Ghaston Grey, Morola's tavern.
The man who was once a descendant of the Dragonlords of Volantis was watching the boy playing in the tavern with a gentle gaze.
The boy was quite young, his head completely shaved, even his eyebrows cleanly removed. But he was clLordy well-nourished, with fair skin, a decent height, and strikingly bright blue eyes.
Everyone on the island knew that Morola was fond of his illegitimate son. Even the nearby lord Mellar—an old man always wearing a sorrowful expression who had lost his own children—was quite fond of the obedient and well-behaved boy.
Peace, prosperity, and war had brought much change to this small island—looser governance and increasingly wealthy islanders. Even the once-hiding "bastard" Aegon could now appear openly on the island with only minimal disguise.
Mellar already knew about the child, but in order to protect the only bloodline he had left, the pitiful old man ultimately chose silence. No one knew what the Targaryens or the Vaelarys thought of this bloodline—perhaps they had been forgotten, or perhaps not—but either way, Mellar dared not take the risk.
Yet Morola and his allies were still plotting. With the help of the mad Volantene Balerion Bellerys—who had once been driven insane by the Vaelarys family—the bastard Aegon managed to make contact with the House Hightower of Farwatch Keep, even becoming betrothed to the so-called last Hightower.
Under normal circumstances, even in its decline, House Hightower was still noble, and a bastard like Aegon would never have been allowed through their gates.
But this was Ghaston Grey—a true prison island. The Cober family were the jailers; the Hightowers and Sunfyre were the prisoners. In fact, the Hightowers' status was even lower than that of Sunfyre. The Targaryens had stripped Maelor of his name and his dragon egg, nailing the "usurper" Aegon to the pillar of historical shame. Politically, Maelor and his descendants had been utterly erased. A Targaryen without a dragon meant absolutely nothing to the two great dragonlord houses now. As for the Hightowers—no one cared.
The once-glorious House Hightower had fallen completely. Now only three people bearing Hightower blood remained in that pitiful tower: the decadent Ser Garmund Hightower, his daughter Lady Helena Hightower—"the last Hightower"—and a Cober, Baelor Cober. Baelor, the youngest son of House Cober, was adopted by the childless Garmund because of his Hightower blood.
Ser Garmund had once been so poor he couldn't support even a wife and children. If not for Morola's financial support and Maelor's help through marriage ties, House Hightower might no longer exist.
Thus, Morola's plan went smoothly. They evaded the surveillance of House Cober and successfully completed the initial stages, consolidating the two families of Ghaston Grey.
Just as Morola was still deep in thought about his plans, Aegon, who was helping serve drinks in the tavern, suddenly froze and stared blankly out the window.
"Aegon? What is it?" Ayar, who was wiping mugs at the counter, asked with a cheerful smile. But Aegon didn't answer. Ayar sensed something was wrong. Following Aegon's gaze, he too froze in place.
The former slave trembled all over, not even noticing the mug that slipped from his hands and shattered on the floor.
"Ayar, Aegon, what's going on?" Morola also realized something was wrong. He looked out the window—his own goblet dropped to the floor, red wine seeping into the wooden boards—and for once, Morola, who usually cared about such things, didn't even bend down to clean it.
"Dragons."
One or two dragons wouldn't surprise the people of Ghaston Grey, who were used to seeing them hunting in nearby waters.
Because it wasn't one or two dragons.
Morola's legs went weak, and so did Balerion Bellerys', who had rushed upstairs to see.
Massive dragon shadows swept over the sea, flying toward the other side of the Narrow Sea. Leading the flight was the old dragon Dreamfyre, followed closely by the stout and powerful Aegarax. Its wings were broader, heavier than most dragons. The splendid Seasmoke let out an earth-shaking roar. The dark green Vermax flew silently, but even from thousands of feet below, people could see firelight flickering at its mouth. Thick smoke streamed from both sides of Vermax's head, as though it could release its flame at any moment. The violet Tyraxes flew above the formation; once a small dragon during the Dance of the Dragons, it had now become a true colossus. Its massive wingspan cast a huge shadow on the sea below. A smoke-black dragon carefully flew past Vermax, warily avoiding its furious elders.
That dragon was Morghul. After Princess Jaehaera died quietly in a convent, Morghul had gone feral and was later tamed during the Great Expedition by Princess Alysanne, daughter of Viserys and Lady Larra.
A young purple-gold dragon also let out a thunderous roar. Meagon Targaryen—Viserys' youngest son—tamed the dragon Gaelithox during the Great Expedition. This time, both newly made dragonriders joined the sortie.
But what terrified Morola and the others most were the colossal dragons that broke through the clouds at the rear of the formation.
Sendros flew calmly at the front of the rear formation, abandoning his usual savagery. Like Vermax, green flames flickered at both sides of its jaws—no smoke, just firelight. The spike-covered Skyfire flew beside him.
These two dragons heralded the arrival of the Dragon's Nest's full might.
The slender and elegant Zarafax, the kingly Hovendes, the golden-scaled Golden King, and the pale pink Morning flew in formation. The aging Princess Rhaena donned her armor once more. Though she had not flown for many years, she joined the flight, swearing to make the ambitious usurpers of the conquered lands pay the price.
Following them came the silver-hued Morning and the gaunt Shadowmare. Morning was still beautiful, but Shadowmare had grown ever more terrifying in appearance as it aged.
Starsong and the ancient Silverwing flew behind them, their wings casting a vast shadow over the sea, shielding the young dragon between them—Valarion, a white dragon with a mane as smooth as silk.
This young dragon had recently bonded with Sebastian Vaelarys of the third generation, who had now stepped onto the battlefield as a newly risen dragonrider.
And he feared nothing.
Because behind the flock of dragons...
A mountain slowly unfurled its wings, casting the entire sky over the Dornish Sea into darkness.
After so many years, Vermithor soared into the sky once again in battle. But unlike the frenzied dance of the Blood Dragon, this time, the Bronze Fury had grown enough to rival the true dragonlords of old Valyria's Freehold.
At least in Morola's eyes, Vermithor could reduce Ghaston Grey to ashes with just one breath of dragonfire.
Watching the dragons gradually vanish into the distance, Morola couldn't help but collapse to the ground. "Gods… what are we even up against?"
But in the eyes of these so-called descendants of the Dragonlords, there was more than fear.
There was an undeniable envy and yearning.
---
The Conquered Lands.
In front of a crude wooden fortress newly erected, a knight barely managed to repel the mob attacking it—or rather, instead of a mob, it was more like peasants from a neighboring lord's domain. That lord had once been a local warlord who surrendered voluntarily, received the crown's recognition, and was granted a knighthood.
After Prince Rhaegar's assassination, the realm fell into chaos. Both local lords and foreign ones descended into disorder. The Westerosi lords naturally rallied around a few great lords—mainly Lord Harrold Reyne and Lord Tyndall Ball. Or rather, to be precise, the current Lord of Castamere was Harrold's brother, while Lord Harrold himself had come to the Conquered Lands and built a new castle by Myr Lake, establishing himself as lord over a vast new territory.
The local lords, meanwhile, truly descended into utter chaos. Some tried to ally with nearby Westerosi—mostly those traumatized by dragonfire—like the minor lord who had come to aid the knight. Others took the chance to pillage and seize land, like the local lord trying to carve out territory. Some even sought to reignite the wars.
In short, it was a complete mess.
"Charlie, what now?" The minor lord, face ashen, rushed up to the knight. "I've only got a few dozen men. If that bastard sends more, I won't be able to hold them off."
"Your help is already an honor, Lord Darlon," the knight Charlie said, pounding his chest in gratitude. His armor was battered and broken from the recent skirmish. Indeed, he was one of the Westerosi knights dumped into this mess. When he had first arrived, the land had only a handful of peasants. He had to beg his friends, his superiors, even his most detested brother, for coin and supplies just to maintain a semblance of dignity.
"Let me give you some advice. Get back, fast. Fly the king's three-headed dragon banner—or Prince Draezell's silver dragon with laurel leaves. Bring your folk into the castle," said Charlie with a grave tone, watching as the would-be looters retreated from the castle's range.
The Westerosi lords were able to contact each other via raven. Word had spread: many knightly lords had already set off toward the great lords' strongholds. Those like Charlie, who couldn't leave, could only try to minimize their losses—or make their allegiances clear.
"Huh?"
"Don't ask why. If you want to live, go do it." Charlie sighed and looked up at the banner flapping above—not his own heraldry, but the three-headed dragon of the king.
Let's hope the Lords Ball and Reyne were right.
---
Lykar Laclen
Over a hundred local nobles were crammed together like sardines, fearfully watching the dragons that surrounded them. These weren't just the nobles themselves.
Their entire families were there too.
Looking around, many of these nobles had once held sway over parts of the Disputed Lands—powerful figures along the Mangrove Coast and the Weeping Coast. But now, they'd been rounded up along with their kin.
"Your Grace, Your Grace, Dragon King, we really had nothing to do with it!" sobbed the former commander of the mercenary group Ravens' Company, on his knees before the dragons. He had never felt fear like this before.
He had indeed resented being ruled by outsiders—but his company had been wiped out completely alongside Horus' army. He no longer had the strength to do anything meaningful. All he had left were small schemes—after the assassination of Rhaegar, he had quietly rejoiced, but then had cowered in fear.
No one had told him even those schemes could get people killed.
"Spare us—we swear to serve Your Grace faithfully for all eternity!"
"Did you not swear to the gods once already to serve me faithfully for all eternity?" Daeron said coldly, his face like ash.
"Your Grace," Viserys said softly, "it's still necessary to unite the local nobility."
"The Valyrians of the Freehold never cared what the Rhoynar or the Ghiscari thought. That's why no one dared resist them—until the Doom," Draezell said calmly. But all the children of House Vaelarys lowered their heads—even Rhaenya and Rey couldn't meet Draezell's deep violet gaze.
"I said before, Your Grace—we do not seek to become those cruel, inhuman Valyrian dragonlords of old. But we do need to show what the wrath of a dragonlord looks like." Draezell scanned the hundreds of people surrounded by dragons. "Blood must pay for blood. Do the deed, take the blame."
Some wept. Some had fainted from the overwhelming stench of dragons. Others still muttered curses under their breath.
"Your Highness…"
"Silence." Draezell's voice cut coldly toward Viserys. Viserys's legs nearly gave out. Childhood memories from Dragon's Nest flooded back all at once. Even Aegarax shrank back nervously, glancing up at the mountainous form of Vermithor, then reluctantly turned his gaze to Zarafax, who stood leaning against Hovendes, and let out a puff of smoke with a faintly aggrieved huff.
He realized he had never seen Draezell angry before.
Never.
"Your Grace, a wise king can spare a man who betrayed him and win his loyalty anew—when he has the power to take his head with ease," Draezell said as he glanced at the hundreds of nobles gathered before them. "But this is different. Your knights need land, and some fools dare to test our limits. They must pay the price."
He turned calmly to the maester beside him. "Tell Braavos—I know what they did during the Great Expedition. Since they didn't go too far, and in respect for the House of Black and White, if they don't want to see the Titan fall and their secret city turned to a sea of fire, they'd better show us their sincerity. Tell Larmar Xylanigar, Triarch of Volantis, that he knows what I expect to see. If he doesn't want Volantis destroyed, he knows what to do."
"And Lys, Prince?" Aemon couldn't help but ask. Though he and Illyon had knightly ideals, this wasn't a time to uphold them.
Lys and Myr had both had interests in the conquered lands. Unfortunately, the collapse of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters had devastated Myr, crippling its ability to act beyond its borders, while Lys had fully aligned with the Iron Throne.
Myr ended up being no factor at all, and Lys had not played the role they had imagined it would. The war had already ended. Still, it was undeniable that Lys might exert unexpected influence in the conquered territories.
In House Targaryen, aside from Daeron and Baelor, no one wanted to make these ambitious traitors pay more than Aemon and Illyon.
"Lord Rogare will handle it appropriately, Your Highness." Viserys fought to suppress the fear in his heart. He was past fifty, and yet he still trembled when he saw Draezell truly angry.
"Have Lysandro take care of it properly—or I'll have Vermithor do it for her." Draezell turned to King Daeron. "Your Grace, it's time for vengeance."
Daeron nodded.
The room erupted in noise—but it was instantly drowned out by the roar of a dragon.
Dreamfyre's flames engulfed the hundred or so local nobles and their families. They didn't even have time to scream before they were reduced to charred skeletons. Some tried to flee, but dragonfire was faster.
In the blink of an eye, one hundred and twenty-three local nobles who held vast lands, along with their families, were wiped from the land.
"The lands are now free, and so are the smallfolk," Draezell said with a smile. "Your Grace."
King Daeron gave a stiff nod. The deaths of his wife, his eldest son, and his mother had left his heart nearly dead. If not for the support of his remaining family, he might have gone mad.
One by one, the dragons took flight under the terrified gaze of the onlookers.
Nineteen dragons slowly ascended into the sky and flew eastward.
Fire was everywhere.
Standing atop the tower of his own castle, Lord Darlon silently thanked the gods for choosing to befriend Ser Charlie instead of coveting his lands or people. From his vantage point beneath the three-headed dragon banner, he could see with his own eyes how the lands of those local lords who had, just yesterday, marched into Charlie's territory to burn, pillage, and kill were now burning themselves. The image of the dragons soaring over the skies was seared into his memory.
Nothing remained—only dragonfire of all colors.
Greedy lords and their stone castles melted in the flames.
The clever smallfolk and many of the commoners once held in bondage by local lords fled their "homes" with the help of Westerosi lords.
Even in Lord Darlon's own domain, many of these refugees had arrived.
Their eyes held no hatred.
Only fear.
Fear of the flames.
Fear of the divine.
Scenes like this unfolded everywhere.
The nineteen dragons never acted alone. They advanced in a terrifying wave. Any castle that did not fly the dragon banner or have its people kneeling in welcome was engulfed in dragonfire. Some of the smaller dragons would even fly above villages and pick off anyone dressed too finely.
Hossaru.
The town where Rhaegar had been assassinated. Today marked its end. Hundreds of exiled local nobles and their families were herded into the banquet hall where the assassination had occurred—by loyalist lords and Westerosi bannermen who followed the dragons.
Then the dragons set the entire town alight.
The same scene played out in every town: Westerosi lords and local loyalists began their bloody purges even before the dragons arrived.
Once the dragons arrived, their only task was to set buildings full of people aflame—or torch the lands of the ambitious.
There was no resistance. Or rather—there could be none.
Eighteen fully grown dragons, plus the colossal beast Vermithor, a tyrant of the skies like a mountain in flight, unleashed their flames at once.
Even the bunker that had troubled King Daeron for months couldn't withstand it.
Hossaru.
Two days prior, the dragonlords' messengers had arrived bearing letters. Alongside them came the Iron Throne's army, assembled once more. This time, there were no illusions of discipline. The knights had abandoned their so-called honor. They stormed into the lands of the local nobles, hanging any lord who refused to relinquish their smallfolk in their own halls—or dragging them to Hossaru. All the treasures those nobles had hoarded over centuries—people, seed, livestock—were looted entirely.
The noble knights tore away the mask of the knightly way beneath the bloody veil of revenge, revealing their true nature.
Bandits.
At the garden labyrinth palace of Shariss, once the grandest and wealthiest lord of the Conquered Lands, now the man could hardly find any joy in his heart.
He wearily watched as the noblemen were driven into his palace.
"Magister, it was you who hinted that we could redirect the disaster eastward, so how now—" a nobleman said with a face full of sorrow. His lands had been pillaged by the knights of the Iron Throne. All the wealth and population he had accumulated in the disputed territories, and even the wealth he had gained through usury in the Conquered Lands, his lands and people were gone.
"Silence, let me think." Shariss bit his finger. He could never have imagined things would escalate this much. Or perhaps, from the moment Rhaegar was truly killed, things had spiraled out of control.
"This shouldn't have happened. Was our hint not enough?"
Perhaps the stories of the few scattered dragonlords killed during the Blood Century had made them too confident, or perhaps they believed the two dragonlord families would be concerned for their honor and would never truly turn against them, the surrendered nobles.
"What should we do? My lord, the barbarian lord outside the city has already started evacuating the lowborn from the city." Another nobleman spoke in despair. Having gone through it all, he knew very well what awaited them.
The Iron Throne would not commit indiscriminate slaughter. During the recent period, before the dragons vented their wrath upon the cities, they always ensured that the real common folk were evacuated first.
Then, they would set the cities ablaze and kill all the local nobles and their families.
This nobleman had experienced it firsthand. He was lucky, for he wasn't in his town when it happened, so he had escaped, but apart from his noble title, he had lost everything.
Shariss took a deep breath and was about to say something when his legs suddenly trembled.
Was it an earthquake?
No.
The dragons had arrived.
Shariss looked, his face ashen, at the enormous bronze-colored dragon blocking the sky, surrounded by eighteen more dragons.
This display—only the mighty Rhoynar people, with their powerful water mages, could have resisted it in their prime.
Fogen was dead.
When the Hornstorm went mad and set the city aflame, Fogen had suffered severe burns, injuries that could never be healed, and he had died screaming in agony on his sickbed.
Fogen had been Shariss' most beloved and capable son, and he knew nothing.
Now, regret filled Shariss' heart. He shouldn't have entertained that thought.
If he hadn't hinted that, without Rhaegar, these local nobles would have been better off, and that Rhaegar's assassination could be conveniently blamed on those city-states still sucking the lifeblood from them...
After all, who were the most famous assassins?
Braavos.
And who else?
Of course, it was the Sorrowful Men of Qarth, but Qarth was too far, so it all fell upon the Sorrowful Men based in Volantis.
Then, when the dragonlords took their revenge, they could easily pin it on them.
Who could have imagined that these dragonlords would want to take revenge together?
It was said that soon after the dragonflights took off from Lykar Laclen, Braavos executed a group of wealthy merchants and bankers. Even the current Sealord personally chopped off his own right hand, along with the heads of those bankers and merchants, and sent them along with a large sum of gold to King's Landing, begging the dragons for forgiveness.
As for Volantis, it was said that as the nineteen dragons turned much of the Conquered Lands into a sea of fire, the firelight from the Black Walls illuminated much of the sky over this daughter of Valyria.
The Great Temple of R'hllor dispatched the Firey Hand, and together with the faction of the Elephants, they initiated another bloody purge. Wagons filled with severed heads were sent west. The Sorrowful Men' base, already purged once, was again bathed in blood.
Assassins were never a match for regular armies.
Over a hundred assassins were hanged along the road to Volantis, their corpses left hanging for crows to peck at.
And in distant Qarth, the headquarters of the Sorrowful Men dared not make a sound.
Because the dragonlords' warning had arrived.
Handwritten by Draezell himself.
Do not move. Should you do so, the dragons will come.
Do not forget Valyria.
Fear-stricken, the merchants of Qarth hastily united, forcing the Sorrowful Men' headquarters to make a statement.
The Sorrowful Men were, after all, not Faceless Men. These assassins had already offended Draezell, and they didn't dare to harbor any false hopes.
So, hundreds of Sorrowful Men volunteered for sacrifice. Ships carrying their heads and countless precious treasures sailed from Qarth toward Brandyport.
Even mighty Braavos and Volantis didn't want to see nineteen dragons flying over their cities.
"Your Majesty!" Shariss shouted. "It was I who incited them. I am willing to die for Prince Rhaegar. Please, spare them!"
But the response was not a human voice.
It was the roar of dragonfire, casually spewed from Vermithor, sweeping across Shariss' luxurious labyrinthine palace.
The fierce flames erupted within the palace, and Shariss didn't even have time to close his mouth. His flesh melted in the fire, exposing his charred bones.
The dragons remained silent.
Only the great dragons continued to unleash their dragonfire and angry roars.
Even the three young dragon knights at that moment could only remain silent, letting their dragons run wild with excitement.
No town could withstand the might of the great dragons.
And Hossaru was no exception.
In the blink of an eye, the great city was consumed by flames.
City of the End, Hossaru.
That would become the name of the town, after it was burnt for an entire day and night by the nineteen dragons. The ancient town was completely reduced to a massive ruin. Lords of the Iron Throne held a bloody feast amidst the ruin, unconcerned with any political consequences.
For the dragons had told the world:
"Do not attempt to awaken the wrath of sleeping dragons."
Absolute power rendered all political schemes laughable. The local petty nobles who survived—still holding irreconcilable conflicts with the great nobles—found themselves united with the Iron Throne's nobles in this matter, standing together.
Since no one would care.
The bloodbath of the great nobles who held land and people tightly in their grip became inevitable.
Thus, those nobles who survived the dragonfire found themselves facing misfortune in the days that followed.
The nobles of Westeros sprinkled salt on the ruins of Hossaru and turned it into an execution ground.
But all of this was for later.
The flames consumed the entire town.
The dragons slowly landed beside the collapsed maze garden palace.
Their riders descended one by one, either jumping or crawling down from the dragon's back.
Only the King and Draezell remained on their respective dragons.
It wasn't for any special reason. Draezell was the most powerful dragon rider, and even the King had to respect him. As for the King...
The King, in the midst of the flames of revenge, reflected on the deaths of his mother, wife, children, and brother.
"Rhaegar, we have avenged you," King Daeron said softly.
Draezell gazed at the sea of flames, and the fire in his heart began to fade.
But on the ground, Rhaegor furrowed his brow. The dragon knights of House Vaelarys gathered in a circle, their atmosphere heavy as they examined the news they had just received from Aemon. Even Rey's expression seemed somewhat twisted, while Rhaena appeared somewhat awkward.
"You mean to say, my nephew Baelor tamed the Candlelight?"