The Gullet

Maegor

Maegor felt the apprehension growing within his chest the further away from Dragonstone's citadel he flew. He occasionally twisted in his saddle to look back in the direction of the island, and caught a final glimpse of the Prince and the other seeds save Gaemon flying in the opposite direction, making for the waters north of Dragonstone. Clad in leather, mail, and plate, Maegor felt very uncomfortable. He was used to wearing loose clothing that would not tangle or weigh him down even after being soaked by spray from the sea, or dry so slowly that he would remain damp long enough to catch a chill. The armor added a significant weight to his movements that he'd never before had, and with every ponderous shift and turn that he made, Maegor felt as though he were one of Dragonstone's gargoyles, covered in vestments of solid and heavy stone.

From what Maegor understood of the Prince's quick description of the situation, the enemy fleet was split into two squadrons, one larger and sailing around the northern side of Dragonstone, while the other sailed around its southern side. With Maegor riding the fastest and most nimble dragon, and Gaemon riding the meanest and largest dragon, they had been chosen to deal with this smaller southern squadron. Maegor caught occasional glimpses of the Cannibal flying behind him with Gaemon perched upon his back through breaks in the clouds, as the sun began to break over the waves. Among the clouds, Maegor could almost convince himself that he was not riding the Grey Ghost into battle, but rather simply accompanying his mount as it searched for fish in the waters surrounding Dragonstone. Would that it were truly that. Maegor wanted to look down and see fishing skiffs, not ships of war. On many mornings since his arrival at Dragonstone's citadel, Maegor had watched these small vessels as they rode the waves to claim their morning catch. From so far away, Maegor could pretend that his father and brothers were on one of them, hauling in nets and looking forward to spending the evening at the inn, drinking ale and trading japes with Wat and other patrons.

He had occasionally flown around the island and over the sea atop the Grey Ghost, enjoying the fact that he could simply sit in silence, with nothing but his thoughts and the whistling winds. On dragonback, Maegor didn't have to make awkward conversation with curious servants or courtiers, and arrogant knights who barely veiled their jealousy behind a courteous veneer when asking Maegor about how he managed to tame such a "magnificent creature". He had never been a very talkative person before he'd tamed the Grey Ghost, but after learning of the deaths of his father and brothers, he had begun to shut himself off completely. He did as he was bid, visiting the blacksmith in order to be fitted for armor and choose his preferred weapon (a sword, for Maegor doubted that throwing nets would be as effective against men as they were for fish). Beyond what the Prince had requested, however, Maegor had done little and less during his time in the castle. Gaemon had tried to talk with Maegor when he'd taken his meals, but Maegor had kept their conversations brief, focusing more on his food than whatever words his friend was saying. Maegor just wanted to be left alone, but the gods had seen fit to curse him with endless visitors, fitting him for clothing, bringing him water to bathe in (when Maegor had asked a servant if he might make a trip from the citadel down to the sea to bathe instead, the girl had thought he was japing), or asking when he wished to eat.

When he'd finally acquiesced to Gaemon's attempts to get him to leave his quarters and travel with the other seeds into the village below Dragonstone's citadel for a night of drinking, Maegor had hoped that doing so would win him some peace from his friend's insistent pestering for a while. Mayhaps Maegor had even hoped against hope that he would enjoy himself, and at least for a time chase away the grief that haunted him incessantly. Instead, a seed named Nettles had insulted his deceased father and brothers. In that moment, Maegor had felt an emotion burning within him even stronger than the sadness that had dominated him for weeks. It was rage. A painful flame that burned within his heart, threatening to consume him and burn away all of his restraint. However, Nettles had apologized quickly and sincerely, and the flame inside Maegor had started to die. But then Ulf had spoken up, unapologetically insulting Maegor's family and all the other dead who had sought to tame dragons. The rage had come back twice as strong then, and in that moment Maegor had wanted nothing more than to beat the drunkard senseless. Maegor's restraint won out in the end, however, and he kept himself from attacking the drunken seed. The timely arrival of a guard requesting Gaemon's presence had further broken the tension within the inn, and Maegor had taken the opportunity to stalk out into the night, wandering into the dark streets.

He hadn't realized that his path led further down the streets into the village rather than up to the citadel until he found himself standing in front of a darkened two-story structure of crudely-cut stone and old timber. The almshouse. Maegor had only been there once since he had fled that night long ago. He had made the trip as an older lad, several years after he'd returned home from his time on the Dragonmont. Maegor felt he'd owed Septon Bennard an explanation for his disappearance, as well as to thank the man for all that he'd done for him. Though he looked even older than Maegor remembered him as a child, the septon still possessed a quiet strength that showed in his movements. Septon Bennard had wept and embraced Maegor upon seeing him standing outside the almshouse in the street, before bringing Maegor up to his modest quarters on the second floor of the almshouse where they could speak in private. Bennard had confessed to Maegor that despite his prayers to the Father to protect Maegor, his prayers to the Mother for her mercy, and his prayers to the Crone for her to guide Maegor, he had still feared that the worst had happened. Bennard was the only person Maegor told about seeing the Grey Ghost who believed him, and he declared to Maegor that his dreams about the Dragonmont and the Grey Ghost were blessed visions from the Crone herself. Maegor had left the almshouse that day with a feeling of peace and contentment.

Standing in the dark outside the almshouse that night, however, Maegor had only felt indecision and sadness. He had wanted nothing more in that moment than to seek out Bennard and speak with him, but a sudden fear had stayed his hand as he lifted his fist to knock on the door. In that moment, Maegor felt an irrational need to avoid speaking with the Septon about what had happened to his family. If I don't speak with the Septon, and never return to my family's cottage by the sea, it can be as though they're not really gone. The moment I speak with Bennard however, I'll know them to be dead within my heart, and I will well and truly be alone. Maegor knew that his thoughts utterly lacked any sense, but he just couldn't bring himself to accept that his family was gone. Hanging his head in grief and shame, Maegor had returned to the citadel.

The distant sounds of flame crackling and heavy crashes tore Maegor from the thoughts that had been claiming his attention. Maegor's chest tightened at the sight that appeared below him. He could see ships of the Velaryon fleet burning and sinking, and many war galleys sailing swiftly through their wreckage, chasing survivors of the initial skirmish as they limped into the strait between Dragonstone and Driftmark. The galleys of the Triarchy seemed to be making no attempt to peel off towards Dragonstone, and with horror Maegor began to realize why. They mean to assault Driftmark. Maegor felt the familiar white-hot rage begin to flow through him. He'd heard stories about the fleets of the Three Daughters, and how they attacked and kidnapped innocents on ships or vulnerable strips of coastline to use as slaves. They'll do the same with the people of Driftmark, or at least those that they don't butcher. Unlike Dragonstone, Driftmark had towns of considerable size in several places. Like Spicetown. He could see the indistinct shoreline of Driftmark appearing in the distance, and could barely make out the gleaming silver roofs of High Tide's towers. He knew that not far beyond that castle was Spicetown, with its famed wharves reaching out into the Gullet to bring in trade and wealth. Yet now they'll draw in naught but misery and death. Steeling his nerves, Maegor descended towards the war galleys of the Triarchy.

Though he was chained to his saddle, Maegor still felt an odd sense of weightlessness as the Grey Ghost descended rapidly from the sky, and Maegor guided the Ghost towards a massive warship that was much larger than any of the others entering the strait. A hail of arrows, crossbow bolts, and scorpion bolts whistled up towards Maegor, but the Ghost was a fast and elusive creature, and weaved between them, with only a scarce few arrows and crossbow bolts bouncing off of his scaled underbelly as the large flagship loomed in ever closer. "NOW!" Maegor screamed, clutching his whip tightly, and the Grey Ghost opened his maw and began to shoot white-hot flame from his gullet. The flames set the deck alight, and began to spread with a hellish ferocity as terrible, guttural screams pierced Maegor's ears. As the Grey Ghost banked and let loose with another jet of pearl-white hellfire, Maegor was taken aback by the heat of the flame that emanated from the fires burning across the upper deck and rigging of the flagship, and watched with horror as burning sailors writhed and convulsed among the flames, some flinging themselves shrieking into the waters of the strait. Maegor's mouth was dry as the Ghost flew towards another war galley, gracefully weaving amongst bolts and arrows. Flame was once again loosed, and another ship burned brightly, the unfortunate sailors on its burning deck twisting and turning as though performing some awful dance to a tune played by the Stranger themself. Just like my dream, thought Maegor.

He had dreamed of a dragon again not long after arriving at Dragonstone's citadel. He hadn't slept well since arriving, and what little sleep he did have was oft plagued with unpleasant dreams, some so nightmarish that he woke up in a cold sweat. But one dream was different than the others. Maegor once again felt the pleasant and comforting feeling of warmth that began in the tips of his fingers and toes and flowed throughout his body into his heart. He was floating weightlessly in a blackness as dark as any ink, and though he did not fall, neither was he able to move at all. He could hear the sounds of waves far below him, but was unable to see them. In the distance he could barely make out three large indistinct forms. Maegor began to float towards them, unable to control his own movements. His surroundings gradually grew lighter as he flew towards them, and by the time he found himself looking down on them from above, he could see that the shapes were three massive women in silken dresses, all standing silently in a ring up to their knees in a roiling sea of pitch. Their faces seemed similar enough that Maegor took them for kin to each other, but before he could consider them further, he was startled by a loud roar. A dragon rose from the waves of pitch in the center of the ring that the three women had formed, and they began a slow swaying dance around it as it writhed and roared mightily. The dragon shot jets of flame in all directions as it continued to roar, and the clothing of the dancers was set alight. As the flames consumed them, they danced faster and faster. Their faces remained serene and unconcerned, even as the flames turned them into pillars of fire. Their movements grew more erratic as they burned to ash, and as the fires consuming them died out, so did the light illuminating Maegor's surroundings. He was once again left in pitch-blackness, unable to see. A massive roar reverberated through the darkness, rattling Maegor to his core. Maegor sat up on his bed, trembling from an odd mixture of terrible fear and elation.

Maegor wasn't sure what the dream had meant, but he felt that it had to relate in some way to the carnage below him. The fight had been going on for hours. It seemed as though every time Maegor had burned a ship, two more had sailed into the strait to take its place. The waters had become a choked miasma of burning flotsam and corpses, and as Maegor passed low over another ship, he was startled by the appearance of a frightened sailor fleeing the jet of Grey Ghost's flame. His features bore a haunting resemblance to Maegor's own father, and Maegor was so stunned that he banked the Grey Ghost higher up into the sky in a panic, trying to collect his thoughts. That isn't my father, Maegor thought to himself. But he is likely someone's father, or brother, or son. You selfishly grieve for the loss of your own family while you burn the families of hundreds on dragonback. Maegor felt an intense guilt wash over him as he continued to circle the Grey Ghost in the sky above the chaos. He saw the Cannibal descend on another ship, setting it alight. Then Maegor remembered the panicked and tear-stained face of Prince Aegon as he arrived on the back of his dying dragon, Stormcloud earlier that morning. These same men likely killed one prince, while trying to drown another by shooting down his dragon. My father and brothers weren't the murderous rapists and pillagers on these ships below that seek to sack Driftmark and terrorize its people. With a hardened resolve, Maegor began to guide Grey Ghost back towards the battle below. In order to protect the lambs of this world, I must burn the wolves. Maegor didn't notice the tears flowing down his cheeks as he continued his descent.

Gaemon

The smell of burning flesh was powerful, and sickening. Gaemon had not forgotten its smell after he had witnessed Runcifer Sunglass' burning in the Cannibal's cave. A mixture between the savory smells of cooking meat and the acrid odor of burning hair and clothing. Each time the Cannibal swept down to burn the ships below, the smell of smoke and death became nearly overpowering. Gaemon had decided by this point that the opportunity to prove his heritage was not nearly as glorious as he had dreamed it would be. This isn't even a battle… it is a slaughter. It had been less than an hour since he and Maegor had departed from Dragonstone, flying south. The sea had been beautiful, its waves reflecting the rising sun. It had not been difficult to find the southern squadron of the Daughters' fleet; they had followed the wakes of its ships as the galleys had approached Driftmark. Their path was marked by the burning hulks of Velaryon ships left to sink, evidently the unlucky remnants of the defensive patrols that had been directed to provide early warning in case of an attack. The men aboard those ships had no chance, Gaemon had thought, their enemies had approached hidden by the rays of the rising sun. It would have been difficult to spot them, as the Velaryon soldiers would have been forced to stare into the sun. Luckily Maegor and Gaemon had caught their enemies as they had begun to break battle formation, preparing to land forces on Driftmark. Any later and they'd have begun to sack Spicetown. Our dragonflame would have been of little use if they'd managed to land their troops. We'd have been just as likely to burn Spicetown's smallfolk. The thought of the slaughter that had been narrowly averted hardened Gaemon's heart to the suffering of the men below him.

Maegor had been the first to reach the fleet; his dragon was terribly quick. It emerged from the low-hanging clouds like grey lightning, burning ships before ascending just as quickly. Chaos had spread immediately, as Maegor and the Grey Ghost had evidently burned the fleet's flagship first. From what Gaemon knew of war fleets, it was common for them to use flags and horns to communicate with one another in the midst of battle. A group of sailors that had visited Wat's old inn had regaled Gaemon with the stories of their battles within the Stepstones, and they had remarked on the importance of communication during battle. Evidently Maegor's crippling of the flagship had been extremely destructive for the sailors below, as many of the ships had broken formation and seemed to be manuerving in patterns that seemed to lack any sort of coherence. This had left them as easy targets for the Cannibal, which had roared mightily when it had finally joined the battle. While the flames of the Grey Ghost were shot in narrow streams of blinding heat, the Cannibal's flame were great gouts of dark green flame that burned with an unnatural glow. It usually only took a single blast to set an entire ship alight. Even when the flames themselves did not connect, the sheer heat often caused the sails and rigging to catch fire. The men on the decks of each ship were transformed into writhing, shrieking torches that quickly threw themselves into the dark waves lapping about the ships.

In the first few moments of the battle, several ships had coordinated their fire in order to try and bring one of the dragons down. Everytime the Cannibal or the Grey Ghost descended, a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts would sail up to meet them. From his seat atop the Cannibal, Gaemon had been mostly protected from these attacks, and could hear them clattering harmlessly off of the Cannibal's nearly impenetrable scales. When his initial fear of being struck had subsided, Gaemon had allowed himself to go away inside, wishing to escape the smells of burning flesh and the screams of the dying. He found himself thinking of the other dragonriders, wondering whether they were safe. It'd be a particularly tough loss to lose Nettles and that filthy mouth of hers, he thought to himself. Alyn Velaryon would be devastated to lose his elder brother, and the death of Prince Jacaerys would be an awful loss for Lady Baela. He hadn't any time to truly process his meeting with his half-sister, but he was certainly grateful she'd not decided to not share his claims of parentage with the Queen. Queen Rhaenyra's wroth this morning had been worthy of the Dragonlords of old, he mused. Having finally been able to experience the fury of the Queen, he was doubly grateful for Lady Baela's discretion. He hoped to be able to speak with her more in the future, as he desperately wanted to know anything more she could tell him about his family. I would imagine she is furious right now, unable to join Prince Jacaerys in his assault.

Lost in his thoughts about the other dragonseeds, Gaemon had been completely shocked when he felt the arrow strike his helm. The force of the hit forced his head back, and only the visor prevented the arrow from striking his face beneath. Forcing himself back into the present, he hunched further into his saddle, leaning into the Cannibal's neck as it burned the ship beneath them. I am such a fool, he thought to himself. In his mind's eye, he could see how he had allowed himself to begin sitting more upright in the saddle, presenting a much greater target for the men below. Faced with overwhelming odds, they still fight to win… and one just scored a hit that was closer to turning the tide. He knew it was his duty to win this battle, not just to the Queen, but to the people of Driftmark. How many of the people below have lived lives just as my mother, or my grandparents have? How many young men and women below would have been destined for the pillow houses had Maegor and I not arrived when we did? The thought of such things disgusted Gaemon, and he resolved to finish what had been started. I must needs keep burning til the screaming stops, he thought with a grimace.

By mid morning, the ordeal was over. Gaemon estimated that out of the forty ships they had caught, perhaps four or five had managed to navigate their way out of the conflagration and make their way back from whence they came. He had been eager to bring Fire and Blood to the enemy a few hours before, but now he found himself exhausted and feeling sick inside. All I have done was to save lives. Those I took today were worth taking if it meant that Driftmark could be spared. No matter how many times he repeated those words to himself, they still seemed to ring hollow. Circling the smoldering ruins of the fleet, he had flown the Cannibal towards the Grey Ghost, signalling to Maegor that they ought to land in order to confer with the garrison.

As they descended in circles towards the beach, a crowd gathered, keeping its distance, but cheering nonetheless. When the Cannibal landed, Gaemon took a few moments to undo his saddle chains, before dismounting and removing his helm. It felt good to breathe without his helm restricting him. On the beach, the smell of death was less pervasive than it had been out to sea. Maegor dismounted the Grey Ghost and similarly removed his helm. Gaemon wished to offer some words of encouragement to his friend, but could find none. Instead, they shared a moment of silence before sharing a nod and turning to the crowd, where several soldiers dressed in tabards sporting the colors of House Velaryon had gathered. The lead soldier, an older man, grim and scarred, stepped forward and knelt.

"Seven blessings, masters. We'd have never been able to repulse the fleet had you not intercepted it. They'd have caught the majority of our fleet at anchor. I have no doubts concerning Spicetown's fate had they been able to land. Driftmark is in your debt."

Gaemon nodded. "We are glad to have prevented them from visiting such woe upon your island. We landed in order to see whether the island was secure before returning to Dragonstone."

The soldier spit into the sand. "A few of the buggers have been washing ashore, but they were nothing we couldn't handle. We gave them the sort of welcome we imagine they'd have given us if they'd taken the city." He turned to regard the stretch of beach behind him, where Velaryon soldiers patrolled, executing the survivors who washed ashore. Gaemon had to suppress a scowl as a group of Lyseni sailors waded ashore, hands raised above their heads, evidently begging for mercy. The Velaryon soldiers wasted no time in putting their spears through the chests of the Lyseni, leaving their bodies to be gently buffeted on the shore by the waves. The waves crashed ashore blue, and receded a dark crimson. Turning back to face Gaemon once more, the soldier cleared his throat. "There is one matter the two of you will need to address. Forgive me for not saying more, masters, but methinks you ought to see this for yourselves."

Gaemon and Maegor followed the party of soldiers down the beach, before being led to a crowd that had formed in a ring around something. Hushed voices whispered in awe around whatever was at its center. The soldiers harshly cleared a path through the crowd, before reaching the center. In the center of the ring, a small boy sat, dressed in ragged, salt stained clothing, clutching a blanket about his shoulders. He looked up as the two dragonriders entered the circle, revealing pale hair that poked out from under his cap, and deep purple eyes that harbored dark rings beneath them. He shivered, looking exhausted from whatever ordeals he had just survived. What shocked Gaemon the most however was what lay curled in the boy's lap. Staring up at Gaemon was the tiny, yet fierce face of a dragon hatchling. The boy ran a hand along the hatchling's spiney neck, as it hissed at the crowd around it. Its scales along its neck and back were orange-red, with its stomach having scales of yellowish-orange. Its eyes were akin to red coals. The boy smiled wanly. "It hatched from its egg after I had swum to the shore." Looking down at the hatchling, then back to Gaemon, the Prince whispered: "I think I would like to return home now."

Gaemon had initially been unsure whether it would be safe to carry Viserys and his hatchling atop the Cannibal, so he'd approached his dragon with caution, keeping his dragon whip at the ready. When he had led Viserys and the hatchling closer, the Cannibal had hissed, baring its jet black fangs at their approach. Raising his whip, he cracked it over the dragon's head, which earned him a chilling stare. Eventually, the Cannibal lowered its head, and while not looking particularly enthused, allowed him to help Viserys and his hatchling into the saddle. He then climbed in himself, taking care to chain both himself and the Prince in safely. The hatchling hissed as the Cannibal rose, spreading its great black leathery wings, before beating them powerfully and lifting off from the beach. Behind them, the Grey Ghost also rose into the air. As they flew back, tracing their route from earlier, neither Viserys nor Gaemon spoke. As Dragonstone became visible in the distance, Gaemon realized that the Prince had fallen asleep. His small form had hunched forward, still clutching his hatchling firmly. The poor child is probably exhausted, Gaemon thought to himself. I'm not sure even the Crone herself would know how he escaped the men of the Three Daughters. Gaemon had tried to imagine how a boy that young could navigate a burning ship full of dying men well enough to find his dragon egg and manage to escape overboard. It is almost miraculous. Either way, the Prince is an amazing child. He realized as he glanced down at the sleeping child that the boy was his half brother, which came as quite a shock. Having never had any siblings, he found himself grateful that of all the horror this war had brought, it had also given him a family. He had to desperately resist the urge to embrace the boy. Even if this is my half brother, that would not be proper.

As the Cannibal reached the shores of Dragonstone, it let out a shattering roar, announcing its presence. Viserys jumped awake, and Gaemon put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. The Grey Ghost responded with a roar of its own as they soared over the shepherd's fields that enclosed much of the Dragonmont's foothills, before finally reaching the citadel itself. The two dragons arced in a circle about the citadel, gradually descending into the courtyard. After they had landed, Gaemon realized with some surprise that there were very few people in the courtyard. He hadn't necessarily expected an official welcome, but it was odd that there were hardly any people to be seen in the courtyard. Undoing his saddle chains, he dismounted, before helping the Prince to climb down, his hatchling now curled about his shoulders. As Maegor dismounted, he gave Gaemon a look as if to ask: where is everyone? Gaemon shrugged, starting to feel concerned. Normally, he had never had access to the Stone Drum, but given the circumstances, he decided to walk Prince Viserys inside to find his mother. He was about to start walking when he felt a slight tug on his arm. He turned to face Viserys looking at him, concerned, holding his hand. He gave the Prince his most reassuring smile, and took his hand as they climbed the steps into the Stone Drum.

Even after entering the tower, there were few servants or guards to be seen. Those they did pass bore looks of grief upon their faces. An older guard, upon seeing Viserys, directed them to the Great Hall, where they passed through great red doors that were set within the maw of a great stone dragon. Passing below its teeth, they entered the hall and immediately were greeted with the sounds of crying. Upon the dais, Queen Rhaenyra was hunched, sobbing, holding Prince Aegon tightly. Gathered about the throne stood several lords that Gaemon recognized vaguely, along with Ser Marbrand and Lady Baela, whose own face was darkened with rage, and puffy from tears. Standing further from the throne were Hugh, Ulf, Nettles, and Addam Velaryon. Each of their faces were grim. Nettles' smoke-stained face was stained where tears had traced their way through the ash. As Gaemon and Maegor entered the hall, faces one by one began to turn to regard them, their expressions changing from grief to shock. Ser Marbrand leaned down and whispered something in the Queen's ear, and she slowly rose, before her eyes widened and she rushed from the throne to where Viserys stood, holding Prince Aegon's hand the entire way. Gathering her two youngest sons in her arms, she cried tears of joy.

"I thought the gods, in their infinite cruelty, had robbed me of two sons today." The Queen choked. Wiping the tears from her face, Rhaenyra looked up at the two dragonseeds standing before her. "You have my deepest thanks for returning my son to me. I feared I would never see him again. Instead, you return him to me, along with a dragon hatchling. I would be a fool to not reward such leal service. I only wish Jace was here to see his men succeed so."

Gaemon found himself at a loss for words. The Prince's death came as a terrible shock. Without Prince Jacaerys, I'd have never had this opportunity. He clenched his fist. I swear that I will place your mother upon the Iron Throne, my Prince. He was so focused on how to respond to the Queen he was almost knocked off his feet when Baela crashed into him.

Hugging him through his armor tightly, Baela smiled fiercely through her tears. "I too wish that Jacaerys could have seen you return his baby brother safely." Standing on her toes, she leaned closer to whisper in Gaemon's ear: "Thank you for saving my brother… brother." At that point Gaemon couldn't help but return her embrace.