Loren's orders came one after another, sharp and unhesitating, each command carried across the deck by the wind and the clash of steel.
Twenty warships broke formation and fanned outward, their black hulls cutting through the dark water like a pack of wolves closing in on wounded prey. Lantern light flickered along their rails, revealing rows of ballistas already drawn back and ready to fire.
Above them, the shadow passed again.
Vhagar plunged from the clouds with a roar that split the night. Each time her vast body knifed downward, dragonfire followed, spilling across the sea in blazing arcs. Three ships vanished in one breath, their decks erupting, their masts collapsing in showers of sparks. Another dive followed, then another. Burning wreckage drifted across the waves, the screams of drowning men swallowed by fire and surf.
From the Lannister flagship, ballistas thudded in steady rhythm. Fire stones arced through the air and smashed into hulls, bursting into hungry flames the moment they struck. The Tyroshi fleet shrank before the eye. Fifty warships became thirty. Thirty became twenty. Then, in the space of a few frantic minutes, barely a dozen remained afloat, clustered together like terrified animals with nowhere left to flee.
Loren stood at the prow, both hands resting on the railing. He did not bother to hide the satisfaction curving his mouth.
"Signal them," he said, voice calm but bright with anticipation. "Prepare to board. Those twelve ships are to be taken intact."
An officer hesitated. "My lord, they are cargo conversions. Not true warships."
Loren turned his head slowly, fixing the man with a look that made him swallow. "And?" he asked.
The officer straightened at once. "As you command."
Loren looked back to the sea, eyes gleaming. Warships or cargo hulks, it mattered little. The Stepstones were starved for vessels. Every captured hull meant more trade, more soldiers, more reach. Tonight was profit as well as victory.
Horn calls rolled out across the fleet, low and heavy, echoing over the water.
Far above, Aemond Targaryen heard the sound and tightened his grip on the reins.
Vhagar was already in a dive, her massive wings tucked close, wind screaming past her scales. At Aemond's pull, she answered instantly. Her wings snapped open, catching the air with thunderous force. The shockwave rippled downward, slamming into the sea and rocking the ships below. Decks pitched. Masts swayed. Men stumbled and clung to rigging as if the world itself had lurched.
Vhagar climbed, her wings beating slow and powerful, lifting her bulk back into the sky.
Aemond leaned forward in the saddle, his eyes sweeping over the battlefield below. The Tyroshi fleet was broken. Loren would finish the rest without him. That was expected.
He turned Vhagar's head east.
His task tonight had never been limited to the sea. Escorting the fleet was only half of it. The other half lay inland, in the dark uplands where the fires of rebellion burned.
The Lango Highlands.
Aemond did not know the land well, but he knew its direction. He urged Vhagar onward, the great dragon's wings driving her forward with gathering speed.
The night stretched beneath them. After a time, two points of light appeared below. One burned bright and steady atop higher ground. The other flickered weakly, lower and less distinct.
Aemond reached to the side of the saddle and drew out a folded map. He held it against the wind, eyes moving between parchment and land. The high fire matched the markings. The lower one lay off to the side, perhaps a camp, perhaps a trap.
He folded the map away.
"Higher ground first," he murmured.
Vhagar answered with a roar and angled toward the brighter blaze.
The sound reached the highlands like distant thunder.
Hidolf was in the middle of speaking when the noise rolled across the night. He broke off mid-sentence, head snapping upward. Spartacus and Kress followed his gaze, confusion flashing across their faces.
The roar came again, closer this time, vibrating in the chest.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then Hidolf laughed and rose to his feet in one smooth motion. His exhaustion seemed to fall away, replaced by fierce, almost manic relief.
"You wondered about the agreement I made with Aegon Targaryen," he said, eyes fixed on the sky. "Now you see part of it."
A vast shape emerged from the darkness, blotting out stars as it descended.
"The Dragon's protection," Hidolf went on, voice carrying. "This is what it looks like."
Spartacus stared, jaw clenched. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. "Protection always has a price," he said slowly. "What did you trade for it?"
Hidolf did not look at him. His gaze stayed locked on the growing silhouette overhead. "Freedom," he replied. "And yet, not freedom."
Spartacus turned fully toward him. "You will have to speak plainly," he said. "I know how to break chains and kill masters. I do not understand riddles."
Hidolf finally faced him. Firelight danced across his gaunt features, highlighting the lines carved by years of fear and struggle.
"I reached an agreement with Aegon Targaryen," he said. "He will supply the Rebel Army with what it lacks. Arms. Food. Ships. Safe ground for those we free. In return, we strike at the slave cities without restraint."
Kress folded his arms. "And after the fighting?"
"Afterward," Hidolf said, "he takes responsibility for resettling the freed. Land. Work. Protection."
Spartacus frowned. "That is all?"
"That is all."
Silence stretched between them, filled by the distant beat of wings.
Spartacus shook his head. "Then what does he gain? The world will rise against us. Tyrosh today, perhaps, but after that? Myr. Lys. Volantis. Every city that profits from chains will want us dead. Why would a dragonlord involve himself so deeply?"
Hidolf's mouth twitched in something close to a smile. "Because his ambition is larger than you imagine."
He gestured toward the sky, where Vhagar's outline grew clearer with every breath.
"He told me he intends to swallow the Disputed Lands whole. Tyrosh, Myr, Lys, all of it. With or without us, he would strip the chains from Tyrosh once he held it. Slaves turned into commoners make better subjects than corpses."
Kress shifted uneasily. "You think that is all he wants?"
"No," Hidolf said softly. "I think he wants more. Population. Fields. Cities full of people who owe their lives to him. He wants an army that can march in every direction, and armies are fed by land and men."
He met Spartacus's eyes. "He needs people and we need survival. Once the masters are dead, what then? We cannot live on vengeance. We will have to farm. Trade. Build. Earn our bread like any others."
"And you would do that beneath a dragon's shadow," Spartacus said.
Hidolf nodded. "If we must labor to live, then I would rather do so protected than hunted. Under the Dragon, at least, the chains are broken."
The ground shook.
Vhagar landed atop a nearby rise, her weight crushing stone and scrub alike. Dust billowed outward, rolling across the camp in choking waves. Men stumbled back, shouting, shielding their faces.
When it cleared, she stood like a living mountain, scales dark and ancient, eyes glowing with restrained fire.
Many in the Rebel Army fell to their knees at once. They remembered this dragon. On the night of the uprising, she and a golden beast had nearly turned Tyrosh to ash. Memory alone was enough to break courage.
Hidolf stepped forward, heart hammering, and raised his voice.
"Welcome...," he called. "Is that Prince Aemond Targaryen?"
High above, Aemond looked down at the gathering of ragged men. Their patched armor, their crude weapons, their hunger and desperation were plain to see. His lip curled almost in disgust.
He rested a gloved hand against Vhagar's neck, fingers pressing into the warm, scarred scales. Disgust flickered across his face, followed by cold calculation.
Vhagar sensed his mood. She lowered her head and slowly opened her vast jaws. Heat shimmered in the air as fire gathered in her throat.
Aemond stiffened. "No," he said sharply, leaning forward. "Easy, Vhagar."
He stroked her neck until the heat faded.
"Eat first," he murmured, voice low and controlled. "Then we will remind the Tyroshi bitches below what it means to defy dragons."
Vhagar's gaze slid toward the scattered corpses dotting the highlands, nostrils flaring as she tasted blood on the air.
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A/N:
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