Vhagar stood amid the slaughter, her vast shadow stretched across the broken ground. Corpses lay piled around the hilltop, men and horses alike crushed, burned, or torn apart. The air was thick with blood and ash, and the great dragon's yellow eye lingered on the dead with cold interest.
Aemond Targaryen sat rigid in the saddle, one gloved hand resting against the worn leather of the reins. For a fleeting moment, an image rose unbidden in his mind. The black walls of the camp. His brother's cold, calculating eyes.
His jaw tightened.
No.
In the end, he did not give the command.
"Down there, Vhagar," Aemond said quietly, tugging the reins with a firm, practiced pull.
The ancient dragon released a low, displeased rumble that vibrated through her rider's bones. Still, she obeyed. Her massive limbs coiled, then launched her from the hill in a thunderous leap. Her wings unfurled, blotting out the moon as she dropped from the high ground and skimmed low toward the Tyroshi camp spread beneath the Lango Highlands.
Aemond leaned forward as the wind tore at his cloak, eyes fixed on the flickering torchlight below.
Two hours earlier.
Elville paced the command tent with quick, agitated steps, his boots grinding dirt into the trampled ground. Outside, the sounds of men arguing and armor clanking drifted in fits and starts. Six charges. Six failures. The highlands still stood, and the slaves entrenched there refused to break.
"Useless," Elville snapped, slamming his fist against the wooden table. The maps scattered across it jumped. "Six times, and not a single breach worth a damn."
The slave soldiers he commanded were standing nearby, heads bowed, eyes darting nervously. He had never trusted them. Chains removed did not make loyal men, only desperate ones.
He straightened, drawing a slow breath through his nose.
"We camp three miles back," he said at last, voice tight but controlled. "Here." He jabbed a finger at the map. "Out of arrow range. Out of sight."
One of his lieutenants hesitated. "My lord, if we withdraw now, the slaves on the highlands may think we are retreating."
Elville shot him a sharp look. "Let them think whatever they like. Tonight, I lead the garrison myself."
That earned him a flicker of surprise. And Elville sneered at it.
"Those slaves are unreliable. I will not entrust this to them. We strike at night, fast and clean." He paused, eyes narrowing. "Akeman is a fool. I do not know how long he can hold, but I will not allow Aegon Targaryen to steal those slaves from under my nose."
He leaned closer to the table, voice dropping. "Move quickly. We cannot afford delay."
By nightfall, the Tyroshi garrison had eaten, armored, and prepared. Scouts slipped into the darkness, spreading out to gather intelligence. Torches burned low. The camp was quiet, tense.
Then the roar came.
It was not loud at first. It did not need to be.
The sound rolled across the land like distant thunder, deep and ancient. Men froze mid-step. A scout stumbled, dropping his spear as his hands began to shake.
"What was that?" someone whispered.
A heartbeat passed. Then another roar followed, closer now, heavier, pressing down on the chest.
Men looked up.
Moonlight spilled across the sky, and beneath it glided a shape so vast it defied reason. Wings stretched wider than a city gate, scales gleaming dull bronze beneath the pale light. The dragon's body seemed to go on forever, a living mountain moving through the air.
"HIIISSSS! ROAR!!"
Vhagar's cry tore through the camp, ripping away the last shreds of discipline and courage.
"Dragon!"
"Run!"
The scream came from somewhere near the center, shrill and cracked with terror. It was all it took.
The camp dissolved.
Soldiers broke ranks, stumbling over each other as they fled. Slave soldiers screamed and scattered, some dropping to their knees, others throwing away weapons as if steel itself might draw the monster's gaze.
They ran, only to realize there was nowhere to go.
The trees and bushes around the camp had long been cut down to clear lines of sight. The open ground offered no shelter, no cover, no mercy.
Vhagar descended like a falling star.
Her chest slammed into the earth, the impact shaking the ground and throwing men off their feet. Dust and debris exploded upward, choking screams as soldiers were buried alive beneath the shockwave.
HISSS!! SCREEEECHH!!!
The dragon's head snapped forward. Her jaws closed around a man at random, lifting him screaming into the air. She tossed him upward like a toy, then opened her maw again. A thin stream of dragonflame burst forth, brief and almost lazy.
The man never screamed again.
This was not a battle. It was a feast.
Above the Lango Highlands, the rebel army surged forward, taking advantage of the chaos below. They had climbed halfway up when the sight stopped them cold.
"Wait," Spartacus shouted, throwing out an arm. "Wait!"
Men skidded to a halt behind him, breathing hard. Spartacus stared down at the burning camp, at the massive dragon moving through it like a god of death. His throat tightened.
Slowly, he turned his head to Hidolf.
"We are not going to become that dragon's food, are we?" he asked. His attempt at bravado failed, his voice low and strained.
Hidolf did not answer immediately. He studied the scene, eyes narrowed, fingers flexing at his side.
"That dragon is called Vhagar," he said at last, voice subdued. "Her rider is Aemond Targaryen. Brother to Aegon Targaryen. A reckless, impulsive young man."
Spartacus swallowed. "Then what about us?"
Hidolf exhaled slowly. "We wait." He glanced toward the sea. "If Aemond is here, then Aegon's fleet cannot be far. Perhaps it has already landed."
As if to prove his words, sails appeared on the dark horizon. The Lannister fleet advanced at full speed, oars churning the water. Even so, they were painfully slow compared to the dragon. Vhagar had already vanished into the night long before the fleet could glimpse even the tip of her tail.
*
Back at camp.
Aegon Targaryen stood over a large table covered in maps and carefully weighted parchments. His fingers moved with precision, dividing the island into neat sections. He worked in silence, brow furrowed, lips pressed thin in concentration.
Drakoncrest was not large, but it was usable, if managed properly.
The North District and East District, he decided, would be devoted to farming. The soil there was richer, less scarred by old volcanic flows. Crops could grow. People could live.
The West District would become a trade quarter, while the South District would serve as the production heart of the island.
"If all goes well," Aegon murmured, tapping the map lightly, "Loren will return with a sizable population."
He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back as he paced slowly.
Farmers would be settled in the North and East, mixed among the newly freed slaves. Those with experience would teach those without. Order would come from structure, not cruelty.
He paused, gaze thoughtful.
From among the tenant farmers, he would choose men and women with strong wills. Village chiefs. Overseers loyal to him, capable of managing the growing population.
When the numbers grew too large, Grey Gallows Isle would need development as well.
Aegon's mouth curved faintly. He would not dirty his hands with that work himself. The land there could be granted as fiefs.
Commoners and soldiers who proved themselves would be raised as direct knights. Knights who pledged allegiance and rendered service could be rewarded with land, even elevated to barons.
With land came responsibility. They would clear it, defend it, and pay taxes.
Aegon returned to the table, eyes drifting toward the section marked Stepstones.
The transit taxes alone were staggering.
Only now did he truly understand why House Frey was mocked as upstarts. It was not because they were weak, but because others envied them.
The Twins controlled a single bridge, yet grew wealthy beyond reason. The Stepstones controlled three sea lanes, and merchant ships passed through them every day in numbers that dwarfed any caravan crossing the Green Fork.
At first, he had planned to grant one tenth of the transit taxes to his vassals on Grey Gallows Isle.
Now, he shook his head.
"One hundredth," he said softly.
Even that was generous.
In return, he would divide patrol duties equally among his nobles. Responsibility matched with reward.
Finally, his gaze settled on the South District.
It was the smallest portion of Dragonstone, but it would one day be the most valuable.
Salt pans. Soap works. Breweries. Steel mills. Lumber yards. Stone quarries.
Aegon's fingers tightened slightly against the table's edge.
These he would control directly.
The South District would become the industrial heart of his domain, employing thousands, pouring wealth straight into the royal treasury.
"Your Highness."
Aegon turned.
A guard stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling rapidly. His face was pale, eyes wide.
"What is it?" Aegon asked calmly, though his posture stiffened.
The guard swallowed. "A dragon," he said. "A wild dragon has been circling nearby for some time. The men are unsettled."
Aegon's eyes sharpened, all trace of earlier calm vanishing.
"Show me," he said.
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A/N:
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