By evening, the Gold Dragon Group had assembled in silence and boarded the Dragonhold with disciplined precision.
Prince Aegon rested a gloved hand against Sunfyre's gleaming neck, fingers pressing lightly between warm scales. "One flight," he said quietly. "Stone Hedge. Do not break your strength for me."
Sunfyre rumbled in his chest, a low, confident sound. His massive body shifted as he began his run, claws tearing shallow furrows in the earth. With a thunderous beat of golden wings, he hurled himself into the darkening sky, bearing fifty-two souls upon his back. All but one wore full plate.
The difference was immediate.
Aegon felt it in the strain of Sunfyre's muscles, in the slower cadence of his wingbeats. Laden so heavily, the dragon no longer cut through the air like a spear of flame. Yet even so, Sunfyre endured. His stamina was monstrous, far surpassing that of dragons his size.
Aegon exhaled through his nose, gaze fixed ahead. "What a shame," he murmured. "This was never going to be practical."
He had placed great hopes in the Dragonhold. Reality had answered him without mercy.
Still, Sunfyre did not fail him.
Stone Hedge rose from the dark like a crouching beast, and Sunfyre descended at last. The landing was anything but gentle. The ground shuddered beneath his weight. Steam burst from his nostrils, and his chest heaved with exertion.
Aegon slid down and pressed his forehead briefly against the dragon's blazing scales. "You've done well, my friend."
Sunfyre huffed, then nudged him with his massive head, the touch careful despite his size.
Only after Sunfyre had been soothed and watered did Aegon summon Humphrey Bracken.
"I am ready," Aegon said. "What of your house?"
Humphrey straightened, pride plain in the set of his shoulders. "Our men are gathered. The harvest is complete. We have raised two thousand and three hundred."
Aegon's lips twitched.
So proud of it, too.
Yet he checked the thought. In truth, given the meager yields of the riverlands, House Bracken fielding such a number was no small feat. There were levels even among the nobility. The Brackens stood neither high nor low, unable to rival houses like Hightower, and far eclipsed by what the Stepstones had become.
With their present productivity, the Stepstones could sustain a standing force of three or four percent of Dragonstone's population. In most feudal realms, one percent was the norm. Two percent marked prosperity.
War, of course, bent such numbers.
In extremity, even total war was possible.
The Reach, richest and most populous of the Seven Kingdoms, could muster one hundred and twenty thousand men without breaking itself. With ruthless effort, perhaps one hundred and fifty thousand. But such a levy would hollow the realm from within.
Aegon dismissed Humphrey with a nod. They would move separately.
Late that night, Humphrey led his two thousand three hundred men to the Mill.
The Mill lay close to Blackwood Vale, yet within Bracken lands. The border made it perfect for bloodshed without immediate reprisal.
"The night is dark," Humphrey whispered, fingers tightening on his reins. "And the wind is strong. The gods favor us."
Elsewhere, high above Raventree, Sunfyre circled in widening arcs. One by one, the lights in the castle winked out.
Aegon waited.
When silence finally settled, he gave a single tap against Sunfyre's neck.
The dragon descended.
He landed less than thirty paces from Raventree's walls, wings half-spread, claws sinking into earth. Sunfyre beat his wings slowly, holding himself steady.
From the Dragonhold, fifty-one ropes fell.
One after another, armored figures slid down, boots striking dirt with muted thuds. Among them was Skaði, towering even among knights, her bulk monstrous beneath steel.
When the last man landed, Skaði gave the rope a hard tug.
Sunfyre lifted away at once.
Aegon turned him toward the Mill.
Command passed to Graen Newman without a word. The commander raised two fingers, then a closed fist. Shadows flowed forward.
Skaði hesitated, eyes darting. She understood none of the signals.
Graen leaned close and whispered, "Stay with me. Kill only who I indicate."
Her face lit with relief. She nodded vigorously. Simple enough.
The fifty-one men reached the main gate of Raventree's inner castle.
Two guards stood watch.
They blinked.
Steel and shadows filled their vision where there had been only darkness a heartbeat before.
One guard opened his mouth.
"You-"
The guard had only just drawn breath, his mouth opening to demand names and purpose, when three crossbow strings snapped in near-perfect unison.
Two bolts slammed into his chest, punching through mail and bone. A third buried itself deep in his throat. He staggered once, eyes wide with disbelief, and collapsed without a sound. Even the Seven would not have saved him.
The second guard froze.
Terror washed across his face as understanding struck. Enemies. Inside the inner castle.
His thoughts spiraled. There had been no alarm. No cries from the outer city. No clash of steel. How had these men slipped through Raventree like ghosts?
He never found an answer.
Graen raised his crossbow again, calm and precise. Three bolts flew. The guard crumpled beside his companion, blood darkening the stone beneath the gate.
Graen lowered his weapon and lifted two fingers, then swept his hand inward.
Thirty men surged forward at once, flowing into the castle corridors like a blade sliding between ribs.
He turned and gave two more signals.
Twenty men peeled away. Ten spread along the inner perimeter, shadows beneath windows and battlements, watching for desperate leaps into the dark. The remaining ten took position at the main entrance, shields braced, weapons ready. No one would flee by feigning ignorance or by charging blindly through the doors.
Raventree was already bleeding.
Far beyond the walls, at the Mill, House Bracken stirred.
Humphrey's banners were raised, the red stallion snapping in the night wind. Cavalry rode at the fore, knights leading with lances low. They did not plunder. They did not scatter. Their purpose was singular.
Raventree.
To hasten the march, torches were lit openly. The column advanced beneath House Bracken's banner, unashamed and unmistakable.
The response was pitiful.
Messengers rode, but too slowly. By the time Blackwood knights and sworn lords began to gather men, Humphrey Bracken was already at the foot of Raventree's walls.
He raised a trembling hand. His voice cracked with restrained fervor.
"Sound the horn."
The blast rolled across the land like thunder.
Humphrey's breath came fast. How many years had it been? How many generations since House Bracken had stood here again, staring up at Crowtree not as prey, but as conqueror?
Within the castle, Graen did not hesitate.
Samwell Blackwood's severed head hung heavy in his grasp, hair matted with blood.
"Bag the heads," he ordered sharply. "All of them. Then we take the gate."
Raventree, like most strongholds in Westeros, was divided in two. The outer city sprawled wide, vulnerable. The inner city was the castle itself, compact and prepared, its defenses meant to endure siege and fire alike.
Now, the outer city stirred.
Patrols assembled in haste. Archers climbed the four towers, hands shaking as they nocked arrows.
Brynden Blackwood moved among them, his voice raised, his jaw clenched.
"Hold the city!" he shouted. "Hold until reinforcements arrive. We strike from within and without and crush these treacherous Brackens!"
The words were strong.
His heart was not.
He had sent riders to the inner castle the moment the alarms sounded. Yet no word had returned. No signal. No response.
That silence gnawed at him.
A soldier came running, helm askew, eyes wild.
"My lord! My lord, it's bad, it's bad!" he cried. "A band of elites has come from the inner city. They kill everyone they see. And there's a giant. A giant!"
Brynden's hand flashed out.
The slap rang sharp and loud.
"Enough," Brynden snapped. "What madness is this? Enemy troops inside the inner city? And giants besides?" He leaned close, eyes cold. "You disgrace yourself. Spreading panic will earn you the rope."
The screams cut him off.
Brynden turned.
A scout was lifted from the ground by one hand, fingers locked around his throat. The figure holding him was massive, towering well over two meters, armor gleaming dully in torchlight.
The scout kicked once.
Skaði tightened her grip.
There was a wet crack.
The body fell.
Graen stepped to her side, lowering his voice. "Skaði, my lady. The gate. We need the gate."
She nodded once. No words.
With a smooth motion, she drew the second greatsword from her back. Twin blades caught the firelight as she leaned forward and charged.
Straight for the wall.
Graen's hand snapped up. The others followed without hesitation.
The city guards broke.
Outside the walls, a dark sea of banners and torches pressed closer.
Inside, a towering monster and dozens of steel-clad killers advanced without mercy.
Raventree was being torn apart from both sides at once.