Arianne
She stood naked upon the rocks, skin rubbed red and raw by sand, salt, and seawater. The storm raged and screamed all around her. Lightning flashed from sky to sea, falling harder than the torrential rain. Thunder crashed into her like waves into the rock on which she trembled.
The clouds above roiled like boiling water. A face appeared in the clouds sometimes, it was a handsome man but other times a pretty girl, and it shifted between the two. Its features softened and sharpened in turns, but both had the same black eye that sucked in all light. Each time the black eye opened, the lightning shot red with hate, and the thunder roared so loud Arianne thought her bones would break and shatter.
To her horror, she saw the face notice her. It smiled and opened wide, descending down, down, down until. She was awake.
Arianne turned onto her back and took long deep breaths until her heart stopped racing.
It would be today, she knew. This morning if not sooner, the battle would begin. Euron's fleet had been spotted sheltering on the coast not but a few hours sail from King's Landing. No doubt resting for the night as they prepared. She swung her legs out of bed and rubbed her face.
She felt so tired. The nightmares had been constant. Every time she'd closed her eyes, the storm had found her. She had hardly been able to sleep for the terrors that had haunted her dreams. She must have woken at least thrice an hour. Before Oldtown, she might have dismissed them as simply nerves, but now, she knew better.
She dressed quickly, a shift made from linen and a gown of fine green-dyed wool, thicker and heavier than she was used to but better suited for the current weather, which grew colder by the day. She'd made the decision not to go to the walls. The descendants of Nymeria might boast many a warrior woman in their lineage, but Arianne knew she was not among them. Her talents lay in other areas.
She summoned her maids, who were half asleep themselves, to help her dress and comb her long hair.
She left her chambers and walked quickly through the halls to the small room where her cousins and the lords of Dorne were gathering. The halls were busy with servants and soldiers running to and fro, completing one of any number of tasks.
She met her father's bannermen in an oval chamber near the Maidenvault, where King Aegon made his court. Many of the highborn lords and knights were already present when Arianne arrived. Only Lord Anders Yronwood was still absent. She sauntered slowly around the table to one of the two empty seats. She sat down between her cousin Obara Sand and Lord Warren Wyl.
When Arianne's uncle Oberyn had died in the storm at Oldtown, command in the field had fallen to Lord Anders Yronwood. Once perhaps a cause for concern, but the wounds between Houses Martell and Yronwood had been mended in the years since Quentyn had been fostered at Castle Yronwood.
Anders Yronwood, the Lord of the Boneway, arrived a few minutes after Arianne. He paused before seating himself to give Arianne a brief bow.
"Princess," he said.
"My lord," Arianne returned the courtesy, and Lord Anders took the other empty seat.
He was flanked by Obara Sand, and Lord Dagos Manwoody of Kingsgrave. Lord Dagos sported one less eye than before the Storm at Oldtown. Lord Warren Wyl sat grim-faced and almost eager. He had lost his son Ulrick at Oldtown. Lord Ulwyck Uller sat beside Obara. His elder brother, Lord Harmen, had died of an infected wound just two days past, though Lord Ulwyck affected no concern, or perhaps the fiery old Uller blood ran hot in him, and he had no concern for his dead brother to show.
"Our positions are prepared," Lord Anders said. "Fishmonger's Square, Cobbler's Square, King Jaehaerys' Square, and at each gate. Euron might call down lightning, but we will be ready to quench the fires and keep order."
Many still grimaced and cursed at the mention of a mere man calling lightning like a dog. Arianne supposed she felt the same way. Though she saw Obara grin savagely. Her cousin desired only to drive her spear through Euron's heart. I pray she gets the chance, Arianne thought.
Rather than show her worries, Arianne said. "When Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters unleashed their dragons upon Dorne, many fled our castles for the deserts and hills. Many but not all, some stood and those that stood brought down Meraxes. We must show that same courage as our ancestors. They stood against all the fire and blood they could muster. We can stand surely against whatever Euron can summon."
"Aye!' Lord Dagos shouted.
"It was House Qorgyle who felled Meraxes," Lord Ulwyck boasted. "Perhaps another house can claim the honour of felling Euron today," he replied.
Arianne joined the other Dornish lords in forced laughter like it was the funniest jape they'd ever heard.
After the Dornish council, Arianne surrounded herself with Martell guardsmen in orange cloaks, carrying tall long-bladed spears and red shields. The stables were strangely deserted, and only a handful of mounts remained. Arianne took hers, a sandy-coated mare, and gathered her guard around her as she made a path through the Red Keep's packed and busy courtyard.
The castle gates were open. With so many people coming and going in a rush to prepare the last defences of the city, there was no point in closing them. A company of Baratheon men-at-arms stood guard in the slim case of Ironmen treachery.
The bustle of the Red Keep was not reflected in the city. The streets were empty and quiet, save for the soldiers making their way to the walls. They seemed almost abandoned. The few people out and about hurried like frightened mice. The thousands and tens of thousands of smallfolk who should have been running around their business were nowhere to be seen. They knew a battle was coming and were either hidden in their homes or praying in the septs.
Down Aegon's High Hill, she rode toward King Jaehaerys' Square, which lay in the centre of the city between the three hills. Roads and streets ran away from the square like the spokes of a wheel. Companies of Dornish spearmen were there already, loading water into huge pots and barrels carried on carts, wagons, or the panniers of mules and surefooted ponies. The men bowed as Arianne rode past, and she carried on, pausing briefly only to watch men descending Rhaenys' Hill escorting wagons from the Dragonpit filled with barrels of black powder for the dragons mounted on the walls.
The moment passed, and Arianne urged her mare to the leftward path, up the slopes of Visenya's Hill. She rode past the Guildhall of the Alchemists, a warren of black marble that rested in the hill's shadow. A handful of pyromancers lurked like spiders outside but scuttled quickly inside when they spotted Arianne and her guards.
Near the summit of Visenya's Hill, the streets finally came to life. Thousands of smallfolk crowded the square outside the Great Sept. Some even climbed the statue of Baelor the Blessed as they tried to take sight of the Baelor's Great Sept.
Arianne's guards pushed a path for her through the crowd. A few men shouted curses at the Dornishmen, but Arianne ignored them, fixed as she was on the Great Sept. Memories flickered of the untarnished Starry Sept of Oldtown, standing amidst the ruins of the city. She dismounted at the bottom of the steps and took them two at a time to the enormous gilded doors.
The Great Sept of Baelor was more crowded than any building Arianne had ever seen. Thousands more were packed inside. Highborn ladies rubbed shoulders with whores from the Street of Silk and squires with apprentices from the Street of Steel. Thousands of candles had been lit before each altar and each statue of the Seven. The Warrior and Mother Above had gathered the most and the Stranger the fewest. But even the Stranger seemed to glow with their light. The half animal and half human face lay between shadow and light as the candles below flickered.
Through the crowd, there was but one path. An open space leading from the doors to the altar and statue of the Warrior. A constant stream of grim-faced men in armour went from the door to the altar, where they knelt in prayer for a moment or minute or more before returning the way they'd come. Knelt before the Warrior's altar was the crowned figure of King Aegon. With his cloak of red and black silk golden crown and silver hair, he looked like the ancient majesty of Old Valyria returned.
As Arianne entered the sept, she felt a weight she hadn't known was there lift from her shoulders. A weight made from nightmares and the silent fear everyone around carried. There would be another storm, of that Arianne had no doubt. Reports were few, but all agreed that Euron's fleet had grown, swollen with captured trading cogs and galleys, but that would not be enough to take King's Landing by force of arms. The godless king would need to play another move if he wanted to win the battle.
She listened as she walked to the hymn the septas were leading the people in.
Gentle Mother, font of mercy
Save our sons from war, we pray
Stay the swords and stay the arrows
Let them know a better day
Gentle Mother, strength of women
Help our daughters through this fray
Soothe the wrath and tame the fury
Teach us all a kinder way
Comforting words for a difficult time, she thought.
Arianne collected a candle from a septon and approached the altar of the Warrior, where thousands of candles flickered among the crystals and mirrors. More perhaps than the next two combined.
"Your Grace looks well-rested," Arianne japed when she approached King Aegon. The king looked anything but, with his silver hair messy and dark bags under his purple eyes.
"I fear not, Princess Arianne, I fear not," he sighed. "I don't think anyone is."
"I think you're right," she said. "Like before Oldtown, I remember the nightmares then as well."
"Euron," Aegon said. "Or so, Lady Melisandre says."
Arianne looked around. "Stannis does not come to pay his respects?"
"If he prays at all, he will do so by Lady Melisandre's fire, if he does," Aegon answered.
Far away bells began to ring. The watchers in the Red Keep, at last, signalled the arrival of the enemy.
Arianne shook her head, lit her candle, and placed her candle on the altar. "It's time," she said.
"It begins," Aegon agreed. He hefted his sword belt. "I must leave now," he said.
The king bowed his head and departed, Ser Rolly Duckfield followed like a white shadow in his snowy cloak, and a dozen men of the Golden Company formed his honour guard.
Arianne remained and looked up at the statues of the Seven, then past them. Up to the huge vaulted ceiling above that quietly echoed with the hymns and prayers of the people below. Once again, she recalled the unblemished Starry Sept.
Arianne caught the shoulder of a passing septa.
"My lady," the elderly woman bowed her head. "How may I be of service?"
Arianne pressed a silver stag into her hands. "I want candles and hymns in every sept of the city, every last one."
"Uh, of course, my lady," the septa stammered. "But the cost, of course."
Arianne cut her off. "I am a Princess of Dorne. I have the ear of King Aegon and King Stannis. You will do this."
Mathis
The bells of the Red Keep tolled as dawn came, and the first enemy ships were sighted. Their hulls, masts, and sails silhouetted against the rising sun and the brightening east. The clear skies overhead belayed the threat of ill and stormy weather. The weather Mathis feared would come. He had seen them in his dreams.
The enemy took little time to array themselves for battle. With the morning sun shining from the east, it was hard to see even with a Myrish eye, and in any case, Mathis knew little enough of ships or fleets to be entirely sure of what their movements meant.
He lowered the tube of glass and wood and rubbed his eyes as he tried to force himself to full wakefulness. Gunthor at his side was leaning half-asleep on a crenellation. The surrounding soldiers were keeping themselves awake by eating bowls of thin soup and checking over their weapons for what must have been the fourth or fifth time.
Mathis let his son doze and kept his eyes on the enemy. The distant ships slowly moved into position. Smaller warships, and sleek, almost predatory longships, took up the first ranks while larger hulking vessels waited behind them.
One of Stannis Baratheon's favoured foreigners, Ser Masuro Kichashiro, one of the Beikango whose weapons now rested on the stone beside them, approached Mathis. "The enemy will be in range soon," he said. The foreigner wore a mix of Beikango and Westerosi armour, but his accent was very thin.
Mathis nodded. "What do you know of ships?" He asked.
Ser Masuro frowned slightly. "A little."
Mathis offered him the Myrish eye. "What do you make of their formation?"
The Beikango knight took the tool and looked. Then, after a minute, he lowered the far eye. "The ships in the rear are not ships of war. They are, I think, trade ships."
"Euron Greyjoy has left many ruins in his wake," Mathis murmured. "Those were captured at Oldtown, Sunspear, or Lys, perhaps."
"Likely so," Ser Masuro agreed.
"Why bring them to battle?" Mathis wondered.
"A cog can carry more than a warship," the foreigner said. "More warriors?"
"Perhaps," Mathis agreed, though his stomach was tying itself in knots. Something felt wrong here. Very wrong. But he didn't know what.
Hours passed, and despite the rising sun, it was growing colder. The east wind was as frigid as midwinter's breath. Dark clouds gathered as well, slowly obscuring the sky and the sunlight. The state of readiness that had arrived among the soldiers with the sighting of the enemy had been abandoned in the face of their passivity. Mathis hardly blamed them. He was feeling the weight of his nightmarish sleep as well. Mathis kept himself awake by making the rounds of the tower, inspecting the weapons, and-
"Father!" Gunthor shouted.
Mathis turned quickly and saw his suddenly awake and alert son pointing out to sea.
Out at sea, hundreds of ships had been lit aflame by the Ironmen. The east wind blew the smell of burning flesh toward King's Landing, leaving little doubt of the contents. Smoke filled the air. Mathis rubbed a sweaty hand on his sweaty forehead despite the chill and the wind. The nightmares of the night before had not faded with hours of daylight, and the ill things he'd seen still haunted his mind. He wiped his forehead again. The enemy was finally attacking.
They slipped out of the still dawn-lit east and moved toward King's Landing. The bells that had rung our hours ago warning that the first longship had crept over the horizon now rang again.
"They're coming!" Mathis shouted at his men. "Get up, get ready!" Soldiers scrambled into their positions, rushing to get the dragons ready. A few minutes passed before Mathis shouted. "Aim!" The Ironman fleet was disorganized and their lines haphazard. A few surged ahead, eager to join the fray, while many more hung back, clearly unwilling to press the attack. "Fire!"
Dozens of burning brands descended and lit the many fuses aflame. A heartbeat of silence passed, and then the dragons belched fire, smoke, and unseen deadly iron balls. Manned by Beikango trained Baratheons and men of the Golden Company. The recoil drove the weapons back far enough for the crews to swab the barrels with staves and soaked sponges, extinguishing any leftover sparks. Then came the new powder and the shot, round balls of metal or stone. Then the struggling crew pushed the dragons back into place to be aimed and fired again. The air stank of black powder and smoke.
Mathis coughed and waved a kerchief in front of his nose to clear the air a little.
The dragons roared again, and Mathis tried to follow the shot through the air. It looked like a line drawn through the air and led directly to one of the Ironmen ships. Timbers shattered and broke, pieces went spinning into the dark waters, and Mathis thought he glimpsed bodies going flying as well. The oars at least slowed to a crawl.
Mathis tried to imagine the carnage wrought in the confines of the ship. He'd witnessed the devastating damage done by the dragons at the Cockleswhent. The barely visible lines of death had cut through the knights and chivalry of the Reach and West alike. The dragons were a scythe that turned men into grain. Doubtless, many of the same dragons he now commanded had been trying to kill him that day. Mathis covered his ears as another volley of dragonfire blasted Ironmen ships into splinters.
He smiled. "This is going well after all." Some of the enemy ships were already turning to flee.
Then, in the midst of the enemy fleet, pale green wings spread wide across the rear castle of a red galley with black sails. Mathis' jaw dropped.
Fear and dread filled him as he watched the shape detach itself from one of the ships and ascend rapidly into the air.
"Seven Hells," Gunthor swore while Mathis was still sputtering for breath.
Mathis felt his heart sink. A dragon, a real dragon, winged, serpentine, and too agile in the air for a creature its size had any right to be. The green-winged monster rose higher and faster into the sky.
"Kill it," Mathis whispered more to the Seven than his soldiers.
"My lord?" One of the dragonmen asked.
Mathis turned, the man wore a dirty yellow Baratheon doublet, and the skin on his face and hands was stained grey and black with powder and smoke.
"The dragon!" Mathis shouted. "Shoot the dragon, damn the ships and kill the dragon!"
Men scrambled about their posts, hurriedly and desperately trying to elevate their weapons high enough to catch the rapidly ascending form. But unfortunately, only a few dragons were loaded, and their shots lacked the accuracy to hit the distant shape as it flew up and up until the clouds swallowed it.
Silence swallowed Mathis and his men.
Mathis breathed heavily as he turned. "Ser Masuro," he began, but the foreigner was already gone.
Mathis grimaced. The men were already wavering. Eyeing the barrels of powder primed to explode at the tiniest spark. Mathis' heart raced, sweat pricked on his brow, and he felt the rush of battle sweep over him.
"Gunthor!" He shouted loud enough to make every man on the tower jump. "Run to the Golden Company, fetch Black Balaq and his men. We need their archers on the wall."
Gunthor stared at him.
"Go, boy!" Mathis yelled at his son.
The boy ran, almost tripping over his feet as he rushed away.
"Pull the dragons off the carriages!" Mathis roared at the soldiers. "Load the dragons with scattershot!" Mathis pushed himself out with false confidence. "And aim them at the sky!"
Wavering soldiers rushed to action, distracted from their fear by the half a plan Mathis was still putting together in his head. "Hurry up!" Mathis yelled. The more he shouted, the more he hoped the men would forget what was coming for them. "Get the powder barrels into the tunnel! Be quick!"
And pray we're fast enough.
It seemed to be working. The dragons were hauled off their carriages, some tied upright to makeshift tripods constructed from their own carriages, others tied with ropes, and to the battlements, some of the lightest could even be manhandled directly. Some of the spare barrels of powder were rolled into the tunnel for safekeeping. But with nerves fraying, others were tossed over the side of the tower and into the Blackwater below.
Mathis joined in the effort himself. He worked hard despite the pain in his leg to get the work done. "Faster!"
Thoughts and worries bubbled beneath the surface, beneath the forced smile. Only the gods and the maesters know how fast a dragon flies.
"They're here!"
Mathis turned and almost fell.
Gunthor was there.
"They're here," he repeated and pointed up at the top of the wall where a company of archers was settling into place behind the battlements.
Mathis dropped his part of the load, not caring that it slipped and fell to the ground. "What are you doing here?"
"I… you needed to know they were."
"Leave boy, run-"
A sudden wind almost knocked Mathis from his feet. The wind died and then rose again, rushing from the east and carrying enough spray that Mathis was nearly blinded. A shadow passed over them. A dragon roared from above, and Mathis could feel the heat of his breath. The dragon above was answered by the metal dragons below. The pale imitations of the beast diving toward them. Some, improperly loaded, didn't fire at all or else, released only smoke and flame. Some went flying, knocked free of their makeshift restraints by the force of the recoil, making men scream as their own weapons broke their bones and left them bleeding. Smoke filled the air, and Mathis grabbed his son by the shoulders and flung him into a crevice before falling as his leg gave out. He fell and saw the wind sending arrows flying and spinning and the green dragon flying past the wall above and immolating the archers.
Then it descended. Mathis and the terrified soldiers could only crawl and run. All thoughts of trying to slay the beast fled his mind.
The dragon roared again, and flames erupted out of its fanged maw. Men screamed, and the dragons made of bronze and iron melted in the heat, exposed as little more than pale imitations of the real thing. Then, the remaining barrels of black powder exploded, and half-loaded dragons erupted with furious fire and pieces of metal.
Mathis crawled behind a battlement in time to avoid the worst of it. Then the dragon landed and began lashing out with fang, claw, and a whiplike tail.
The dragon knocked weapons and men around like ragdolls as Mathis barely moved out of the way. He crawled in his belly toward the tunnel. Dagger long claws caught his leg and flung him as well. His armour held, but he screamed in pain as half-healed bones and ligaments broke and tore.
Mathis fell back into the tunnel through the wall, stone sheltered him somewhat from the flames and heat, but sweat broke out, and he winced whenever his armour touched his skin.
Mathis forced himself upright and peeked around the corner, gasping from the pain in his leg. The green and bronze dragon stamped and snarled. On its back sat a man armoured in Valyrian steel scales, engraved with arcane glyphs. He turned, and Mathis saw Euron's face.
He'd seen it before in dreams and nightmares and in the storm clouds that had swirled above Oldtown. It was all too human, but the single blue eye was devoid of all warmth.
An injured soldier moved on the ground, and a flicker of movement from the dragon was all it took to rip the already dying body apart.
Mathis shuddered and started to move back, perhaps he could creep to the other side before Euron, and his dragon noticed him. Mathis watched the dragon strike again at another soldier.
Mathis froze in place. As the dragon moved, he could look across the tower and see Gunthor lying under a knocked-over bronze dragon. His son was moving slightly, the half-conscious efforts of someone in great pain.
Euron laughed as his dragon pulled a screaming soldier from his hiding place. Teeth tore the man's legs apart, and flames cooked him alive.
Mathis grimaced, looking desperately for something.
There. A dragon, one of the small ones, made from bronze. Larger than a hand-dragon, the mouth of the barrel was wide enough to stuff a fist down. It had been knocked further down the tunnel. Mathis pulled himself forward, the injury in his leg screaming at him, but he ignored it. Just as he ignored the insane laughter and snarling behind him.
He reached the dragon and quickly checked the barrel for cracks, the vent at the bottom of the barrel was primed, and powder was loaded in the barrel. Dragonpowder, but nothing to shoot. Mathis eyed the mouth of the barrel. He pulled off his gauntlets, shoved them down the barrel, and then his dagger for good measure. He used his sword to press the makeshift shot down and then tossed it aside. I am no Sword of the Morning to fight a dragon with only a sword. Last of all, he took the burning cord match from a fallen hand-dragon.
He hefted the weapon and stumbled slightly. The huge weighty thing was meant to be carried by at least two men. Mathis leaned his shoulder against the tunnel wall and stumbled his way forward, pushing through his pain. His pauldron scraped sparks on the stone.
The dragon heard and turned to face him. Mathis fell to one knee, resting the bronze tube on the ground. The dragon began to strike. Mathis lowered the match. He heard Euron curse as he saw the weapon in Mathis' hands. The match hit the vent, there was a short moment of burning powder, and then Mathis screamed as the massive kick of the bronze dragon hit him.
His vision went white, and when he came to, the dragon was bellowing in pain, belching bursts of flame and clawing and its own face. Mathis saw a piece of his gauntlet stuck in the dragon's face. Wounded but not dead.
"Silence, beast!" Euron shouted. And the dragon went quiet and still. Unnaturally silent and still. The coils of neck, tail, and wings pulled away to reveal Euron. The Ironman king grimaced as he pulled Mathis' dagger out of his right thigh and then tossed it aside.
Another dragon roared in the distance.
Mathis forced a smile onto his face. "Looks like you'll have company soon," he managed to force a chuckle out as well.
Euron spat. "Burn him."
Mathis screamed as the flames enveloped him, and he felt his lungs burn away to ash.
Quentyn
The morning sun was still rising, and the seas were as yet still calm, but the wind was rising from the east and the north. The Red Priest Moqorro claimed that both were unnatural, the east driven by Euron's will, the north… The Black Eye commands the winds, Moqorro had said, but he flees before the breath of the Great Other and his cold servants. Quentyn shivered at the memory, Moqorro put him on edge at the best of times, and Queen Daenerys had strangely agreed with him this time.
It was mad, Quentyn thought, all of it. Euron, the Others, dragons and sorcerers. All of it was mad, like an old children's story come to life.
Nearly two hundred ships were divided into four lines as the fleet descended upon King's Landing and Euron's Ironmen. The queen's fleet of Ironmen and Dornish ships had been joined with survivors of Stannis' Royal Fleet, Dale Seaworth's Wraith was the first, but others had joined them as well. The remnants of the Royal Fleet still sailed under the black stag of House Baratheon, survivors of their battle with Euron Greyjoy, now led by Dale Seaworth on his ship, Wraith.
All the Baratheon ships had formed up in the third line, behind Victarion's Iron Fleet. The great cog Balerion followed in the fourth line with the Dornish ships and some of the smaller Iron Fleet ships, the ones who wouldn't survive the cataclysmic crash of ram against ram and instead would wait until battle was joined to support their larger allied ships.
In the first line of the fleet, directly where the hammer blow of battle would fall hardest, were the deserters. Ironmen who had abandoned Euron's fleet and, when found, were easily swayed by Victarion's men to change their cloaks.
Quentyn eyed one of their nearby longships uneasily. Those men had sacked Oldtown, Lys, and had ravaged Quentyn's home. He didn't trust them, and neither did Queen Daenerys.
They can earn their trust in battle, she had said.
The drumbeat from hundreds of ships was a steady presence. Since dawn, it had been a slow and steady beat for hours, urging the ships forward without exhausting the crew.
"Your Grace," Quentyn bowed his head when he saw the queen approaching. She still wore a warm fur-lined cloak. Quentyn knew her armour waited in her cabin for when she would mount her dragon and take it to battle in the sky.
"Lord Dale has accepted his commands?" She asked.
"As far as I can see," Quentyn replied.
"Good," she said. "I fear that so close to his master, he and the rest of his captains may have second thoughts on obeying their rightful queen."
"And the turncloaks?"
The queen sighed and asked. "Has there been even one ship of Euron's fleet that didn't change sides the second it spotted Lord Victarion's banners?"
"I think not," Quentyn answered.
"The Ironmen know a failed cause when they see it," Daenerys said. "For all his power, Euron's throne rests on a pillar of salt."
The drums began to beat a rapid tempo, and oarsmen on all the ships around began to pull harder.
"How much longer?" Daenerys asked the captain of Balerion.
"We will see them soon, I think," Groleo said. "I have made the voyage from Pentos to King's Landing many times. It is not much farther to the city."
"We may well arrive to find it under attack," Quentyn said, more to himself than to the queen. They were still at least half a day behind Euron's ships for all the fleet's haste.
She answered regardless.
"Then we will do what we can," Queen Daenerys said.
"Of course, Your Grace," Quentyn said.
The fleet pushed on, and the sky turned from black to blue as sunlight grew in the east. Many of the sailors of Balerion were slumped at their posts, exhausted by the pace Queen Daenerys had demanded. The fleet had followed the coast from the Isle of Tarth and had stopped as little as possible for rest. They had pushed into the night and often began the voyage anew before the sun had fully risen. And now, with King's Landing so close, they hadn't stopped at all. Instead, the crew had slept and worked in shifts, using the stars and moon in the Seven be thanked cloudless sky for direction.
The sun rose higher in the east, almost as if it was chasing or perhaps herding the ships toward King's Landing.
The western horizon crept ever closer but continued to hide the capital of the Seven Kingdoms from sight. Quentyn reluctantly went below decks to don his armour. Light Dornish mail backed with silk, leather, and padding and fronted by decorative copper disks engraved with suns. He belted his sword around his waist, and last of all, picked up a short thrusting spear. He doubted he would see much fighting, but he dared not be unprepared.
Quentyn had been gone from the deck for only a few minutes, but the world had changed when he emerged. Dark clouds had gathered in the sky and had thrown the world back into twilight. The towers of the Red Keep were in sight. The castle resting on Aegon's High Hill like a fearsome beast ready to take flight over Blackwater Bay. He made his way quickly to the prow to get a better view.
Scattered below the heights of the castle and far closer to Quentyn was what must have been Euron's fleet. It was aflame. Pillars of smoke rose from the sea outside King's Landing.
"Euron's burning his own ships," Quentyn said, stupefied.
"No," Daenerys said as she stepped to the prow of Balerion.
Quentyn blinked in surprise. He had never seen the queen wear nought but dresses and skirts of finely cut cloth, but she had traded silk for armour today. Ill-fitting as it was, she wore mail and a padded jacket beneath a black and red surcoat.
"He's burning the captives," she snarled. "The peoples, men, women, and children of Oldtown, the Shadow City, and Lys. His own fire and blood," she spat.
"Seven Hells," Quentyn swore quietly. He thanked the Seven for the winds blowing the smoke and smell away from him.
Every passing second brought them closer and let Quentyn pick out more details. The burning ships had been left adrift close to the southern shore where the wind could push them safely away from Euron's fleet. Many had run aground already, leaving their smoke to roll over the waves and into the sky.
Beyond the wall of smoke, the enemy fleet was divided. Even to Quentyn's amateur naval eye, they seemed disorganized and chaotic. It was a divided enemy fleet that opposed the four lines of the allied fleet. The longships of Euron's Ironborn were out of formation and were unprepared for an assault upon their rear.
Trapped between Victarion's fleet and the mainland, they had nowhere to go but up the Blackwater Rush, and that path was deadly too, Quentyn saw.
He was close enough to see the wrecks and ruined hulks either sinking in the river or being pushed out into the bay by the swift waters to sink there. Puffs of smoke and thunder-like booms emanated from one of the Red Keep's towers. Every shot was echoed by a pair of loud growls from the stern of Balerion. Drogon and Viserion both waited there for their mother.
Quentyn turned back and spoke to a frowning Ser Barristan.
"Dragons like what the Masters had at Yunkai and Astapor," Quentyn said to Ser Barristan. "Euron could never take the city with those defending it."
The old knight nodded but then grimaced. "Even without the dragons, the capital's defences are strong," he said. "And if well defended," he pointed out some banners manning the walls. "Baratheon, Targaryen, Golden Company, Florent, Tyrell, Tully, Martell, Frey, Caron, Rowan, Yronwood, Mullendore, Swann," Ser Barristan shook his head. "I would dare say that the defenders have an advantage in numbers."
"So Euron is doomed then?"
Ser Barristan stayed silent for close to a minute, thinking deeply as the Iron Fleet closed in on the enemy. "In the Greyjoy Rebellion, Euron rightly earned himself a reputation as a clever man with clever plans. When a clever foe does something that looks foolish, it is wise to expect a trap."
Quentyn grimaced uneasily and slid his helmet over his head. The drums began to fire out a rapid tempo as the whole fleet moved to battle speed. Drums of a slightly different and slightly faster beat sounded to the north of Balerion. The lean and predatory war galleys of the Royal Fleet were well crewed, better than the small number of Dornish ships, and as good as some of the Iron Fleet.
"Where is he?" Daenerys asked. She had gone silent since first hearing the thunderous roar of the dragons mounted on the castle walls. "Where is Rhaegal?"
"There!" Quentyn pointed upward at the skies over the Red Keep. A green dragon was diving toward a tower at the mouth of the river.
"Prince Quentyn," the queen said. "I charge you with rescuing as many captives as you can."
"Yes, Your Grace," Quentyn bowed his head.
Without another word, Queen Daenerys left Balerion's prow for the rearcastle where her dragons waited. Moments later, Quentyn heard the crack of her whip and reflexively ducked as Drogon took to the air. The white dragon, Viserion, followed a moment later, and the two beasts ascended into the murky sky.
Quentyn waited for a moment and then approached Captain Groleo. "Her Grace commands that we rescue as many captives as we can," he tried to make himself sound as authoritative as he could.
The Pentoshi captain grimaced. "We will not survive long amidst those burning wrecks."
"There must be something we can do," Quentyn protested.
"I will do what I can," Groleo answered. "Some may not be lit yet."
"Good," Quentyn said. He gripped his spear awkwardly for a moment before turning to return to the forecastle. He watched and waited as the fleets joined and the battle began. From Balerion's tall forecastle, he watched as the Ironmen turncloaks launched themselves at their former comrades.
He saw Wraith rise high on a swell, strike an Ironman longship amidship, and break it clean in half. The other Baratheon ships were quick to follow. At battle speed, they matched Victarion's Iron Fleet as they pursued the enemy.
Quentyn's hands were tight on Balerion's rail. The enemy fleet was breaking formation, running, scattered by the appearance of Queen Daenerys' fleet, and trapped against the fortress of the Red Keep. Quentyn absentmindedly noted that thunder and smoke no longer roared from the battlements.
One longship darted through the lines of the war galleys, trying to make a break for the open sea. Quentyn almost lost his footing as Balerion suddenly shifted course. The big cog was not as fast or agile as the longship, but the wind was with Balerion, and the longship soon found itself being caught by grappling hooks tossed by the sailors and pulled closer to Balerion.
When the ships were close enough, the Unsullied crossed, swinging over with ropes or crossing with small boats. A few sailors even leaped across the treacherous waters.
Quentyn looked down on the longship from the tall deck of Balerion. Euron's Ironmen were throwing down their weapons even as the Unsullied came over the ship's sides. Only a few tried to fight, swinging their axes at the Unsullied's shields with insane fervour only to be swiftly put down by the eunuch soldiers. The warriors who fought and surrendered alike had haunted eyes and hallowed expressions. They were quickly disarmed and locked in the hold beneath.
Quentyn released the white-knuckled grip on his spear. The muscles in his hands ache slightly. It had all been over so fast. He looked up from the longship. The enemy fleet was fleeing, all but for one ship. A single-masted galley with black sails and a dark red hull that rode high and proud in the water. Dragons roared in the sky above. Quentyn looked up. The clouds were as dark as the Stranger's heart, the wind was picking up, lightning cracked, and thunder echoed in the clouds.
At Captain Groleo's direction, Balerion left the longship in the hands of the Unsullied and continued. The great cog pushed through the chaos. The ship's sheer mass was enough to ward off the attentions of the few of Euron's Ironmen still fighting back. They came closer to where many of the burning ships had run aground. The whole southern bank of the Blackwater was a wall of burning flame, boiling smoke, and terrified screaming.
Quentyn almost vomited. The smell was horrible. The stink of burning flesh reminded Quentyn too much of bacon and ham for comfort. Run aground, their flames posed less of a threat to Balerion than at sea, but the chaotic winds still sent sparks and embers flying in every direction.
Quentyn grimaced, at a loss of what to do. The flames were too fierce to risk boarding or drawing too close. He stumbled as Balerion trembled. The waves were rising higher and fiercer, pushed into a frenzy by the wind, and with every second more lightning roared overhead.
"We will go no closer," Groleo said. "With this storm, it is a death sentence. We would be thrown among those wrecks before we could blink."
Quentyn shook his head. There was nothing he could do but watch and pray.
The storm roared louder overhead.
Daenerys
"Prince Quentyn," Dany said. "I charge you with rescuing as many captives as you can."
"Yes, Your Grace," the Dornish prince bowed his head.
With that, Daenerys rushed to the rear of Balerion. Rushed as best she could while bundled up in her armour at least. The big trading cog still offered enough space there for Drogon and Viserion to land and rest. Though the two often snapped and snarled at each other. Sailors grappled on ropes and sails as they aligned Balerion with the wind. Unsullied formed on the deck in their units as best they could with how crowded it was, equipped with their shields and short stabbing spears.
Drogon and Viserion fixed their eyes on Dany as she approached. The saddle in Drogon's back had been a labour to make and an even greater labour to tie onto him. It had taken the better part of a day and Dany's constant soothing for the reinforced leather straps to be tightened and secured in place.
Dany seized the handles and pulled herself up and into the seat. Drogon shifted slightly and caused Dany to fumble as she tied the straps around her legs. Two Unsullied rushed to help her, Drogon snarled, but that didn't deter the eunuch soldiers. The straps were tied around her legs and to her armour. Dany would not be falling out of the sky today. Not unless Drogon is falling as well, she thought. Dany squeezed the long whip she'd use to command Drogon in flight and did her best to banish her fears and worries, or at least not to show them.
"You will obey Ser Barristan and Prince Quentyn while I am gone," she told the Unsullied. This had already been discussed, but she felt the need to say something before leaving.
The eunuch soldier saluted without hesitation and took careful steps back to allow room for Drogon.
Dany cracked her whip, Drogon snarled, his wings rose and fell, and they left the ship behind. Her stomach dropped out of her body, and she squeezed hard onto Drogon despite the straps.
The wind rushed past her face, and her helmet was cold against her head. She could feel Drogon's muscles flex beneath her, heard his roar with her body as much as her ears, vibrating through her flesh and bones.
The sea fell away from her, and the big warships quickly looked like tiny toys. Her fleets were closing in on Euron's Ironmen. Trapped between the bay and the river, they were forced to choose to fight at sea or risk landing and the warriors waiting on shore for them. Others were already taking a third option. They were beaching their ships on the southern coast of Blackwater Bay. Some stayed with their boats, while others disembarked and fled into the trees of the Kingswood. Dany took a deep breath and raised her eyes from the sea and the chaotic and growing battle below. To where Rhaegal was rising from the red walls of the Red Keep. The green dragon left behind him a scar of blackened stone and smoking debris around a stout tower close to the water's edge.
Viserion roared a challenge, which Drogon echoed, and Rhaegal answered. The green dragon ascended higher, and Dany didn't have to urge Drogon to match the pace. The black dragon was eager for battle. To her right, Viserion broke away and flew faster and higher than either of his brothers. Dany's stomach was clenched and pulling itself into knots. Closer and closer they came. The smoke and screams from the battlefield below were the only interruptions to the frightful quiet. Dany could see Euron on Rhaegal's back. At this distance, the Ironman king was but a dark shape but was growing clearer by the second.
The dragons crashed into each other, the sky's silence broken by roaring flame and slashing with claws. Drogon was larger than Rhaegal and pushed his brother down, and they began to tumble from the sky together. Daenerys pulled Drogon back with a flash of her whip when he made to strike at Rhaegal. The black dragon trembled in rage but obeyed her.
She saw Euron claw at the reins as he fell, while Rhaegal took advantage of Drogon's hesitation and pulled away. Drogon spread his wings, and the ocean that had been coming so close rapidly fell away.
It was then that Viserion struck. The white dragon hurtled out of the sky and took Rhaegal from above. Drogon righted himself and hit Rhaegal from below barely a second later. Rhaegal screamed in pain and beat his wings as he tried to escape the other two dragons. But couldn't and was instead pressed tight between them as they began to fall.
Drogon and Viserion tore at Rhaegal with their talons, and Rhaegal ripped back with his. The green dragon breathed flame with total abandon. Dany could feel the heat, and she felt sweat pop along her brow that had nothing to do with the weight and warmth of her armour. Rarely had she ever feared heat or flames, but dragons were fire made flesh.
The three dragons tumbled out of the sky. All of them screeching and roaring their pain and fury.
Viserion's screams began to take on a different note, screams that triggered Dany's memories of the last day of the Siege of Astapor. When the foul horn carved with Valyrian glyphs had blown. When Rhaegal had screamed and screamed as the horn's spells had bewitched him.
Viserion was fighting no longer, he had released his grip on Rhaegal, and now the green and the black danced alone as they plummeted from the sky.
Dany wrestled against Drogon's tempestuous movements, trying to urge him to just the right spot. There, through the tangle of shifting bodies, thrashing limbs, and snapping jaws, Dany spotted Euron. He had outstretched toward Viserion a bloody hand, and his open-faced helm revealed an eye rolled back into his skull.
"No!" Dany cried and lashed at him with her whip. Once, twice, thrice, and many more. There. Her whip battered at Euron until the tip finally slashed his face just beneath his rolled back eye. Euron shouted in pain and clutched a hand to his face.
Viserion screamed triumphantly, and his vast white wings beat the air as he retreated from the fight.
Rhaegal screamed in time with Euron, bound to him by that dreadful horn, and Dany forced herself to say. "Dracarys."
Drogon reared back slightly and unleashed a torrent of flames from his fanged maw.
Rhaegal roared and screamed, the exposed wounds hissing with suddenly boiling flesh and blood. The smell overwhelmed Dany so much that she spat and cried for her child's pain.
She lashed at Drogon with the whip. He pulled away from Rhaegal at the last second, but the green dragon did not try to escape as an animal should. Instead, Rhaegal pushed forward, clawing and biting at Drogon, and the two dragons wrestled in mid-air and began to fall.
"Rhaegal!" Dany reached out. The heaving and fighting dragons were so close she could touch Rhaegal. She put her hand on her child's neck. She could feel the muscles straining in the fury of combat. Perhaps her touch awoke something as, for a moment, Rhaegal ceased to struggle, and Dany saw the wounds that had already been done to him. Jagged bits of metal were embedded into his face. It lasted for only a moment, and just as suddenly as the dragons had locked themselves together, they broke apart. Rhaegal climbed, wings pushing hard against the rising wind.
Daenerys and Drogon followed, and Viserion was close behind them. Up and up, Rhaegal flew until the clouds enveloped him. A few seconds later, they swallowed Daenerys and Drogon. She could hardly see. The clouds were so thick and dark that even Drogon's neck, barely a hand's width in front of her, was almost out of sight. Echoes of distant thunder filled the air, and the air was so thick with water that it made her lungs heavy and caused her to cough violently.
Suddenly Drogon broke through the clouds. The sudden sunlight almost blinded Dany. Above the gathering storm, it seemed almost peaceful. The air was thin and freezing despite the sunlight. A moment later, Viserion followed Drogon. The white dragon belched flame at clouds as if trying to fight them. They were so high up that the smoke and stench of burning flesh were gone. Not even a hint of the scent remained.
Dany shivered as a cold wind rushed sharp enough to drive like daggers into her flesh. The air so high up was thin, and she was starting to see spots when a glimpse of a shadow of movement sent her heart racing, and with furious focus, she drove Drogon toward it. Back down into the dark clouds that swallowed the sun's light, where the air was thick with water and the static of potential lightning. It was so dark she could barely see anything. Thunder rattled the air. A shot of lightning crackled inside the clouds. The thunder rattled Dany's teeth and provoked a defiant roar from Drogon. Blind and deafened, Dany closed her eyes, focusing on the feel of Drogon beneath her, the air around her. There. Somehow she knew Rhaegal was not far. She cracked the whip, and Drogon snarled and swerved to the right.
Lightning burned again. A flash of red behind Dany's closed eyelids. The wind rushed, and thunder roared as the storm clouds gathered their strength. Dany blindly cracked the whip, ignoring her senses in trusting instinct to guide her. Drogon's wings beat an irregular pattern against the clouds. Dany opened her eyes in time to see Rhaegal and Euron dart out of the shadowy clouds. They attacked from beneath with flames billowing from Rhaegal's maw. Drogon swung wildly to the left, avoiding the fire but not the claws that ripped at his tail. Rhaegal flew after Drogon. Dany turned her head over her shoulder to see that Viserion had joined the chase. The white dragon came from above and raked his talons along Rhaegal's back.
The green dragon roared in pain and fell out of the sky. Viserion plunged after him, and Drogon followed.
The three dragons dived, tumbled through the bottom layer of clouds and collided in mid-air. As Euron bid Rhaegal fly away from Drogon, he came into Viserion's claws. Dany had a moment to see Viserion clutching onto Rhaegal's right hind leg before Drogon landed on Rhaegal's other side.
"Agh!" She shouted as the force rattled her bones. She felt her stomach drop as the earth's pull fell away as they dropped. Her helmet weighed nothing on her head. Loose strands of hair rose weightlessly before her eyes. Armour and leather felt as light as silk. Then weight returned with redoubled force. As they fell to earth.
Rhaegal was trapped, caught in the clutches of the other dragons and plummeting toward the windswept sea. They ripped and tore at Rhaegal. Belly down, the green dragon was almost defenceless.
Dany felt her skin tingle, and her hair stand on end. The only warning before a blinding white lightning bolt shot out from inside the clouds. Blinded, she blinked furiously as she fought to see, knowing the battle continued only from the thrashing dragon beneath her and the constant whiplash as she jolted this way and that. When her vision cleared, she saw Drogon and Rhaegal still battling, but of Viserion, she saw no sign. The sea was getting closer, the wind was rushing, thunder roared, and lightning cracked above and around them as it struck the sea and ships below.
Rhaegal was still struggling beneath Drogon, but it was a losing battle, and the green was losing his strength. Hot blood poured from a dozen deep and painful wounds. Dany got her first good look at Euron as well. His armour was Valyrian steel, and it glittered with glyphs, but his right side was caked with blood, his skin was wan and pale, and it looked like he was muttering something, but Dany couldn't tell what. The wind was too loud. Suddenly, Euron drew his sword, and for a moment, Dany thought he meant to try to leap from Rhaegal's back to Drogon's and slay her. His face was half-covered in blood, and she could see him laughing. He raised his sword and drove it point down into Rhaegal's spine. Dany screamed.
"NO!"
There was stillness for a moment, and then Rhaegal stopped fighting, stopped flying, and fell like a stone, as limp as a boned fish.
Hot tears flowed down her cheeks as she cried. "DRACARYS!"
Dany screamed, and she cried as Drogon's flames washed over Euron and Rhaegal.
No One
She could feel the soon-to-be-born storm, feel it in the air, feel it in her blood. It was rising. Growing stronger with every death, be it by fire, water, or steel. They all fueled the storm. Everything pulled into a vortex around and above her. Ironborn, Greenlander, Lyseni, and more. Their bloodshed fueled the gathering storm. Every passing second saw more lives thrown by the hundreds into the hungry maw that yawned wide and open in the sky above, swallowing and feasting on the power of the sacrifices beneath. Clouds and winds and waves trembled in anticipation of the cataclysmic release. All waiting for some signal that she knew not how to give. The storm was waiting, and when it broke, it would rage forever.
She stood half-naked on the deck of a red ship with black sails. She remembered nothing about the ship but knew that it and the crew were both as silent as the grave. A black iron cauldron rested on the red and bloody deck in front of her. It bubbled black with blood and bone. A tide that spilled onto the deck with each movement of the ship. Black blood and open wounds dotted her arms, legs, and body, but she felt no pain.
All she felt was him. Her master. High in the sky above. Euron. He was all she knew. The rest was nothing but mist. She was no one.
She felt the first wound, a sharp, sudden, burning pain in his and her right thigh, where the dagger had landed with such force. Then the whip that scored the face and left it red and weeping blood. Then the blows, bone-wracking impacts that had left her doubled over and gasping for breath. None of the injuries belonged to her. They were her master's. She could feel Euron's pain, the bleeding hole in his leg, the slash across his face, the broken bones, and the warm king's blood that flowed over his body slowly weakening him. She also felt his rage, his glee.
She wanted to laugh as the sharp point was driven down. She tried to laugh but couldn't remember how. She felt the trembling and then the spasming death throes of the dragon beneath his seat. She felt every motion, the twisting spine, and contorting muscles, heard the death scream, and then felt it all go still.
She felt the bottom fall out of her stomach, a momentary sensation of weightlessness as Euron fell. Strength faded from the dragon as hot lifeblood poured from its gaping wounds. She could feel it on Euron's skin like it was her own. Burning hot but burning half so hot as the potential that swirled in the clouds around him, her, them. Then she felt the flames wash over her body, no Euron's body, was it? She couldn't tell. She knew only the pain of boiling blood, roasting flesh, and melting steel. She couldn't remember how to laugh, but she remembered how to scream. So she screamed and screamed as the pain threatened to tear her apart. Screamed so hard her throat went raw, and she tasted blood. She fell and felt the deck beneath her as she shuddered and stamped her heels against the timbers.
For the few moments, before it happened, she could feel Euron's body better than her own. The weight of the armour, the straps in the saddle, the burns from dragonfire, the grip of his hand against the rune-etched bronze dagger, the touch of the dagger's tip as it pressed against bare skin, and the cutting pain as the metal slid through muscle, between bones, and into the beating heart. She felt the spasm and panic of the organ as ancient and ensorcelled metal cut it open. Felt the blood spill through the body cavity and pour out of the open wound. She felt the dagger as it slipped from his hands, or was it her hands? The old leather was slick with her blood, or was it Euron's blood? King's blood. She remembered someone. Was it Euron? Someone who said. There is power in a king's blood.
As Euron descended, she stood. She could feel Euron's mirth as he fell out of the sky, his triumph, his weakness as darkness slowly took him. Then he struck the ocean at such speeds that the water felt like stone. She screamed again as she felt every bone break at once, muscles tear apart, and organs rupture. Hot tears of blood rolled down her cheeks. She fell back to the deck, collapsed, and coughed sick from her stomach. The stomach acid burned her throat and lips.
There was silence for a moment, a minute, an hour, and a lifetime. The sensations that had consumed her mind for as long as she could remember were gone. The otherness in her mind, the strangeness of her own soul. Instead, she felt herself extend outward into the sea below, the storm above, and the minds all around her.
It was incomprehensible. She was the wind, the storm, the lightning, and bits of matter too small to see. They would flow and twist at her command. If only she knew how to command. No one cannot command something.
Then she felt something in her mind, an alien someone, something that didn't belong. She screamed again and ripped at her face with bloody nails as the thing in her mind pushed her down. Down and away. She tried to fight, but she was no one, she was nothing, and this presence was something, someone, terribly familiar.
No one faded, and Euron took the first new breaths of his second life. He rose first to his knees. He took things slowly as he grew used to the new body. After a minute, he then pushed himself upright. With tottering steps, he made his way to Silence's prow. The winds rushed from the clouds and over the sea. Euron felt every current of wind, every bit of canvas, timber, and flesh it touched. The power swelling at his fingertips, but it was fading, slipping away. He needed more. More fire. More blood. More death.
"So weak," he cursed the little Ironborn who had failed to ignite some of the prisoner ships. The little people of his homeland had no stomach for what was needed and no vision for what Euron dreamed of.
They were weak, weak like everyone else in the world, weak like the three-eyed crow, the three-eyed liar. Too weak to stop the freezing cold, the endless winter, the long night. The blue-eyed and merciless horrors already marching south. The things that wanted to kill and kill and-
"NO!" Euron shouted shrilly with his new voice. "No, no, no, none of those thoughts! NO!" He clutched his bleeding face with his bleeding hands. "NO!"
He began to laugh. Forced himself to laugh. A laughing man couldn't be afraid. The laughter turned manic, and at his desire, the wind rose again, strong and terrible, the storm roared all around, and lightning fell. Not just upon the fleets or the walls but into the city. Striking down upon house and home, again and again, burning timber and scorching stone until both crumbled. Lightning that hunted and sought the hidden secrets of a long-dead king. Euron would find it, and when he did. Laughter bubbled forth. Cruel laughter at terrible odds with the innocent face he wore. Deep within his mind and soul, the laughter echoed down and away until it became a girl's scream.
Euron cackled. "BURN THEM ALL!"
And dreams of emerald flames danced in his brain.