felt like home. She was my home the same way you are for me now. She died trying to give me a son. I failed her, just as Viserys failed your mother when I promised myself I would not be like my brother. I was right, the only thing I did was fail her in another way.

Rhaenyra reached across the table, her fingers brushing against his. "You didn't fail her, Daemon."

Daemon shook his head, his eyes darkening. "Each time I looked at Monterys, I felt that pain, that guilt. That's why I didn't pay attention to him. But now... Now it seemed that I can't ignore him."

Rhaenyra's hand lingered on his for a moment before she pulled it back, her expression thoughtful. "Do you think Monterys'blood, his Valyrian heritage has something to do with his power?"

Daemon's brow furrowed. "Perhaps. Monterys's abilities are unlike anything we've seen, even among the Targaryens. But if it is something in his blood..."

"Could our children inherit it?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Daemon's eyes flickered with a dangerous light. "If they could... it would change everything."

Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, her mind racing. If Monterys's power was something that could be passed down through blood, then securing him to their family became even more critical. But how? Monterys wasn't interested in politics, in thrones, or in power. What would bind him to their cause?

Daemon's gaze sharpened, a thought taking shape in his mind. "We may need to change our plans."

Rhaenyra looked at him, her brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

"We don't need the support of the other kingdoms to win this war," Daemon said, his voice firm. "We need Monterys. With his power, we could end this quickly—no one could stand against us. The other kingdoms would fall in line."

Rhaenyra's eyes widened slightly. "And how do you propose we ensure his loyalty?"

Daemon paused for a moment, his eyes flickering with calculation. "We break the betrothal between Lucerys and Rhaena."

Rhaenyra stared at him in shock. "You would break the betrothal? That was one of Corlys's conditions for supporting us!"

Daemon's gaze didn't waver. "Corlys's conditions won't matter if Monterys is on our side. With him, we don't need anyone else."

"And what about the Driftwood Throne?" Rhaenyra demanded, her voice sharp. "Don't you want your blood on both the Iron Throne and the Driftwood Throne?"

Daemon's expression softened slightly. "The only thing I've ever wanted for my daughters is the best. What better could I give Rhaena than a husband with more power than a dragon?"

Rhaenyra fell silent, her mind spinning with the implications. Breaking the betrothal would be a bold move, one that could anger Corlys, but Daemon was right. Monterys's power was beyond anything they had imagined. If they could bind him to their family, it would secure their future in ways they hadn't thought possible.

Daemon leaned forward, his voice low, persuasive. "Think about it, Rhaenyra. If Monterys's power can be passed down, our descendants would be unstoppable. Dragons and Monterys's abilities combined? Our house would be greater than anything Valyria ever saw. Greater than the Conqueror, greater than Old Valyria itself."

Rhaenyra's heart pounded in her chest. The vision Daemon painted was intoxicating—children born with the power of dragons and the abilities Monterys possessed. It was a future where the Targaryens would not just rule, but dominate the world in ways no one could challenge.

But it was also a future fraught with danger. Could they control Monterys? And if they couldn't, could they risk having his power turned against them?

Rhaenyra's jaw tightened as she stared into the fire, the flames flickering in her eyes. She didn't have an answer yet, but one thing was certain: they couldn't afford to lose Monterys.

Daemon watched her carefully, his hand resting on hers. "We need him, Rhaenyra. More than any alliance, more than any kingdom. Monterys is the key to everything."

Rhaenyra nodded slowly, her mind still racing. She knew he was right. But how far were they willing to go to secure Monterys's loyalty? How much were they willing to risk?

As the flames danced in the hearth, the weight of their decision hung heavy in the air.

So, here is the live consequences of the meteor and the reactions to it. What do y'all think of the chapter? Were the reactions, the consequences well written? Did you like the chapter? Did you dislike it? Could have been made better? Write in the comments what you think.

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