In the climactic battle against Maegor on the banks of the Blackwater Rush, Ghidorah had not played a decisive role.
But once the fighting was done, it devoured part of the Cannibal's flesh.
Through its innate gift—[B-Class: Voracious Plunder]—Ghidorah absorbed the Cannibal's talent, and its body underwent a drastic transformation.
Now, at a glance, one could see that its leftmost head had begun to resemble the Cannibal's skeletal visage. What was once a majestic dragon's head had turned grotesque and horrifying—hollow eye sockets and exposed bony ridges gave it the appearance of some demon dragged up from hell.
The change was not only in its looks, but in its methods of attack. Where once the left head would breathe ordinary dragonflame, now it unleashed the Cannibal's unique green corrosive fire.
This dragonfire carried a terrifying corrosive force—everything it touched was reduced to nothing.
And thanks to the Cannibal's inherited gift, Ghidorah's left skeletal head had gained a special ability: every time it devoured one of its own kind, its physical strength grew permanently.
Compared to Tiamat's terrifying [Feast of Greed], the effect was limited, but the potential of such a growth-oriented talent was undeniable.
"Three-headed dragon!" someone in the crowd screamed in terror.
"The dragon is here!"
The Poor Fellows fell into chaos, shouting wildly.
"Kill the beast! Kill every last Targaryen!"
"Drive them all back into the sea!"
The Moon Septon's followers, drunk on his preaching, had lost all reason. Consumed by blind fervor, they showed no fear.
In their warped minds, even the mighty dragon was nothing more than a large beast—no different from an elephant or a giraffe—unworthy of dread.
Like puppets under a spell, they raised their pitiful weapons—rusted swords, splintered clubs—and howled at the sky, as though noise and flailing could drive off the great beast soaring above them.
But before Ghidorah, their defiance was laughably small.
Aegon sat astride the dragon's back, his face dark, his eyes burning with fury as he looked down on the rabble.
Anger and frustration churned inside him. Were they truly unafraid of death? This was a dragon—the most fearsome magical creature in the Known World, a force capable of unmaking kingdoms.
Were these people so ignorant—or simply too far gone in madness?
He had come on Ghidorah not to burn them, but to give them a chance. To let them see sense and submit. They were wretches, after all—refugees and zealots, misled more than anything else.
But as he stared at the jeering, cursing mob, helplessness gripped him.
The dragon's presence meant nothing to them. They shouted and raged without the slightest fear. Was another Field of Fire about to unfold?
The thought twisted in his chest. He wavered—but the situation left him no choice. His jaw tightened, and he gave the order.
"Dracarys!"
Ghidorah obeyed at once. All three throats swelled, and in the next instant, three torrents of fire erupted downward like arrows loosed from a bow.
The world below ignited.
From its left skull head, a stream of green fire poured out, thicker and more violent than the others. It writhed like the tendrils of some demon, searing and corroding all it touched.
The Poor Fellows were swallowed by the blaze. They screamed and thrashed, their flesh melting away under the corrosive heat, collapsing into boiling pools of pus that reeked with sickening stench.
The camp became a vision of hell.
Screams of despair rose in waves, unending. This was no child's game of ants and flame—this was dragonfire tearing through the earth like a steel-cutting torch, annihilating everything.
Hearing the chaos outside, the Moon Septon roared in rage.
He burst from his tent, naked, beard wild, bellowing incoherently in madness.
But no sooner had he stepped out than he was met with a wall of fire.
The torrent of dragonflame swept in like a devouring sea, crashing down with unstoppable force. In moments the whole camp was ablaze, the air itself warping in the heat.
"No!" the Moon Septon screamed in despair.
The Targaryens' ultimate weapon—Ghidorah—at last bared its true, savage nature.
Its three great heads lowered, six deep-blue slit eyes glaring coldly at the tiny man below. It roared, a shrill, piercing sound that shook the air.
Then, with a thunderous release, the dragon's throats erupted again. Three torrents of fire cascaded from the sky like burning waterfalls, crashing down on the mortals below.
The green breath, glowing with eerie light and laden with corrosive power, struck the Moon Septon full in the face.
In an instant, the Moon Septon melted like wax beneath a blazing sun. His body, consumed by green flame, wasted away at a speed visible to the naked eye—flesh and bone dissolving into a bubbling, burning sludge that reeked with a nauseating stench.
The Poor Fellows, wretched as refugees, were thrown into utter panic and despair.
Screaming, they hurled their so-called "weapons" at Ghidorah. Yet the crude pitchforks were laughably useless against such a creature of magic. They never even touched the dragon's iron-hard hide before disintegrating into ash within its flames.
Two minor lords who had thrown in with the Moon Septon had clung to a last shred of hope, imagining that their soldiers might stand against the beast. But when they beheld Ghidorah unleash its terrifying might, the illusion shattered at once. Their nerve collapsed, and they abandoned the fight without hesitation.
Rallying what men they could, they slunk away from the camp, leaving their fellows to die screaming in the dragon's fire.
In the clearing, Lord Rowan and Lord Oakheart had already been struck dumb with terror at the devastation before them.
Knowing resistance was hopeless, both fell to their knees. Trembling hands lifted their swords—symbols of their power and pride—high toward the heavens, their faces pale with fear and awe, offering submission in the only way they could.
Aegon, seated on Ghidorah's back, cast them a cold glance but paid them no further mind. His fury had not yet cooled, and the remnants of the Poor Fellows still dared to struggle against him, fraying his patience.
He kept Ghidorah circling low above the camp. At the slightest sign of defiance, the dragon unleashed its breath, reducing the offenders to ash.
After several brutal moments of such "lesson," the once howling mob of zealots was nearly annihilated.
The camp lay in ruin. Charred corpses and heaps of ash carpeted the ground, silence suffocating the place where once there had been noise and life.
...
It was then that Rogar, Hand of the King, arrived with the royal host.
As he entered the camp, three words struck his mind like a hammer: charcoal, ash, silence. That was his first impression.
Everywhere lay scorched bodies, blackened and twisted by dragonfire, scattered across the barren ground. The air was thick with the choking stench of burnt flesh and the metallic tang of blood. The sight before him was nothing short of a vision of hell.
Rogar could not help but look upward at Ghidorah, still roaring in the skies, and his heart swelled with awe. Before such a beast, he felt utterly small.
How could such a creature exist? It was born of destruction, a natural scourge—where it passed, nothing remained but dust.
Meanwhile, Aegon, watching from above, caught sight of a mounted host racing toward the camp.
He narrowed his eyes. At their head flew a banner embroidered with the sigil of House Hightower.
Of course. They must have seen the flames and smoke and guessed the King's host had arrived. Messages had been sent from King's Landing to both the Faith and House Hightower before their march. No doubt they had come in response.
Aegon tugged sharply at the reins, struggling to restrain the eager Ghidorah. The beast, catching the stench of roasted flesh below, writhed impatiently, growling low, desperate to swoop down and feed on the corpses.
Aegon's glare was sharp as he snapped, "Quiet!"
Ghidorah let out a disgruntled rumble but obeyed.
Slowly, Aegon guided the dragon into descent. Its colossal wings churned the air into gales, forcing men to shield their faces from the blast.
When Ghidorah touched down, Aegon swung down from the saddle and handed the reins to the dragonkeepers. His expression was iron.
"Guard my dragon well. Should anything befall it—you know the price."
The keepers dropped to one knee at once, voices ringing out in unison: "As you command, Your Grace!"
Turning, Aegon strode toward the ministers of his new royal court. His expression was grave as he commanded,
"Clear this place. Count the dead, settle the survivors. And investigate the forces behind the Poor Fellows—leave none unpunished."
The ministers bowed their heads and departed swiftly to carry out his orders.
At that moment, the knights outside Oldtown had already dismounted, bowing respectfully in Aegon's direction.
From afar, Aegon could tell they were nothing more than scouts sent to gauge the situation—Lord Hightower himself had not come.
A flicker of displeasure crossed his face. With a cold snort, he turned away without greeting them and returned to his tent to rest. In his eyes, such neglect from the Duke of Hightower made it beneath his dignity as king to personally receive a handful of minor retainers.
At the front of the royal host, the Hightower knights finished their conversation with Lord Rogar, the Hand of the King, leaving behind a small contingent to collect the charred corpses.
...
Half an hour later, the Duke of Hightower finally emerged from Oldtown, hurrying to seek an audience with the new king. From atop the High Tower, he had seen with his own eyes the dragon's roar and the raging fires that engulfed the Poor Fellows' camp. He understood well enough: if he refused to submit now, he might end like Harren the Black—burned alive in his own seat.
The current Lord of House Hightower was a middle-aged man named Morgan Hightower. Clad in an elegant green robe, he stood respectfully outside the king's tent, waiting patiently.
When Aegon learned of his arrival, he deliberately left him standing in the cold for nearly an hour—a pointed lesson for the Hightower lord.
Morgan Hightower, however, betrayed no sign of displeasure. After all, he himself had once kept the king waiting half a day outside Oldtown's gates. He fully understood and accepted Aegon's displeasure.
From the simple fact that Aegon had not refused him an audience outright, Morgan knew the new king had no wish to mete out harsh punishment upon House Hightower. This was but a token chastisement—a reminder of his place—and he took no offense.
Only after Morgan had waited the full hour was he finally summoned inside.
The moment he entered and beheld Aegon seated in the high place of the royal tent, his knees buckled. He collapsed heavily, as if a mountain had toppled, pressing his forehead flat to the ground. His voice quavered with fear:
"Your Grace! House Hightower harbors not a shred of disloyalty. For our past offenses, we beg your forgiveness. From this day forth, I, Morgan Hightower, and all of House Hightower, shall obey your every command without question—we dare not defy you in the slightest!"
Aegon looked down at the man prostrate before him, his mind drifting back to another time. The last Westerosi lord he had seen bow with such ready submission was when, as the Conqueror, he had accepted the fealty of House Tully.
He inclined his head slightly, his tone calm.
"Rise, Lord Morgan. See that you remember your words today."
...
After the formalities, Morgan—keenly aware of his house's precarious position—quickly offered support.
"Your Grace, House Hightower pledges its full strength to your coronation as High Septon at the Starry Sept. The current High Septon is my second son. At your command, the matter shall be settled at once."
A spark of satisfaction lit Aegon's eyes. With House Hightower at his side, the Faith of the Seven's submission to him seemed all but certain.
Soon after, Duke Morgan Hightower himself took the reins of Aegon's horse, guiding him respectfully toward Oldtown.
Aegon rode with a stern, commanding bearing, the great advisers of the Targaryen court close behind. Surrounded by Hightower knights, the procession advanced in grand formation toward the ancient city.
Before long, they reached Oldtown's gates.
Standing before the city, Aegon took in the sight. Oldtown was a stark contrast to King's Landing.
If King's Landing was a vibrant young man, brimming with energy and vigor, then Oldtown was a weathered elder, steeped in wisdom and age.
As the largest and oldest city in Westeros, it was not only a vital port of the Seven Kingdoms but also the central hub of sea and land trade alike. Each day, merchant ships and travelers from every corner of the world converged upon it, filling its streets with bustling life and commerce.
...
[Upto 20 chapters ahead for now]
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