Moqorro's Workshop
"Can you feel it?" Deep beneath the Red Keep, in the hall where the skeletons of the dragons are kept, the red priest Moqorro works his spells as King Euron and Leyla Hightower watch. "The power is growing, the flame burns brighter than ever. The moment of triumph is near."
"You speak in riddles!" Euron shouts, frustrated. He has almost emptied a bottle of nightshade while waiting. "Speak to me plain!"
"My king, I've read the texts, and they are all coming true…"
"What is coming true? What prophecies? I need to see!" Euron pushes the priest aside, stepping towards the glass candle placed within the shattered skull of Balerion the Black Dread. "This ends now!" Moqorro does not move to stop him as he draws a dagger and slices open his hand
Leyla watches intently, her own brain addled by the strange blue wine, as the candle begins to burn with colors the likes she has never seen before. Euron stumbles back, blood dripping to the floor as the light and shadows spiral around the room in a psychedelic whirlwind. Losing her footing, Leyla keels to one side and vomits onto the floor, the blue wine spilling out. For a moment, she stares at the bricks on the floor as their lines warp and spin before her, a deafening scream roaring within her brain. But slowly, the scream turns to laughter. Euron.
She rises, and can see the light now spinning around the king, as he holds the glass candle with one hand. His missing eye seems ablaze with fire, and she swears the iron tentacles of his crown writhe alive amongst his hair. Blue, white, yellow, green flash across his face. And the shadows… The shadows somehow brighter than the flame.
"I'm done waiting!" he shouts, though to the priest or the candle, it's unclear. Leyla cannot even see Moqorro among the blinding lights and shadows. "Take back the veil and show me! Show me your power! Show me Azor Ahai!"
Winterfell
The prince's screams echo down the halls. Theon Greyjoy stumbles over his own feet, rushing to get to Bran's chambers, his legs still not fully healed. By the time he reaches his liege's side, Obara Sand is already there, pouring cold water over Bran's face as he writhes in his bed, face bright red.
"He's burning up inside…" she clearly knows naught what to do. "Get the maester!"
Theon turns frantically to two servants in the doorway. "Get the maester!"
But in Bran's sleep, there are no maesters. There is only fire. He is standing on the gates of Winterfell. A great dragon of living shadow descends from the black sky, its flames of many colors pouring down to melt the walls. He opens his mouth to scream, but salt pours out instead. He turns to run, but cannot move. He looks down to see weirwood roots growing up around his legs, trapping him fast to the ground.
Then through the flames he sees Bloodraven, huge raven's wings unfolding from his back, sword in hand, facing the dragon in the sky. He cannot look away as his body stiffens, his skin turned to the palest bark, blood-red leaves sprouting from his fingers, his mouth, his hair. The leaves block his vision until all he can see through them are two piercing blue eyes emerging the darkness, and an icy hand extended to him…
But as he wakes, it is Theon's hand in his, and the only fire is the maesters candle. And now, he thinks, he can finally hear his screams.
Tumbler's Falls
The blizzard has finally stopped. Damion Lannister's horse trudges across the battlefield through two feet of snow, stained with soot and blood. Young Robert Brax rides behind him, carrying Brightroar, or whatever Valyrian blade Tywin Lannister had seized to replace the one lost so long ago. To his left rides Malakho, of the Dothraki.
"I used to think my people could live on these fields," the old bloodrider muses. "But not in such winters as these."
"If the priests are to be believed, soon there will be no winter at all," Damion replies.
They come upon Ser Tybolt Crakehall, kneeling among the dead. The huge knight rocks back and forth on his knees, in shock. As they near, Damion recognizes the bodies before him. One, by the armor and size, must surely be Ser Garth Hightower. The other - Damion's goodbrother and Master of War, Tybolt's father, Lord Rolland Crakehall.
The fool, Damion thinks. His god could do many things, but not save him from death. He should have stayed behind the lines with the other commanders. But brash men must be heroes, and Rolland was brasher then most. Heroics always end the same way.
Damion rides on without saying a word to the mourning Tybolt. They reach the village, most of the buildings burned to the ground. Ser Carnegie Rowan is waiting.
"What is left of their armies have fled with most of the smallfolk," the red-headed knght reports. "We believe Lord Florent and Gunthor Hightower are among them."
"No prisoners," Damion shakes his head. "That will be a sore disappointment to the priests."
"No," Ser Carnegie corrects him. "We captured some."
Dismounting, Damion and Robert follow the knight into a burnt out inn, where two-score prisoners are under guard. Most of them servants or men-at-arms, but one woman Damion recognizes from her dark hair and olive skin – Alysanne Hightower. He signals her to be brought to him, and they walk outside.
"Why are you here?" he asks. "Surely you could have fled with your brother."
"My husband was on the battlefield. I stay with him."
"I fear if he did not flee and is not captive, he's most assuredly dead. Which leaves you a choice. Bend the knee and I'll allow you to petition your brother in Oldtown on our behalf. Or you will burn, like all the others."
"I will never betray the Seven. Nor will my brother," Alysanne spits at his feet. "Oldtown will never bend to a godless barbarian."
"I am godless because my men keep a different faith than yours?"
"A god that burns unbelievers is a god not worth following."
"Your gods command death by sword or hanging. How is fire any different?" Damion shakes his head. "Killing is killing. A life taken one way is the same as any other. Some men turn to dust, others to ash. In the end, you can't tell them apart. The only god worth following is one with power. And R'Hllor showed more power in this battle than the Seven showed me my whole life."
"Then you are weaker than I thought. You need fire and witchcraft to feel strong. You think you really control these zealots?"
"You have a funny idea of strength, my lady. Here I stand free. And you in chains."
Alysanne slaps him. It stings even more in the cold, leaving a red mark on his cheek.
"We're done here," Damion motions to his men to take her.
"At least have the respect to kill me with your sword," she resists. "Do not sully your legacy, men will hear of what you do here!"
"Men will hear and be afraid," Damion watches the woman dragged away. "Do not trouble me with matters of legacy, my lady. My ashes will be mixed with yours soon enough. And then what will either of us care what men say of us?"
Daenerys' Camp
"He was a great man," Ser Merlon Crakehall speaks solemnly, looking at the body of Jorah Mormont, lying next to Sharp Fang atop pyres before the full camp, their blood-stained white capes draped over them. "I did not serve him long, but I will carry the honor of following him for all my life."
"Sharp Fang was great warrior," Black Spot speaks for his fellow Unsullied Queensguard. "He survived horror to be killed by cowards. We will avenge him."
But one figure is missing from the assembly – the queen herself. Daenerys, her many wounds still seeping blood through heavy bandages, sits atop a rock at a distance, angrily glaring at Eres and Ser Osgrey Grafton.
"You can bring him back. I know you can. R'Hllor brought Jon back, and others I have heard of. Why not Jorah?"
"Such powers are beyond me, your grace," Eres reluctantly insists. "Perhaps if Zatarra were still with us… But the lord called her away."
"Why! Why would he do that? Why would he let them kill Jorah? He was with me from the beginning! Before all of this, he was always there for me…" She breaks down crying. Eres places a warming hand on her shoulder, kneeling to look her in the eye.
"Perhaps his sacrifice was a sign. To save this world, you must eclipse what you once were. You must become the one who was promised. You will no longer be the girl who began this journey. Then our lord will speak to you, then you will see the answers."
She turns Daenerys' head down towards the cold, shivering remnant of the men who followed her North and those that follow Jon. "Don't you want to save them?"
"I do," Daenerys swears desperately. "But how? Even the children betray me. The northerners do not trust the red god. How much longer will they follow me? I will only have left what I had to begin – My Dothraki. My Unsullied. My dragons. And half as many as I had when I came."
"But they will follow King Jon!" Ser Osgrey insists. "They will follow Aemon!"
"This is not his war!" Daenerys stands, shakily, suddenly angry. "This is not his dream! I love him, but I did not come all this way to have my life defined by another man! I do not want my story to be writ down as the girl who brought King Aemon Targaryen his dragon! I am the mother of dragons, the breaker of chains, I have come to free my people and I will not rest until that day!"
"You are just and true, my queen," Eres steps forward. "But you are wrong in one account. You have far more power than when you first stepped foot on these shores. For you have your destiny. R'hllor is with you. Its might is all you need to bring light to this world."
"Then so be it." She wipes the tears from her eyes and, leaning on Osgrey for support, limps down to the pyres. As Eres lights the wood, a light and beautiful snow begins to fall. But as the flakes dust Jorah's pale face, they melt, the flames rising up higher and higher, reflected in the dragon queen's eyes.
Today is the end, she thinks, as her great bear's features disappear in the blaze. And the beginning.
Blackwater Bay
Nothing could have prepared Jon for the sea. It's just so… big. The land gives way beneath Rhaegal as the dragon soars out over the water. In the distance, Jon can see the fleet – Targaryen and Greyjoy banners. He lands atop the flagship carefully, yet Rhaegal's weight nearly capsizes the vessel. He finds the fleet commanders waiting – Lord Sebaston Farman, Humfrey Hightower, Sandro Qo and Queen Yara Greyjoy.
"We're ready for battle, your grace," Yara reports. "The Golden Company's ships remain docked at Dragonstone. Without them, we have a sure advantage against my uncle."
"Do you mean to ride the dragon beside us?" Humfrey cranes to catch a closer glimpse of the beast.
"No," Jon shakes his head. "The city walls are lined with scorpion bolts. And there's something worse. Something I don't understand. The Golden Company attacked at night. There was a boy among them. He did something to the dragons. They ran amuck, burned down half the camp. We can't risk that again, not in the city."
"Then what are we to do?" Lord Clifton asks.
"My men grow tired of waiting," Yara is annoyed. "We want victory. I want Euron's head."
"We wait," Jon insists. "And when the moment is right, we will have our victory."
The Kingswood
Sansa Stark and Ser Mycah Manderly have followed Brienne's small party to the edge of the wood, but now the time comes to say good-bye.
"My lady, I am begrudged to leave you," Brienne kneels.
"I give you leave," Sansa urges her to rise and, pushing past formality, embraces her guardian. "I only command that you survive to return to me."
"Lady Sansa will be under my protection," Mycah promises, smiling. Brienne seems to accept that reassurance and turns away. She carries in one hand the sword once held by Jaime Lannister, and tosses it to Sandor Clegane.
"Take this, Hound," she insists, climbing upon her horse. "You may yet need it."
At last, only Arya is left standing. She looks sheepishly up at her sister, awkwardly shuffling forward for a hug.
"Keep an eye on Gendry, please," she whispers. "He could learn a few things from you."
"I never thought I'd hear you say that," Sansa laughs, stroking her sister's hair. "Aren't you the little girl who loved to soil my dresses?"
"Well, we've both grown up," Arya pulls away.
"Aye," Sansa looks back to the woods. "He should have come to see you away."
"I don't think he wanted me to go," Arya climbs atop her horse.
"He didn't say anything at the camp…"
"No," she takes one sad look back before flicking the reigns. "He believes in me." With that, she is off her horse joining the line of eight – Davos Seaworth, Brienne of Tarth, Sandor Clegane, Ormund Storm, Elia Sand, Ser Ben Coldwater and Ser Myles Manwoody. Sansa and Mycah watch until they disappear over the horizon, before silently turning back into the woods, their waiting only just begun.
Moqorro's Workshop
When Leyla awakes, she is alone on the cold stone floor. Groping about, she struggles to stand and shuffles through the darkness, arms outstretched before her. Her mind hazily struggles to piece together memories of the past night. Nightshade was a strange drink, after all, she could scarce say what had truly happened and what had been a drunken illusion. But whatever it was, she knows it was no good.
At last, her hands hit a wall. She feels her way along, turning carefully down a hallway, where the faintest glimmer of light can be seen. Suddenly, she hears voices, and comes to an abrupt stop. It is the king, with his captains, the Codd Brothers – Lucas and Eldred.
"Are you clear on what you are to do?" Euron is saying.
"Of course, your grace," one brother answers.
"I'm just confused and all," the other grumbles. "Ain't ye still with the queen? I thought we wanted Cersei to win?"
"Plans change, Eldred," Euron replies. "That's why I'm a king and you're a captain. Now get to it!"
Leyla stifles a gasp as she hears two sets of footsteps echoing away. Her mind begins to race beneath her splitting headache. What to do? Should she tell someone? Qyburn? Lady Genna? She cannot say. Her brother had sent her here to spy on Cersei, but she had fallen under Euron's spell, she now sees. The talk of high mysteries and ancient learning has fascinated her and, well, he had been a voracious lover. But now… the king and queen turning on each other, what could that bring?
Then her heart stops. There is a third set of footsteps, walking towards her. She tries to back away, but they feet grow nearer. Faster. Abandoning stealth, she breaks into a sprint, but in the blinding darkness, her foot hits a stone and she falls. In the dark, she can see a shadow standing over her.
"My lady, is that you?" Euron's voice says.
"Yes, your grace," she answers, cautiously. Strong hands grab her arm and pull her to her feet. Then she feels the knife in her stomach. The last thing she hears is his voice.
"That is… most unfortunate."
The Black Cells
Qyburn stifles a yawn as he heats iron pincers over a brazier. He had not had a moment to sleep after returning from the battlefield before being sent here to extract information from the captives the Golden Company had delivered. They now hang, hands chained above their heads, lining a long, dim corridor of the dungeons. He had spurned isolated cells for this lot. They need to see what happens to their brothers-at-arms.
Especially this one, he thinks, approaching Grey Worm. The Unsullied commander is bruised, burned and bloodied, but remains ever defiant. He clinches the red-hot pincers around the man's nipple, twisting, but he does not scream, only gritting his teeth harder.
"All this suffering is needless, my new friend," he motions to Alys for a new tool. "You only need say the word, and you may yet be spared. Do you see this pin?" He points to the Iron Hand. "It means with a word I could give you the whole City Watch."
"I will never betray my queen," Grey Worm glares. "I swore to live and die for her."
"I know," Qyburn takes a razor-sharp instrument from Alys. "Which is why I will not kill you. But are you so eager to bargain with the lives of your men?" Beside Grey Worm hangs Cley Cerwyn, barely recognizable from his injuries. Unlike the Unsullied, when Qyburn presses the blade deep into his eye, the young northern lord lets out a shriek that echoes down the halls. With a sickening pop, blood spurts from the now empty socket and the old man is holding Cley's eye in his hand.
Calmly, as Cley whimpers in pain, Qyburn rinses the eye off in a bowl of water before holding it to the light.
"There are those in Essos who swear the eyes of a living man can cure any wound." He smiles, prying Grey Worm's mouth open. The soldier resists, but Qyburn's old hands are strong, and drop the eyeball onto his tongue. He holds the mouth shut until he hears Grey Worm swallow and gag. Then, at last, he steps back.
"Until your mind has changed, commander, this will be your diet. And I fear not all the pieces of your comrades will be so easy to swallow."
With that, Qyburn turns to leave the prisoners to stew in darkness, and makes the long, slow walk back into the sunlit upper chambers. Washing his hands clean of blood, he finds Missandei and Tyion sharing a bottle of wine. They offer him a drink as he slides, exhausted, into a chair beside them.
"Where have you been?" Missandei asks.
"Busy. Doing the work of the crown," Qyburn sighs. His moment of peace is short-lived.
"Lord Hand, have you seen what is happening on the streets?" Genna Lannister barges into the room.
"No, no," Qyburn rises, wearily. "I have not left the cells."
"The king's red priests have turned the people against us. They are singing the praises of the Targaryen bitch, calling her some sort of savior! Have you seen the king?"
"Not since I've returned."
"Then find him!" Genna drags the Hand from the room and lowers her voice. "The battle at the Falls is lost. The western armies are within a day's march of the walls. I hear talk Henry Staedmon has already fled the city."
"By the gods," Qyburn stumbles, steadying himself on the wall. "I must ready the defenses… And you. You should leave as well, my lady. I know ways…"
"Again, no." Genna stops him. "Go do your duty. I'll do mine."
Behind them, Missandei looks up as Ser Argilac enters.
"I spoke with the guards in the yard," the grim knight reports. "Ser Damion's forces were victorious. They march on the capital as we speak."
"What of the Hightowers?"
"I do not know," he looks away, sadly. She turns away, clutching her pendant, the last gift from Lady Alysanne. "My lady, there is another matter. There was an attack on Daenerys' camp. Prisoners were taken."
"Grey Worm?"
"He's here."
"Show me!" She shouts, frantically trying to storm out of the room, but Argilac catches her shoulder and pulls him back in.
"It's not so simple! He's in the dungeons."
"Then we will find him!" she insists. "And if that old man has harmed a hair on my love's head, I'll kill him myself!" But he does not let her go, and slowly, she calms. Looking about, she notices something is missing. "Where's Tyrion?"
The Streets of King's Landing
The people of the city flood the streets, dressed in red and waving banners of flames and cloth dragons, following the lead of priests and priestesses who perform fiery magic and proclaim the coming of their savior, Azor Ahai. Through the throng press Ser Henry Staedman, Master of War, with four of his personal guard. He grimaces as a filthy beggar in crimson rags stumbles into his path.
"The whole world's gone mad," he sneers. "Bonifer Hasty was right, the world began to end when the Sept fell."
"Ser, this way!" one of his men calls, and he shoves his way through the crowd until he finds the guard waiting at the foot of the city walls, horses waiting. He hands the knight a Lannister banner. "Fly these and they should give you no trouble. Though I fear the order to seal the gates will be given soon enough."
"By then we'll be long gone," Staedmon raises the banner and climbs atop his mount. "And I pray we'll never be back."
Harry Strickland's Manse
The Commander-General of the Golden Company bustles through the front door of his home, covering his ears to drown out the clamor in the streets. He curses himself for not having stayed on Dragonstone with his men. The curse grows deeper when he sees his squire, Grif, standing in the hall, pale as a ghost. The lad had faced down dragons nary a week before. He did not fright easily.
"What's wrong, boy?"
"I..i..in the cellars, ser…" Grif stammers, motioning for the general to follow. They make their way to the kitchens, then down a narrow flight of stairs. Strickland brushes away cobwebs as he enters the cellar to find two of his men, just as startled as Grif. And between them rests a keg of ale, pried open. But as Grif pulls back the lid, the glowing green substance within is decidedly not ale.
"Move very slowly," Strickland feels his blood go cold. "How much is there?"
"We don't know, ser," Grif gulps.
"Then get it all out. Every cask, every keg, every flask."
"Where?" one guard asks.
"I don't care, where!" Strickland's patience begins to fray as he turns back to the stairs. "Just not in our bloody cellar! It seems we've overstayed our welcome."
"But you said…"
"A plan's no good if we're dead! Pack your things, lose the wildfire, and we're leaving this damned city!"
Near King's Landing
On a hill within view of the capital's walls, Brienne's party stands over a cluster of slain knights and captured horses. Their Lannister banners lie discarded on the ground, the bodies in a pile as Elia Sand strips them of weapons and coin. A concerned look of recognition grows on Ormund Storm's face as he kicks aside a helmet on one of the men to reveal their face.
"That's Ser Henry Staedmon," he calls to the others. "He's sworn to Lord Dondarrion."
"They were flying lions," Sandor points out. "We couldn't have known who they were."
"Eh, but it's for the best Harlan never finds out."
"If you keep talking so much, we'll all be dead, and then he won't find out anything," Arya glares at the others, her impatience growing. They've already stopped here for too long. She notices Brienne and Davos standing to the side, and moves close enough to hear them talk.
"I can get you in and out of the city easily enough," Davos explains. "But if you want to get to the queen? That's a whole new level of smuggling."
"We'll find a way," Brienne insists. Arya turns away to see Sandor is standing beside her.
"I don't suppose they'd be like to let Arya Stark just stroll in to see Cersei," Sandor growls. "But this Staedmon bastard, that's another story."
Arya glares at him. She hates that he knows her secret. But yet here she is, reminded of Braavos. She hasn't stolen a face since that night at the inn, that night she dreamed of mother. And she'd sworn she'd never do it again. But now, with so much on the line... She walks slowly towards the pile of bodies, knife in hand, and runs the other along the side of Henry Staedmon's face. She remembers them all now. Jaquen. The Waif. And Syrio before them. He had taught her to say no to the god of death. The Faceless Men taught her to serve it. And at Winterfell, she had looked it in the eyes and killed.
So what am I? She looks back at her companions. She thinks of Jon, of Gendry and Sansa, Bran and Hot Pie, of everyone from the greatest lord to the lowest pauper. She saved them all before. I owe the world nothing. I won't sacrifice anymore. She stops to look up at the sky and breathe in the winter air. No. Syrio and Jaquen both made me who I am. Without them, I'd be dead a hundred times over. I am a Faceless Man and a Water Dancer. I am Arya Stark.
"I can get us to the queen!" she shouts, and moves the knife to the man's cheek, trying to remember the old incantations etched in her mind.
"What do you mean?" Brienne steps forward, but Sandor blocks her.
"Aye, I don't think you'll wanna watch this part."
Daenerys Camp
Ser Osgood lifts coals from the brazier and holds them out over the bare chest of one of the "little birds" captured after the attack. The small boy whimpers as the looming knight glares down at him.
"Tell me who sent you!"
"Osgood, stop!" Ser Merlon bursts into the tent, followed by Black Spot. "They're children!"
"They attacked the queen! They killed the Lord Commander!" the Gulltown knight protests, but the other Queensguard push him aside. He squeals in pain as his own hand slips into the brazier. Merlon, meanwhile, tears the boys restraints away and hands him over to Black Spot.
"Take him back with the others. See that they are well-guarded."
"You seem to fancy yourself to take Ser Jorah's place so soon," Osgood grumbles, nursing his burned hand.
"The queen will make what choice she sees fit," Merlon glares. "You may rest assured, Ser Osgood, you will not have that burden thrust upon you." He storms back out into the heavy snowfall that has once again entrapped the camp, only to find Black Spot waiting still with the boy.
"He wants to tell you something," the Unsullied knight states. Merlon kneels to look in the boys frightened eyes.
"What is it, boy?"
"Please don't attack the capital, ser," he whimpers. The fury with which he had wielded his knife so recently is gone. "I have friends there."
"Well, I'm afraid attack we must. But you need not worry. Our quarrel is with Cersei Lannister. We will liberate the people of King's Landing from her rule. Your friends will be free."
"No," the boy shakes his head. "No, no, no… The wildfire. The queen had us put it everywhere. Beneath the streets, inside the houses. No one will be freed, ser. Everyone will just… burn."
Merlon looks up to Black Spot, but it is clear the Unsullied does not understand.
"Take him away, see he is warmed. I must see the queen."
But Daenerys stands in the heart of the camp, beside a ring of fire brighter than any she has seen before, alone save for Eres, beneath Drogon's watchful eyes. The warrior slowly strips Daenerys of her outer garments. But she does not shiver in the cold. Daenerys stares straight ahead into the fire as Eres takes a knife to her hair, slowly, crisply cutting away, the white strands blowing away in the snow. Once her scalp is bare, cold fingers press red paint onto her skin, leaving marks of Valyrian and texts even older still.
"The Northerners will not come near the fires," Eres talks as she works. "They have seen such power, yet still they whisper against the lord."
"They will come to see the truth," Daenerys steps away, examining the marks on her arms before looking up and into the fire. "I am ready.."
"Then go."
Eres watches as Daenerys slowly steps barefoot through the snow towards the fire.
"What do you see?"
"I see… Jorah. He's there, in the flame. But… what's happened to his eye?"
Eres does not answer as Daenerys takes the final step forward. And then the ring of fire closes behind her, and it is as if she were never truly there.
Blackwater Bay
In the night, Jon dreams. He feels the water beneath him tremble, rising, he sees tentacles of shadow rising up from the black sea and wrapping around the masts. He hears an unearthly call of terror and turns to see one of the tentacles wrapped around Rhaegal's neck. In an instant, the dragon is pulled over the edge and disappears. Jon rushes to aid it, but the wooden hull splits beneath his feet and the shadows pull him down.
Bitter, freezing salt water fills his eyes and lungs as he flails about, falling down, down. But as he looks beneath him, he sees green flames on the ocean floor. He lands, and his eyes are clear. It is the city, King's Landing, ablaze at his feet. And around the fires dance shadows, contorting and distorting into shapes with the faces of all those he loves – Arya, Sansa, Bran, Sam… And at the heart of the nightmare, in the ruins of the Red Keep, is Daenerys. She spins in a red dress, pulled along by a one-eyed man Jon has never seen. But the sight of him is like a dagger in the heart. And then the man sees him and smiles.
It is the smile that wakes Jon, as he falls from his bed onto the deck, desperately clutching at the sturdy wood. He rushes to the deck to find Rhaegal asleep, right where he left him. Breathing a sigh of relief, he approached the dragon, resting his forehead against its warm snout.
"It's okay," he whispers to it. "She's fine. Everything is fine." But as he turns away, hoping to return to sleep, he finds Humfrey Hightower and Yara Greyjoy waiting for him, grim looks on their faces. "What is it?"
"Word from my sister in the city," Humfrey reports. "The queen has lined the streets with wildfire. She means to burn the city to the ground before she lets us take it."
Before the lad has finished his sentence, the word wildfire strikes Jon cold. He has heard the stories, and in his mind's eyes the fires of his dream roar to life.
"I have to go." He turns to wake Rhaegal.
"But I thought…" Humfrey protests.
"You know the plan," Jon yells as the dragon shakes itself free of slumber. "But whatever happens, do not attack until you receive the signal!"
With that final warning, he is once again in the skies, the night air roaring in his face, the heat of the dragon coursing through his body. He knows not what he fears. He only hopes he is not too late to stop it.
