The first pale light of dawn was just beginning to wash the sky, a thin whitening at the edge of night that crept slowly over the tents and pavilions outside the city.
The feast had left the encampment in ruin.
Overturned benches lay scattered across the ground, wine cups crushed underfoot, the sour smell of ale and sweat clinging stubbornly to the air. Servants moved quietly among the wreckage, their heads lowered, careful not to wake those who still lay sprawled where they had fallen.
Prince Aegon stepped through the mess without slowing. His boots nudged aside a broken platter, and stopped beside a large, unmoving shape slumped against a post.
He lifted his foot and kicked it.
"Hugh," Aegon said, his tone sharp. "Are you dead?"
The man on the ground groaned. Hugh's brow creased, his hand coming up sluggishly as if to shield his eyes from the light. After a moment, his lids fluttered open. The drunken haze had not entirely left him, but the worst of it was gone.
"Your Highness," Hugh muttered thickly, pushing himself upright with a wince. "Forgive me. I drank too much."
Aegon studied him for a heartbeat, his eyes clear and alert, showing none of the weariness one might expect after a night of heavy drinking. Then he snorted softly.
"As long as you are breathing, it does not matter," he said. "Come with me. We are going out."
Hugh blinked, confusion plain on his face. "Now?"
Aegon was already turning away, adjusting the fall of his cloak over his shoulders. "Now," he said briskly.
There was an energy about him, restless and bright, as if the night's revels had only sharpened his edge rather than dulled it. Hugh scrambled to his feet and followed, rubbing his face with one hand as he tried to clear his thoughts.
They walked toward the temporary Dragonpit, a crude open-air structure raised of timber and iron, erected more for convenience than ceremony. Torches guttered along its perimeter, their flames pale against the coming dawn.
"Your Highness," Hugh ventured as they approached, "where are we going?"
Aegon did not look at him. "Tyrosh," he said. His mouth curved faintly, but there was no humor in his eyes. "If it were not for those damned whores and their delays, Lord Loren would have already made two runs across the sea."
Hugh swallowed and said nothing more.
Inside the Dragonpit, two massive shapes stirred. The air grew warmer as scales scraped against earth and timber.
Sunfyre rose first, his golden scales catching what little light there was, glowing softly like burnished coin. He lowered his great head, eyes whirling with molten intelligence, and nudged Aegon with his snout.
Aegon grunted as he was pushed back half a step despite bracing himself. He reached up at once, placing a firm hand against Sunfyre's cheek.
"Careful," he said, his voice low and fond. "You forget how large you are becoming."
He patted the dragon's neck, fingers splayed against the warm scales. The heat seeped into his palm, familiar and steady, like a living hearth.
On the other side of the pit, Sheepstealer hauled himself upright, wings flexing with a rasp of leathery sinew. His hide was darker, rougher, scarred from decades of wild living. His eyes fixed on Hugh with an intensity that made the man's stomach tighten.
Hugh approached carefully, murmuring under his breath as he reached for the saddle straps. He hauled himself onto Sheepstealer's back, barely settling into place before the dragon gave a violent shake.
"Seven hells," Hugh shouted, clutching the handle as his boots slipped. "Easy, you bastard."
Sheepstealer hissed, a harsh, irritated sound, then surged forward into a run.
Sunfyre leapt skyward first, wings beating powerfully as Aegon leaned low against his neck. Sheepstealer followed in a more chaotic fashion, his takeoff clumsy but brutally forceful, dirt and splinters flying as he chased after Sunfyre's golden shape.
Hugh's knuckles whitened around the grip. He could feel every uneven motion, every surge of muscle beneath him. Control was still a fragile thing between them.
Aegon glanced back once, his gaze measuring. He shifted his weight and pressed his knees into Sunfyre's sides, murmuring a command. Sunfyre answered at once, his pace easing, his wingbeats slowing.
Sheepstealer was enormous, more than sixty meters from snout to tail. Yet for all his size, his flight was sluggish compared to other adult dragons. Aegon had never seen a fully grown dragon move so slowly through the air.
Still, size was not everything.
Sheepstealer's jaws were thick and powerful, his bite strength monstrous even by draconic standards. His blood ran hot and dense, far thicker than that of dragons his size. Aegon remembered well the reports. Even the Cannibal's crushing bite had failed to kill him outright, despite holding him in its jaws for long moments.
Durability like that was no small thing.
The sun climbed higher as they crossed the Narrow Sea, the morning mist thinning beneath them. At last, the walls and harbors of Tyrosh came into view.
Aegon straightened in the saddle, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the city below.
Nearly a quarter of Tyrosh lay in ruin already. Blackened streets, collapsed roofs, shattered towers. He felt no shame in the knowledge that Sunfyre bore much of the blame. More than once, the dragon had flown here without him, answering instincts honed by fire and war.
A hiss split the air.
Sheepstealer sensed it before Hugh did. The dragon's entire body tensed, a low, rumbling snarl building in his chest.
Aegon's lips twitched. He had forgotten. Sunfyre and Vhagar had always struck from concealment, loosing flame before revealing themselves. Sheepstealer had no such discipline.
Even if Aegon had warned Hugh, he doubted the man could have restrained him.
"So be it," Aegon murmured.
He guided Sunfyre into a steep dive.
Hugh shouted something incoherent as he followed, fear and exhilaration mingling in his voice.
Two torrents of dragonflame fell from the sky.
Sunfyre's breath burned red and gold, incandescent as molten metal. Sheepstealer's flame was darker, dirtier, brown edged with black, roaring as it struck the city below.
Screams rose at once.
Yet they were fewer than before.
Months of war had taken their toll. The wealthy merchants had already fled, selling what they could and abandoning the docks rather than risk a dragon's shadow. Common folk streamed into the Disputed Lands, clutching what little they could carry.
Those who remained did so out of desperation or stubborn hope.
A sharp whistling cut through the air.
Sunfyre veered aside without prompting, the bolt passing harmlessly where his chest had been a heartbeat earlier.
Sheepstealer reacted even faster. The moment the sound reached him, he twisted midair, the massive shaft flashing past his flank.
The attack enraged him.
With a furious roar, Sheepstealer plunged toward the source of the bolt, ignoring the second volley entirely. His descent was savage, uncontrolled.
He landed within the city itself, stone shattering beneath his weight.
Crowds scattered, their terror thick and raw. Sheepstealer opened his jaws and bathed the street in flame, then lowered his head and began to feed.
A bolt struck him squarely in the rear.
Sheepstealer screamed, whirling about.
The crossbowman was still smiling, triumph lighting his face.
It vanished an instant later.
Sheepstealer's tail came around like a siege hammer. The impact obliterated man and weapon alike, blood and splinters spraying across the street.
Aegon watched from above, expression unreadable. He exhaled slowly.
Hugh had a long road ahead if he meant to master that beast.
Sheepstealer rampaged for an hour. He burned streets to ash, smashed towers, scattered soldiers like leaves. Five bolts struck him in that time. None slowed him.
Sunfyre circled above, roaring once before turning away.
Sheepstealer followed at last, loosing one final gout of flame before heaving himself back into the air.
Three of the bolts had already been forced free by muscle alone. The remaining two would soon melt loose, their heads softened by dragonblood's heat.
Unless struck in eye or throat, an adult dragon could fight on almost without pause.
Aegon watched Tyrosh shrink beneath them, smoke curling skyward.
This was the true terror of dragons.
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A/N:
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