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POV: Aegon Targaryen
I leaned against the trunk of an old tree, watching the sky fade from molten amber into deepening violet. Night crept slowly across the heavens, swallowing the last rays of the sun.
I had been on Tarth for hours now. Lord Selwyn, gracious and plain-spoken, had offered me the comfort of his camp nearby rather than press me to travel to Evenfall Hall. His courtesy was not wasted I was glad enough for the rest, and the company.
He had introduced me to his sister, Lady Tysane Tarth, the young woman who had ridden at his side when first we met. They listened with wide eyes as I spoke of Dragonstone, of my sisters, and of Balerion. When I told them my armor was forged of Valyrian steel, Selwyn had nearly choked on his wine.
"That's enough to buy an empire!" he exclaimed, leaving me to laugh at his honesty.
It did not take long for them to earn my good graces. They showed me their isle, and I saw why men called it the Sapphire Isle. Tarth was beautiful in a way Dragonstone could never be lakes glimmering like mirrors, waterfalls tumbling in silver ribbons, mountains rearing against the sky, shadowed valleys carved in green, and the sea itself, a radiant blue that seemed to drink the very light of the sun.
Even on horseback, the land felt alive. We rode past a vast lake, with the spine of mountains rising beyond it, jagged and mysterious, with valleys hidden in their folds.
It was a place fit for rest, far more welcoming than the Stepstones—my original destination, a nest of barren rocks and pirate dens.
A faint motion drew me from my thoughts. I turned, and Lady Tysane stood at my side. She was fair, though not with the silver-gold of Valyria. Her hair was long and brown, falling in waves down her back, her eyes a striking blue, like the seas around her home. Compared to her brother's plainer features, hers shone brighter—though she was quick to explain that it was he who bore their father's look, while she took after their mother.
She studied me quietly before speaking.
"Are you leaving so soon, my lord?"
I nodded, offering her a soft smile. "War calls, and I must answer."
She lowered her gaze for a moment, then lifted it again, her voice gentle but certain. "I know little of dragons, my lord. But I know war. It changes men, even those who think themselves unshakable."
Her words struck deeper than I expected. I inclined my head in thanks.
"Then I shall remember them, my lady—and remember your kindness, though brief our time together."
Behind us, the earth trembled faintly. The great bulk of Balerion shifted in the darkness, his massive shape rising like a black mountain against the night. His wings stirred once, the gust rustling the trees, as if to remind me that my rest was ended.
I looked once more toward the sea, where the horizon still glowed faintly with the last fire of the day.
"Soon, Tarth will be behind me," I murmured, "and war before me."
---
Far to the south, the city of Tyrosh endured.
Once a jewel among the Valyrian Freehold's daughters, it was now ringed by hostile fleets—besieged by those who had once called it kin. Yet unlike its sisters, Tyrosh was built not only for trade but for war. It was a fortress-city, its defenses steeped in both wealth and fire.
High walls girded the harbor, tier upon tier of stone and steel. Beyond them rose the inner curtain of fused blackstone, wrought long ago by dragonflame itself—smooth, dark, and unyielding, a reminder of Valyria's dominion. No ram, no siege tower, no trebuchet had ever broken those walls.
Men patrolled them now in restless shifts, eyes turned outward to the shattered harbor. The blockade had reduced it to ruin: broken piers, scuttled hulls, and the carcasses of ships half-sunk in the shallows. Beyond, the sea swarmed with the enemy's galleys, their sails blotting out the horizon.
The watchers spoke little, for there was little left to say. They looked for signs of sabotage, for the flash of a torch that might mean a night assault, or the creeping wake of a smuggler daring to break the cordon. Few had hope left for either.
But on this night, as the sky deepened to velvet black, a murmur stirred along the ramparts.
A shadow.
At first it was dismissed—sailors' tricks of the eye, or some carrion bird wheeling against the stars. Yet the shadow grew, swelling vast against the moonlight. Whispers turned to sharp cries. Trumpets blared along the walls.
The shadow had wings.
"Look there!" a watchman cried, arm outstretched as he pointed past the blockade of ships into the distant night horizon.
"I see nothing but that cursed fleet and the stars," another guard answered, his tone mocking, weary of false alarms.
"Perhaps you—" a third began, but the words died in his throat. His mouth fell open, eyes wide as he too saw it: not a bird, not a cloud, but something vast and unnatural. For a moment, it seemed as though the heavens themselves had been torn, a void swallowing the starlight. Then—gone.
"You saw it," the first guard said, his voice sharp, almost accusatory.
Before another word could pass between them, the night shattered.
A roar, titanic and primal, rolled across the waves and shook the very stones of Tyrosh's fused walls. It was a sound older than kingdoms, older than the Freehold itself a dragon's fury loosed upon the world.
From the blockade, a galley erupted in sudden fire. Not red flame, nor orange, but black. The sea hissed and boiled where it touched, and the air filled with a chorus of screams. Men leapt from burning decks only to vanish into the molten sea, their cries carried back to the city by the night wind.
Upon Tyrosh's high walls, the watchers stood frozen. Every soul knew in that instant what had come.
---
POV: Aegon Targaryen
We soared above the siege of Tyrosh, the night sky cloaking us in its shroud of stars. To the men below we were nothing but a whisper of wind, a passing chill, a shadow too large to belong to any bird. Perfect camouflage for dragon and rider.
We circled once.
Twice.
On the third, I tightened my grip upon the saddle. My voice was soft, lost to the wind—but through the bond, it was command.
"Dēma."
Dive.
Balerion answered with a tilt of his wings, his vast sails folding as we plunged. The air screamed past us, sharper than any blade. Below, the enemy fleet lay spread across the waters like toys on a board, their torches glittering, their sails at rest. Unknowing. Unprepared.
At the last moment, I whispered the word that would carve our names into legend.
"Dracarys."
Breath fire.
The world split open.
Balerion roared, the sound shaking the heavens themselves, and from his jaws erupted a torrent of flame black as midnight, edged with red. It struck the nearest galley like the hammer of the gods. Wood and iron melted, men screamed, and the ship tore apart as though cleaved by an axe of fire.
The quiet night was gone. Panic had come.
I leaned low, cloak whipping in the storm of our descent as we banked hard, angling toward another prey.
"Angōs, Balerion. Dracarys!"
Attack, Balerion. Breath fire!
The Black Dread roared again, and a second ship vanished into screaming flame. Black fire raced across its decks, consuming men and mast alike, until nothing remained but cinders falling into the sea.
The cries of sailors reached me faintly, carried by the wind, already behind us as we rose again into the dark sky.
The sea below was no longer still. The calm of night shattered into fire and storm. Men shouted in tongues both foreign and familiar, their voices rising above the crash of waves and the crackle of flame. Ships scrambled to scatter, their oars and sails cutting frantically through black water.
But there was no escape.
From above, their formation was nothing but lines and circles — a puzzle board spread for me to solve. Each galley, each warship, was wood and pitch. And wood burns.
"Emagon."
Again.
Balerion answered before the word left my lips. His wings snapped wide, halting our climb, and we plummeted upon a fat dromond laden with soldiers. The men looked up, and in the glow of their torches I saw their faces turn to terror. One raised a bow, another a spear — gestures more pitiful than defiant.
"Dracarys!"
The Black Dread's maw opened, and night itself seemed to catch fire. Black flame poured forth, drowning the ship in shadow and ash. Soldiers leapt into the sea, their screams cut short as the fire followed them, clinging, devouring.
We rose again, the heat of our own wrath chasing us skyward. The harbor was a canvas of chaos now, painted in streaks of fire. Smoke spiraled into the heavens, blotting out the stars.
For a heartbeat, I looked upon it all — the burning wrecks, the fleeing ships, the flashes of men diving hopelessly into the sea — and I knew this was the truth of dragons.
This was power.
Yet power had purpose. Not slaughter for its own sake, but victory.
I pulled the reins, feeling Balerion's answering growl thunder through the bond. We turned toward the heart of the blockade — the largest ship, banners high, its decks crowded with men. A flagship. If I broke it, the fleet would shatter.
"Skoros ilzi."
What do you see?
Through the bond, Balerion's vision flooded mine. Torchlight. The gleam of armored men. Fear. Prey. The heat of their bodies marked against the cold sea like embers awaiting the wind.
My lips curved into a thin smile.
"Dracarys."
---
The dawn broke over Tyrosh, but where once its light had meant little more than another day of fear and siege, now it revealed something altogether different.
Smoke still clung to the horizon. Black columns drifted above the shattered remnants of the fleet, charred hulks floating in the surf or broken and burning on the rocks. The sea itself looked sick — patches of oil and ash staining its surface, gulls circling hungrily over the wreckage.
The people of Tyrosh whispered as they always had, yet the words on their lips had changed. No longer of despair, or the inevitability of their walls falling — but of the horror they had witnessed in the night.
Some spoke of it as though it were battle, but those who had watched from the high walls knew better. It had not been battle. It had been slaughter.
They had seen men hurl themselves screaming into the dark waves, abandoning ships already consumed by fire that burned black with shades of red. They had seen the water itself boil as hulls cracked and sank, taking hundreds with them. They had seen men try to row, to swim, to flee — only to be caught in the furnace wind of great wings.
And above it all, a shadow, vast and terrible.
A dragon.
For centuries, they had been creatures of memory, half-believed tales of the Freehold's might. The sisters of Tyrosh — Lys, Myr, even proud Volantis — had made certain of it after the Doom, slaughtering every dragon and rider left in their walls. Without them, they had claimed freedom. Without them, they had believed themselves safe.
But no longer.
Now black wings darkened the morning sun, vast enough to blot out the sky. The beast wheeled lazily in the air, its scales like night made flesh, its eyes burning embers. And on its back sat a rider, armored and unyielding, gazing down upon the city as though measuring its worth.
Whispers turned to fear. Fear turned to awe. And awe, as it always had in the presence of dragonfire, turned to silence.
For the truth was plain to all who saw:
Whoever rides a dragon does not merely ride a beast.
They ride war and fire itself.
And as the city and its people watched the black beast land in the palace courtyard a terrible feeling filled their hearts.
A black dread.