Chapter 50: A Dragon's Cry
Gritting his teeth, Lord Rogar Baratheon shifted his wrists as they ached. In spite of his youth the weight of his upper body strained them greatly, a losing battle between the painful ache and the just as much pleasurable ache engulfing his cock. He grunted, redoubling his thrusts.
"Ahh…" Below him, a lustful moan left a pair of delicate lips. "Kessa, my Lord," begged his bedmate, her petite wisp of a body ever the contrast to his bulk and muscle.
Slim and gentle… and without experience. The Lord of Storm's End was denied nothing.
She was flat on her belly, ass raised in the air and open to his assaults, not that she minded. "More… fuck me more…" He always asked for the novice ones, they'd be less likely to fake it - Rogar liked the challenge, and he always succeeded. From how she screamed her climax just before his wrists gave out, now was no exception.
He collapsed on her, breathing the scent of her perfumed silver hair. A beautiful Lysene Valyrian, but not even in comparison to the woman he desired, the ultimate prize of all.
I will have her before the war is done. The thought brought a smile to his face as he dressed and headed for his solar, Lord of all he surveyed.
Lord Samwell Tarly was the new arrival, sporting a scowl that conveyed a sense of dread that his handsome face normally wouldn't be associated with. The butcherer of the Vulture King and sister to one of Queen Rhaena's closest friends had very much earned it though.
Rogar was not fazed by Tarly. The women on the other hand… "You're late," scolded his grandmother, though it was soft.
He shrugged, kissing her cheek. "I waited till I was informed of Lord Tarly's arrival." He was still in his riding boots. "My Lady. Your Grace." Both Lady Vivienne Tyrell and Queen Dowager Visenya Targaryen nodded their heads. "My reinforcements from the Reach have arrived, I see."
"They have," spoke Lady Vivienne, the oddest of the bunch here. Half-sister of Hugor Flowers, and reportedly the only person he actually loves. "How soon can you march?"
"March?" Rogar asked, taking a seat. "March for what? Harrenhal, for that is where her Grace the Queen resides. Red Harren and his rebels would be an easy foe to dispatch." That Gargon Qoherys was so stupid as to not rout them with his banners made Rogar laugh.
"Not Harrenhal, that is the domain of the Northern army," Visenya said.
His brow rose. "Harrenhal and the Lannisters?" That was surprising, but he moved on. "Besieging King's Landing would be a pleasure but counterproductive. Cost much time."
"Grandson," Argella Baratheon said with a sour tone - she had never been the same since his grandfather and father… perished in a tragic fire. Rogar had cried endlessly at the funeral. "A massive host marches up the Roseroad, having sacked Highgarden and Hornhill. The Dornish march with them."
His fists tightened. "So Wyl did it, then?" He wasn't under the illusions that the wimp Martell boy ruled. "Adds another twenty thousand to the Faith's… what, forty?"
"Just about," said Sam Tarly. "Sixty thousand men, among that a fourth is horse, and a hundred elephants."
"And we have what? Forty thousand, among that seven thousand horse? Just peachy." He cracked his knuckles. "Well, I love a challenge. We can march for Nightsong and cut them off at Hornhill…"
"You will do no such thing," Visenya ordered, scowling.
Rogar leaned back. "Come again?"
"There will be no battle, at least not now. March for Tumbleton and hold the road - not until the capital is retaken will we face Lord Roxton in the field."
Lashing out, Rogar smashed his fist against a wooden beam as the storm raged outside, pelting the ancient castle with wind and rain. It had been an hour since the ladies and Lord Tarly left, but he was still angry. "How dare she! How dare that bitch!" Another punch, knuckles starting to split. "My blood were kings while hers were goatherds fucking sheep in the mountains!" That he shared that same blood wasn't relevant.
His feet carried him to Stormbreaker, the ancient warhammer of House Durrandon. Valyrian steel reputedly forged by King Monfryd the Mighty, whom had conquered all the way to Maidenpool. He picked it up, grinning as he inspected the glorious hammer. Imagining striking down all his enemies…
Hearing a rap on the door, Rogar stumbled, almost frantic in how he placed the mighty warhammer upon its place on the wall once again. Why must I fear? I am the Lord of Storm's End. He knew why, though. "What?" he barked, somewhat impatiently.
It opened to reveal Oryn, his youngest brother. His cloak was soaked and hair matted with rainfall, shivering and clearly in discomfort. Nevertheless he kept his composure with Rogar. "Bad time?"
"The Faith is eager to have us all hang," Rogar snapped. "So aye, it's all bad." He motioned Oryn to enter, to which his brother did. "We're to march for Tumbleton, block the main army of the Reach from getting to King's Landing before his Grace can take it."
"We're just going along with it? Maegor as King and Rhaena as Queen? The whore?"
"Not so loud, you idiot." His brothers had the same bombast as Rogar - Durrandons as stormy as the land they ruled - but it was as if he was the only of them that inherited their grandmother's cunning. "Only game in town… until Harrenhal is relieved."
Oryn winced. "If the Starks get there first…"
"Don't worry about them, just worry about the thousand horse you and Borys'll take to Harrenhal." Damned if he would let Rhaenys Stark get there first… "But did you get it?"
A nod, Oryn pulling a . "I'm not entirely useless, you know."
Rogar didn't even look up at his brother as he took the soggy parchment in his hands. "Borys isn't entirely useless, but even you couldn't fuck up being a courier." He unfurled it and found the writing thankfully legible - penmanship superb.
Lord Rogar,
I will not waste your time by repeating the military situation. I was succinct in my official dispatch on behalf of Queen Alyssa.
Truth be told, her Grace has been in a sorry state. Refusing company aside from her son, Prince Viserys, and her handmaiden. She has barely ate and refuses to leave her chambers. Greatly she mourns his Grace, but even more does she condemn those that profit from it.
Her anger with the Faith and High Septon is only matched with the words she directs upon Prince Maegor. How she loathes him, of which I overheard her screeching of how he defiled her daughter's womb and now her crown as well.
She despairs over her son in Castamere, but more so of her fate. Lord Rogar, if you wish to be the one to earn her favor you must ride with haste to relieve Harrenhal. You and I can converse further then.
Lord Lucas Harroway
A dreadful smirk persisted upon Rogar's lips as he set the ravenscroll down. Mind running wild, he walked slowly to the roaring hearth, lightning illuminating the solar as the storm continued to rage outside. "Our grandfather… he was legitimized by our great-grandfather the moment he was allowed to take a name of his own. Had it not been for his lack of a dragon, he would've been King, not uncle Aegon."
"I am aware of that, brother."
Rogar watched the flames, half the words of their ancestral house, the house of their paternal line while their grandmother's fury raged outside. A fitting omen. "It is the will of the gods that it did not come to pass, and yet I am content. Better to be Kingmaker than King." With a jerk of his hand, the letter disappeared into the flames, burning into ash instantaneously.
Oryn winced. "Maegor will stop you. Rhaena too."
A snort. "Rhaena won't raise a hand against her mother, and as for the brute… Blackfyre will fail against the Stormbreaker. It is fate." All he needed to win was sitting in Castamere and Harrenhal, waiting to be liberated.
The foolish woman would fall into his arms, Rogar just knew. Better than any Lysene maiden, even if someone had her first.
This is humiliating. Grand Maester Gawen clenched his fist within the folds of his robes, not allowing the treasonous annoyance escaping the facade of the absentminded old scholar he projected. Mayhaps hunger and the fact of being trapped like a prisoner within the walls of the Dragonpalace were getting to him…
But in the name of the Mother and Maiden, why was Prince Jaehaerys mandating the war council meet across from his sickbed. His eye was lost, but otherwise the young Targaryen was in perfect health.
I believe he is trying to humiliate us… or at the very least me. But the Prince had no idea of Gawen's duplicity. If such was exposed, certainly he would have his head mounted upon the battlements as poor Septon Alfyn. Not a fate he wanted for himself as he passed the guards stationed outside the Prince's chambers.
"You're late, Grand Maester," the sullen boy growled from his sickbed. The quilts were pulled to his chest, but the sleeping shift was visible.
Brat hasn't given respect enough to at least dress to receive us. Even a tunic and trousers would've done. Gawen bowed nonetheless. "Forgive me, your Grace. I was tending to the wounded and couldn't depart their bedsides immediately." Not a lie.
Jaehaerys wasn't convinced as per his glare, but Ser Marden Karstark cut in. "I think the matter is well enough settled, my Prince." After a long silence, Jaehaerys finally nodded.
Ironic, Gawen was forced into a chamber of two northmen and the Prince. Was he the only Andal of the Faith present? Fitting.
The news was grim, at least if one was supportive of the Targaryen cause. "Lord Myles Smallwood tried to march from Pinkmaiden towards us with a five thousand relief army. Red Harren met with a force of Poor Fellows to block him." Ser Marden grimaced. "They were forced to retreat back to Pinkmaiden."
Jaehaerys clenched his hands. "They weakened the lines?! Why didn't we attempt another breakout?!"
"We were too savaged from the past breakout. By your orders we placed all offensive operations on the backfoot until reinforcements were received. Had we known…"
"I suspect someone gave information that we weren't planning anything, which is why they reinforced Red Harren," Brandon Snow said. If Gawen sweated, he didn't give it away. After all, it wasn't he that passed the information over the walls. "In any regard, a massive army under Lord Gyles Roxton, Martyn Hightower, Mors Martell, and Joffrey Doggett is marching to King's Landing as we speak."
Jaehaerys was silent. "Do we have an army to stop them?" A servant entered the chambers carrying a bowl of… something. White flecks of grain, it seemed. Starvation rations, one in better times he wouldn't feed rats. But the boy eyed it with absolute hunger even as he handed it to Jaehaerys.
Ser Marden rubbed the back of his neck. "Lord Baratheon and your Grandmother have a host, but it is outnumbered."
Suddenly Jaehaerys roared, tossing the bowl to the ground. The servant boy broke, desperately kneeling and scooping the goop into his mouth as if a beast. The Prince didn't notice. "Here I am, my family dying and my grandfather's realm falling apart! And I am a crippled boy imprisoned in his own keep!"
"Your Grace, please…"
"Send word to my uncle! We need to be relieved, now!"
"Yes, your Grace."
Gawen staggered back into his solar, faced with the rows and cupboards of tomes and elixirs and poultices. He grimaced, knowing no bath could cleanse him of the stink of the petty wyrm he served. It was temporary, only temporary.
"He's falling apart, isn't he?"
Nearly jumping at the sound, Gawen turned to see the servant girl staring at him. She was thin, near emaciated from the siege, but her eyes burned with the same piety and determination that survived all of Ceryse's presence in the keep… and now the presence of Rhaena as Maegor's husband. "Aye, he is."
"We should put him out of his misery."
But Gawen shook his head. "Not what is demanded of us." Barth wished the boy delivered to him personally, along with his dragon - both alive, for what he had no clue. Nor did he wish to know.
Barth was a genius, but mad. Few wanted anything to do with him apart from his being the only soul High Septon Hugor trusted now that his half-sister chose the Targaryens.
"Foolish… so long as this keep stands, the Targaryens can reclaim the city. There is only so much time to waste before the chance slips away." She approached him, fire in her eyes. "Maegor is only one length of sea away from here."
Truly, Gawen didn't know what made the Prince fail to attack them. Rhaena was in the Vale, while the other Targaryen armies were spread too far wide or besieged at the moment. Chaos being the order of the day, perhaps that was why. He didn't want to dither either. "An update on the condition of the men here is a decent bet - I entrust the servants of the Seven to know the right moment to strike."
"For our heads, I hope you are right." With that she left, allowing Gawen the solitude he craved.
Leaning on the balcony of the place she had called home for so long, Ceryse Targaryen couldn't recognize it anymore. Below in the vast metropolis of Oldtown, what seemed to be all of its two-hundred thousand souls were in revelry. Booming sounds of celebration at the declaration of the Holy Dominion. Freedom from the clutches of the Valyrian talons as Archsepton Boniface put it - a paraphrase, for the original quote was much to profane for Ceryse to speak of.
Already thousands were answering the call to arms, assembling under the banners of the professional army of the Faith. Lord Roxton was to be the overall military head, Ceryse knew, while her father or elder brother would be the titular commander.
Her blood were side by side with Hugor Flowers… and yet it felt like a betrayal to her. Ceryse sighed, entering her chambers. They were luxurious, just the way she had left it many years before. But they were empty. Felt empty. Deprived of the same warmth as she had felt there as a girl, before visiting King's Landing and ascending to her destiny.
Ceryse realized the uncomfortable truth early on - aside from her aunt Patrice, who was always good to her, it was as if those of her blood were mere strangers while all of those she looked back fondly upon were of the dragonblood. She sighed, gazing down at the empty bed. Remembering what had just transpired mere hours before. When her father and brother had entered, seeking her approval for something that brought shivers to her.
"No," Ceryse said firmly. "I will not do it."
"You must, sister," insisted Martyn, dressed in his armor.
Her eyes blazed fury. "No."
Lord Manfred Hightower was normally a kindly man, but a savage coldness had descended on him. Quite uncharacteristic, and had she not been so offended Ceryse would've been quite fearful. "Reconsider, daughter."
"She said no three times, brother," said her aunt Patrice, face sour. "You're not getting another answer."
"It is her duty!" bellowed Lord Manfred. "Her duty before the Seven!"
"You're asking her to turn on her own husband, married before the Seven!" Patrice shouted back. "Think the Mother would take kindly to that?"
"A bigamous dragon," sneered Martyn.
"My husband," Ceryse replied evenly. "I shan't turn on him."
Her brother gaped at her incredulously. "He turned you into a laughingstock! Him and his whore of a sister."
"You will do what the High Septon demands of you, daughter."
She met her father's gaze. "I will not, father." Lord Manfred raised his hand as if to slap her and Ceryse flinched… only for no slap to come.
Shuddering at the memory, Ceryse had watched as he only left in a huff, followed by her brother. Her aunt had stayed and they had talked, getting further confirmation as to what exactly her father and brother were trying to impose on her. A demand to speak out publicly against Maegor. To speak of his adultery and his cruelty - both the truth and to lies, speaking of how he had beaten her and caused her miscarriages. His rape of whores and girls…
No, she would not do it.
A tear fell down her cheek, Ceryse falling onto her bed. "Maegor…"
Damn it all to the seven hells, she still loved him. Still thought of him in her dreams, of his kisses and touches. Of the four babes they would never have. Even though he slept with Ralla of the Free Folk, even though he married Rhaena, I love him.
"I don't want to be here anymore… I want to be with you," she murmured to herself. Or to the gods. Ceryse didn't know if they bothered to hear given she would not stand with them.
She didn't want to fight anyone, just to be with her husband - regardless if she had to share him with Rhaena.
Suddenly, another knock came at her door. Before she could speak, it opened to reveal… "Morgen."
Her younger brother strode in, anger on his handsome face. He was without the armor of the Warrior's Sons, but wore the rainbow cloak and the sword emblazoned on his gambeson - proving him as more than just a Hightower. "Sister, what is this I hear of you refusing the High Septon?"
Ceryse rolled her eyes. "I have no intention of being made a pawn in this war that will destroy Westeros."
"A war that will save Westeros."
"From my husband, you mean."
The words seemed to make him fall back as if struck. "A man that betrayed you, sister." His eyes pleaded with her. "A man that deserves you not, a monster and a bigamist… you deserve better, sweet Ceryse."
The Princess sighed. Morgen and her had been so close growing up, pretty much the closest friends two siblings could be. It was clear he had gone down a different path - her being the wife of a Targaryen Prince and him a celebrated kingslayer. One of the many that had stabbed her goodbrother in the Sept of Remembrance. She thought such an affront to the gods, but would not attack him. She loved him. He was her brother.
"Brother, I know you care for me, and I appreciate such. But Maegor is my husband and I will not abandon him."
She expected him to call such treason, or sacrilege, but what he said surprised her. "He doesn't deserve your love!" His face was anguished. "You deserve more."
Ceryse shook her head. "I love him, Morgen."
A loud cry of agony left his lips. "Such an dragonspawn doesn't deserve your love!" Morgen surged forward and seized her hands, shocking Ceryse. "You deserve someone godly, one who does care for you enough never to cheat." Suddenly he fell to her knees. "I love you, sister."
"What?" What was he saying? "I love you too, brother…"
"It is much more than that, Ceryse." He cradled her hand with his own, letting his cheek fall on it. "Far from one that marries another after a life of bedding whores and wildlings, it is I that loves more than anything, sister." He kissed her hand. "A pure love, one untainted, since we were but children, and it breaks my heart to have witnessed your innocence given to such a monster."
It all became clear to her, and Ceryse grew pale as a sheet. Her eyes were impossibly wide as the truth came out - her brother lusted for her. Her childhood companion, now unabashedly gazing at her with a look of desire. Ceryse had seen it before, ever since Morgen had begun to come of age, but never did she realize it till now. "What have you done, brother?" she asked in disbelief, almost horror. "What have you done?"
He didn't heed her tone, instead his grip on her hands tightening. "Do you know how hard it was to see you defiled by that monster? Those immoral dragons, not fit for anything but the deepest hells? To me you are as pure as the Maiden." He rose, arms encircling around her tightly before Ceryse could stop him. "I love you, Ceryse, just as it should've always been."
Morgen leaned in to kiss her, yet Ceryse pushed him away with a strength he didn't expect. Gaping at him with wide eyes. He took a step back and eyed her confused. "Brother… let this be. You're likely drunk and I promise we can let it go and that I will forget this happened." Ceryse couldn't process this, and merely wanted to sleep. To pretend this was some nightmare.
Morgen looked as if someone had slapped him. "You… you still defend that monster, even with me here…"
Ceryse felt her heart pounding. "He is my husband and I love him. You are my brother and I love you, but not in the same manner."
His eyes seemed to harden. "The man is monster! A man who would defile and impregnate his own niece, betraying you and humiliating you!" His fists clenched, altogether unfamiliar to Ceryse - was this her brother when he stabbed her goodbrother to death? "Has he bewitched you? Has his mother the dragon whore put some Valyrian blood magic upon you?! Corrupted you with their depravity?!"
Suddenly Ceryse felt a great anger overwhelming her. Overwhelming her shock. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner?!" She pulled herself as far away from him as she could, her eyes blazing with fury. "Leave, Morgen! I shall grant you absolution in the morning since you are my brother…"
One moment she was speaking and upright, the next she was sprawled out on her bed, cheek burning from where Morgen had slapped her. "You are nothing more than a whore!" he proclaimed, causing her to cry in shock. "A whore, no better than the ones that sell their bodies by the docks. That's what they turned you into, and I shall not allow them to win!" He began to untie his trousers. "Take off your dress," Morgen ordered her.
Now it was truly a nightmare. "Brother… please…"
"Take it off, now!"
"I can't, please don't do this," she tried to ward him off, which didn't work. Was this truly happening? Her head was spinning. "Morgen, I'm your sister…"
"I am a knight of the Seven, so you'll do as I command." Morgen stared coldly at her. Eyes filled with determination. "I must save you from their blood magic. Rescue you."
"You're going to take me? No… you're better than this." But he didn't reply, and she went cold. "You are… brother, how did you become so vile?"
"Vile!" he snarled. "You'll thank me for this!"
He was truly lost. "Before you make a decision you'll regret… please just leave in peace," she pleaded. "By the gods, brother…"
"Regret…" He then slapped her face again. "Regret?! It is in the name of the gods that I do this! To save your soul!" He grabbed at Ceryse and threw her upon the bed, blood dripping onto the covers from her split lip.
"No! Help me!"
"There will be no one to hear you, demon!" he shouted, as if mad himself. Morgen ripped her skirt trying to hike it up as Ceryse kicked and writhed. Her smallclothes followed, tears filling Ceryse's eyes. Pinning her hands above her head, he kissed her, which she responded to by biting his lip. "Sister, fight the demon," he murmured, as if in a loving way. "It'll be over soon."
"No! No!" Her scream was cut off with another kiss. Her nightmare just beginning.
Maegor… please help me… By her own choice, however, no help was forthcoming.
The days seemed to drag on and on.
Ambling along the ironwood desk within the bedchamber of Prince Jaehaerys, Vermithor could see all and heard all. From the rising of the sun to the rising of the moon in the beginning each was easily discerned. Hyper-aware of how long the siege was going on. He was a dragon, he understood, even if some of it made no sense. Who were these evil men imprisoning his kepa? That hurt his kepa, laying in bed for weeks on end since a battle he had fought. He did not know, not that Jaehaerys would tell him.
The poor lad that had hatched him was not very talkative these days. The loss of his eye was one reason, while another was simply hunger.
Rations were falling low, and even the dragon hadn't eaten in a day. Jaehaerys tried to feed him his share, but Vermithor declined. His kepa was too important.
The door opened and he raised his head from where it was curled. Something was happening.
"Your Grace."
"Leave me in peace, Ser Marden."
"A message from your uncle." A new man entered, one whose scent was vaguely familiar.
His kepa recognized the man too. "Ser Bean?"
Dick Bean nodded. "Managed to slip through the hidden gate near the river. Your uncle wished a message to get through without being intercepted as a raven would."
"Tell me then."
He cleared his throat. "Your sister has gathered an army in Runestone and Gulltown, while your grandmother is in Storm's End with a large force."
"Are either marching towards us?"
"Within the week."
"We don't have a week!" Vermithor heard his kepa screech. "We need reinforcement or relief now or we'll die." There was more yelling, and then finally they were alone again. He heard Jaehaerys murmur. "Uncle… if you hear me… we're going to die soon…"
Alone with his kepa, Vermithor immediately flapped his wings to him. Landing upon his bed and ambling on his wingclaws to where the bump of Jaehaerys Targaryen rested under the covers. A sad cry left the dragon's maw, nudging his kepa. The boy roiled with anger, roiled with hate for many moons, but never had Vermithor sensed such resignation. Such sorrow.
Shifting, Jaehaerys' good eye looked down upon Vermithor and the Prince's gaze softened. "Boy." A hand stroked Vermithor's head, scratching under his jaw. He purred at the attention. "How did it come to this?"
'Kepa…' He was so young. What could he say?
Jaehaerys chuckled mirthlessly. "I said the worst things to my uncle, let my anger to him cloud my entire judgment… I hated all of them, and now all I want is for them to return. To hug my sister and uncle. My muna and my brothers. My… Aly, kepa…" Suddenly he was sobbing, and Vermithor nuzzled close to him. Giving what comfort he could.
It wasn't enough. Only the bliss of an exhausted sleep could soothe his kepa, but his anguish was a blessing in disguise. Unlike Jaehaerys, Vermithor did not have the luxury of ignoring his hunger. His rumbling belly. Held close to the sleeping Prince, he couldn't sleep as his stomach growled, begging for food.
Vermithor's senses picked up the pigeon landing upon the window, cooing softly. Immediately the dragon was up. Careful to not disturb his kepa but practically lunging himself at the creature. The bird fled, Vermithor hot on its heels.
This felt degrading. Embarrassing for such an intelligent, glorious creature. Vermithor was well aware of his standing in the kingdom of the beasts of the earth and birds in the sky, ranking among man and god, just above the furry creatures some of his kin so socialized with. Feasting on the finest of butchered meats since his hatching had accustomed him to luxury. And yet here he was, chasing an emaciated pigeon with desperate vigor as if a gutter rat.
He hated it, but his gnawing belly demanded sustenance so he didn't care.
Flapping frantically, he managed to keep up with the tiny grey speck. Landing somewhere along the battlements when his talons sunk into feathered flesh. Vermithor wanted to screech in triumph, but instead hunger drew him to fall behind the battlements and puff out the tiniest amount of flame. Cooking the bird alive and providing a desiccated, charred corpse for him to devour.
Damned if that one bird tasted better than all the butchered meats he had ever eaten. Vermithor felt truly blessed.
Distracted by gorging - what felt like gorging after such meager fare - Vermithor's senses were dulled to the point he didn't notice what was going on below the wall. When the grappling hook suddenly clattered upon the wall did he shriek softly, leaping back on his wingclaws and talons.
"Praise be the Seven," he heard through his senses, a towering human in plate armor climbing over the battlements. "By the Warrior, all is clear."
"Shut it," another one said, voice irritated, followed by two more up other ropes. "Head to the gate and open it." Men dashed about as the dragon cowered in the shadows, not knowing where the men under his kepa's command were. "By the end of the night, we'll have Jaehaerys' head to join his papa's." More than one man spat on the ground.
Hearing the name of his kepa said with such disrespect sent a roaring rage through Vermithor. Instinct took over. Flapping his wings, he forced himself in the air and felt the fire surge out of him.
Such didn't go unnoticed. "What the…" But the leader of the attacker's found his face set alight by the attacking Vermithor, flapping about the walls. "Fuck! Fuck!" Another man tried to put out the flames but he was also set aflame.
All as Vermithor screeched as loudly as he could, seeing shapes of men stirred awake all around the Dragonpalace.
Watching from what the Targaryens called 'Visenya's Hill,' a name that would need to be changed immediately, Ser Damon Morrigen shook his head. "We lost the element of surprise. Damn it."
"They're outnumbered and spread thin," Lyle Bracken replied. "The attack will still succeed if we concentrate."
He clenched his fist. By the Seven, their discovery of the runner getting through the secret gate in the Dragonpalace's walls had been nothing short of a coup, but they had been spotted before they could open the gate and let in their men. "They still have a dragon," Morrigen replied, slamming his fist on a stone wall. "A tiny one, I know, but could turn the tide…"
Bracken laughed. "Tiny? Prince Jaehaerys' dragon is barely the size of a dog. I wouldn't consider it a massive threat. Keep pushing and we can have the Dragonpalace by…"
He was cut off as an earth-shattering roar erupted out of nowhere. Emerging through the blackness of night to make the entire city seemingly shake as if the ground itself was moving. Everything seemed to still, including even the fighting, as the roar began to fade and was replaced by the faint sounds of wingbeats echoing through the air.
For Ser Damon, he knew exactly what it was. "Pull all forces off the walls!"
"Grand Captain…!"
"Round up the population as hostages and take them to the Sept… Balerion is here."
Maegor had arrived.