Godswood of Winterfell
The Three-Eyed Raven sat within the godswood of Winterfell, one of the oldest in the world and the one that is most protected across Westeros. The Starks, ever loyal to their gods, would never have allowed harm to come to even a single leaf of the heart tree. Before him sat Leaf and two other children of the forest, their worried and anxious expressions plain to see. The Elder Race was ever sensitive to magic, and the power currently being unleashed on Dragonstone was so vast it could be felt even across far Essos.
Valyria, the last seed of the Great Empire of the Dawn, was but a shadow of what the Dawn Empire had been at its weakest. The sheer mastery of magic said to have belonged to the mages of the Dawn Empire was forever beyond the Valyrians' grasp, and every great Valyrian family knew it. That was why they delved into the easiest of magical arts, ones that demanded little affinity or decades of discovery—blood magic. A practice forbidden by the Empire that predated even the Dawn.
Come to think of it, was not every magical empire weaker than its predecessor?
The Three-Eyed Raven smiled at the thought, surprising the three beings seated before him.
"What is it, Three-Eyed Raven? Did you see something?" Leaf asked curiously. Even before, when he had been Bran, he had loved the voices of the Earthsingers before him.
"Nay, Leaf. I have yet to reach Dragonstone to see what is unfolding there. I smiled because a thought came to me. Did you not notice? Every empire that has risen after the First has been weaker than the one before, when it ought to have been the opposite." His face was blank now, the fleeting smile already gone.
"What is there to be amused about? It was plain to the Elder Races that this would happen. We were surprised only that men, clever as they are in so many things, could not see it for themselves. True, the men of this age do not know whence magic comes, but those before them knew and were foolish enough not to deduce that with each descent, the blood of the Elder Races thinned within them. Thinner blood made them weaker—both in body and in magic—and slowly stripped them of the gifts once carried in that blood." Leaf shrugged as though stating something obvious.
"Is that why the other Elder Races hid themselves? Waiting. Waiting for mankind to grow weak again, as they were in the beginning?"
The thought of his own race's decline, of annihilation, stirred no rage in him—only calm, and an emotionless expression.
"Aye. That was one of many reasons why they withdrew from mankind and its rising empires. Another was this—our blood and our souls hold far greater weight with Mother Magic than men's blood ever could. And in those days, blood magic was the art most practiced by mankind." Leaf's tone was sad.
"Do you hate my kind?"
Leaf lifted her doe-brown eyes to him and answered, "Nay, Raven. Not now. Once, when I was a child, I did. My mother told me tales of mankind's cruelty and savagery. But as you learn as you grow old, you come to see there was a reason why the Old Gods shaped your kind as they did. Menkind have their own place in schemes of Gods, and I think it is to become their sword."
With that, Leaf leapt lightly up into the branches of the heart tree, settling where he could not clearly see her. He understood the intent—an end to questions—and turned his gaze southeast, to where Dragonstone lay.
The thought of that meeting with the lunatic Kraken almost made him abandon the intent of watching what was happening at Dragonstone, right now. For that madman was sure to be present, eager to witness one of his schemes come to fruition. And besides, the Raven could always watch it at his leisure afterwards. Yet when his gaze fell upon the Heart Tree once more, he could not resist. It had been centuries—perhaps even a millennium—since that accursed Hellhorn was blown.
Placing his hand upon the carved face of the Heart Tree, the Three-Eyed Raven sank into the network of weirwoods, reaching out toward Dragonstone. In an instant, he was there. The servant of the fire demon might have burned the weirwood above ground upon the isle, but neither she nor her hell-spawned master could ever peer into the trees hidden deep within the caverns of Dragonmont. The Raven stretched his sight, slipping into the body of a raven perched upon a tree near the smoking mountain. At his command, the bird took wing.
The creature resisted him, as all animals were fleeing Dragonstone, terrified of the dreadful sound that was yet to stop. Nevertheless, the Raven bent it to his will and guided it toward the ship from which the horn had been blown. As the bird soared, he could feel the song woven through the air, and when he made it glance upward, the sight confirmed it: the spell had already ensnared its prey.
Viserion and Rhaegal circled amidst the clouds, releasing contented purrs and trills, utterly lulled by the music. Dragons, subdued by a song of all things—the Song of Fire indeed. Truly, the sigh of enthralled dragons was as entrancing as the tales claimed.
But when the bird reached the Iron Victory, the enchantment's beauty soured into horror. Here, Valyrian sorcery lay bare. Three husks sprawled upon the deck, bodies charred from within, though their silver hair—miraculously untouched—betrayed the truth of their blood. Sacrifices. Dragonseeds.
Perching the bird upon a cliff, he surveyed the deck. A fourth lay gasping, half-dead, as a fifth was dragged, struggling toward the horn. The kin of the fallen were freed after their deaths—at least this Greyjoy was not as cruel as his brother. Perhaps that mercy was deliberate, a ploy to compel others to sacrifice themselves, blowing the horn to save their loved ones.
Moments later, another husk collapsed beside the others. Then, with a thunderous crack, the horn erupted with sound. The glyphs carved into its surface flared with otherworldly light. At once, the priest of the fire demon fell to his knees, joined by his acolytes, as nearby flames turned the color of fresh-spilled blood. The red flame.
The Raven's heart stirred uneasily when he gazed into that flame. Even that fiery demon could never command this flame, nor peer through it. Whatever was unfolding here was beyond its grasp or any god's grasp. Valyrians might have been monsters, but they were proud monsters—masters of blood sorcery, who would never permit any being that was not mortal to witness their craft. Mortals were tolerated, for they were too weak to challenge the dragonlords.
The horn gave its final cry, a melody so haunting it chilled even the dragons, who shrieked in fury and pain. Then, with a groan like the breaking of the world, the horn shattered, crumbling to dust. The ashes were borne away upon the wind, scattering across the waves.
Silence followed. Confusion, fear, and doubt rippled through those upon the deck. Overhead, the dragons' cries of anguish filled the skies. The Raven shuddered within his borrowed skin. The tormented wails of such beasts were neither pleasant nor reassuring to hear. Another reason to call that Hellhorn.
All were waiting as the two dragons wept amidst the clouds, their movements twisting into a dance of death across the sky. The Raven knew what was coming—so did the one who had skinchanged into the crow perched beside the bird he himself now inhabited.
The horn had many names: dragonbinder, hellhorn, the Horn of Fire. Yet none were more accurate than the last, the Horn of Fire. It was the horn of fire. Folly of the highest kind to believe that a mere horn could bind a dragon to a man who bore not the blood of their creator. The horn was never meant to shackle dragons to a master's will. No—it sang the Song of Fire for them. The Song they are made from.
The melody enthralled, made them content, for these fire-born creatures, flame given flesh, adored its sound. But that was not the danger. The peril lay in the final note—the Song that ended too abruptly. That unfinished melody would only enrage them. And angry dragons are not something mortal men standing upon the wooden decks of ships ever want or need.
The last melody compels them to finish what has ended too quickly and abruptly. A genius ploy of a Valyrian mage who studied dragons and magic related to them his whole life. These beings of fire cannot bear to leave it incomplete. Unbonded dragons have answered it before, again and again, hurling themselves into destruction. They would go to any lengths to finish the Song of Fire, for no rider sat upon their backs to tell them otherwise.
The crow beside him cawed hungrily, and the Raven could hear the mad cackling of the skinchanger within, delighting as two dragons broke from the heavens, eager to sing what had been left unsung.
Rhaegal began first, his maw pouring forth torrents of green flame, a hunger that devoured all it touched. Viserion was not to be outdone—his yellow-white fire danced across the masts and decks of the ships, weaving with his brother's destruction. The pair dove and spun in a deathly spiral, their eager roars resounding as they sang the Song of Fire over the fleet. The irony was cruel—this was their mother's fleet, at least until Greyjoy betrayed her, yet the beasts were blind to such truth.
Though the Dragon queen was fortunate, as only Greyjoy ships burned here, on this side of Dragonstone. The Raven's sight stretched farther. Velaryon sails approached from the other side, moving to capture Victarion Greyjoy. He could only hope the dragons ended their slaughter before those ships arrived—for those vessels might yet serve a higher purpose than to amuse the madman beside him, the crow whose unblinking eyes drank chaos and flame as if it were wine.
Then, from the cliff, the bird the Raven wore croaked harshly. A shadow crossed the sea. Another dragon had taken wing—larger than the two, and unlike them, it bore a rider.
The crow beside him shrieked madly as the beast drew nearer. The Raven's heart sank. This was ill. The brothers must not be disturbed. Not by a dragon, neither old enough nor mighty enough to withstand their wrath. It would not calm them—it would only ignite their fury. If they were challenged now, they would fight until breath itself abandoned them. And the other dragon is larger than the two, true, but it is not powerful enough to defeat the two alone.
Then another roar split the sky, echoing from behind. The sound froze the birds upon the cliff. There was only one other dragon in Westeros besides these three, and it was meant to be at Harrenhal.
But the Three-Eyed Raven knew that voice. The animalistic, ferocious sound of the roar. Knew it all too well.
The raven he wore twisted its neck skyward just in time to see it: the long, lean shadow of red, more than twice the size of the largest of Daenerys Targaryen's dragons, streaking across the heavens, surging toward the three at full speed.