A leaden, cold fog locked King's Landing tight before dawn, the stinging scent of sulfur and damp chill seeping into the bone. Before the arched entrance of the Dragonpit, resembling the throat of a giant beast, the shadows of four dragons cast a suffocating oppression under the dim light, like a nightmare from ancient mythology made manifest.
Vhagar, the colossal ancient dragon covered in bronze-green scales, was like a moving mountain range. Time had carved deep ravines into her heavy armor, and every heavy breath carried a bellows-like wheeze, spewing sulfur steam wrapped in sparks. When she spread her wings, scarred by old battles, the shadow nearly swallowed the entire plaza, the wing membranes looking like ancient sails in the faint light. However, deep within those molten-gold vertical pupils, a slumbering rage was awakening. Prince Baelon stood by her thick neck, checking the saddle straps one last time, his movements precise as a machine. His deep purple eyes were frozen lakes, holding only pure killing intent. The old wound beneath his ribs throbbed faintly in the murderous atmosphere, but his posture was straight as an unsheathed blade, allowing no wavering.
Caraxes was starkly different. This scarlet beast was restless in the confined space, claws scraping the flagstones and sending sparks flying. Molten gold vertical pupils burned with a primitive bloodlust, a low roar rolling in his throat as if from the depths of the earth. Every scorching breath steamed up a patch of white mist. Daemon Targaryen soothed him with an almost boastful proficiency, patting the dragon's neck. His silver hair danced with red light in the dragon's breath, his face showing undisguised excitement and battle lust. He glanced occasionally at The Cannibal, his eyes flashing with the spark of eager competition.
The Cannibal was pitch-black as the deepest eternal night. He stood still as an abyss, silently devouring the surrounding light, like a cold, living piece of obsidian. His massive head hung low, those green-fire vertical pupils half-open, like slumbering volcanic craters spilling heart-palpitating chill. Occasionally, an eyelid lifted, and a cold sweep of his gaze was enough to make the bravest dragonkeeper hold their breath and retreat. His enormous body almost merged with the shadows, only the edges of his scales gleaming with a cold metallic luster in the dim light. Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen stood beside his giant claw, tiny as a mustard seed. Dressed in simple leather armor under a warm cloak, his palm tightly gripped the silver dragon scale amulet given by Gael, as if drawing meager warmth from it. He looked up at this vicious partner, the brand on his shoulder transmitting a cold, powerful connection, a silent, destructive power accumulating in the silence.
On Vermithor's back, King Jaehaerys sat steady as a mountain. This bronze beast was composed, its massive body second only to Vhagar, radiating kingly majesty. The old King wore deep black riding leathers, a heavy cloak trimmed with gold thread protecting against the high-altitude chill. His deep purple eyes swept below, pausing for a moment on Daemon Blackfyre, the scrutiny mixed with a trace of elusive expectation. He raised his arm, the movement concise and powerful.
"Depart!"
Prince Baelon was the first to leap into Vhagar's saddle. An ancient, low command in High Valyrian rang out, and the aged bronze-green dragon suddenly raised her head, letting out a sky-shaking roar that tore the air, sound waves vibrating the stone walls of the Dragonpit! Powerful hind legs kicked the ground, kicking up a storm of gravel and dust. Massive wings generated a violent airflow, and her mountain-like body shot up like an arrow from a bow, wrapped in sulfur, charging straight into the sky dyed pale purple by the morning glow!
"Keep up, Blood Wyrm!" Daemon Targaryen's shout carried excitement as he leaped onto Caraxes almost simultaneously. The scarlet dragon responded with an even wilder roar. Without a running start, he beat his giant wings with force, and the scarlet figure became a burning thunderbolt, tearing through the morning mist, chasing closely after the bronze-green streak!
Daemon Blackfyre took a deep breath of the cold air mixed with sulfur and dust, suppressing the churning resistance, anxiety, and a trace of instinctive excitement in his heart. He walked to The Cannibal's lowered head, reaching out his hand, palm gently covering the cold, hard scales of the nose bridge. No words were needed; intent was transmitted through the burning brand. The Cannibal's green-fire pupils snapped open, locking onto him with a cold gaze, a low hiss emitting from his throat like boulders grinding in an abyss. He slowly lowered his massive head, his neck forming a slope easy to climb.
Daemon grabbed the protruding scales on the neck. His movements were not as flamboyant as the other Daemon's, but carried a strange fluidity, as if he were one with the dragon. Flipping onto the rough, makeshift saddle, he gripped the handle tightly. With a slight shift of intent, The Cannibal's massive body instantly tensed like a drawn bow, powerful hind legs exploding with earth-shaking force! Pitch-black giant wings unfolded with a boom, the gale they generated instantly clearing away all dust and mist! He was like a pitch-black lightning bolt tearing through the dawn, carrying an ear-piercing screech as he shot into the clouds, catching up to the scarlet and bronze-green ahead in an instant.
Four giant dragons circled over King's Landing. Massive shadows swept over the sleeping city, drawing terrified upward gazes. Vhagar's bronze-green settled with ancient weight in the morning glow; Caraxes's scarlet was like rushing lava; The Cannibal's pitch-black was an abyss swallowing all light; and Vermithor's bronze was like an eternal throne. Four dragon roars, distinct in timbre yet equally earth-shaking, resounded through the sky, declaring that the Dragon Kings' wrath was pouring onto the mortal world. Immediately, they turned, their massive figures cutting through the sky, speeding northeast—toward the shadow of the Mountains of the Moon.
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Widow's Wail Canyon.
The echoes of the Arryn tragedy from days ago had not yet faded, but were now replaced by a more primitive, suffocating silence.
At the canyon entrance, the spear impaling Lord Arryn's wind-dried, blackened head still hung alone, empty eye sockets staring indifferently at the grey sky. The air was thick with an unmelting stench of burning, blood, the filth of a wildling camp, and unextinguished ashes, mixing into a nauseating breath of death. The wildlings of the Stone Crows, addicted to the afterglow of plunder, had not left this "place of victory."
Deep in the canyon, beside crude huts leaning against the rock walls, lay scattered fragments of beautiful fabrics looted from the Arryn convoy, twisted silverware, even children's dolls. Wildlings sat around embers, tearing at half-raw beast meat, boasting of "exploits" in vulgar tongues, mocking the "cowardice" of the Vale knights.
Several wildling children, wrapped in ill-fitting, gorgeous clothes stripped from corpses, chased and played in the mud. Vigilance? In their eyes, the noble lords of the Seven Kingdoms were only fit to shiver in their castles.
But the shadow of death had quietly enveloped the entire valley.
Sentries perched high on the rock walls were the first to notice the anomaly—several rapidly enlarging black dots on the horizon. At first thought to be giant eagles, when the outlines became clear, an extreme terror stemming from the depths of the bloodline toward ancient predators instantly seized them.
"Dragon... DRAGONS!" A scream twisted and distorted by extreme horror was like a stone thrown into a stagnant pool.
The noise by the campfire stopped abruptly. All eyes turned skyward in terror.
The figures of four giant dragons were already close at hand!
Vermithor's bronze body carried kingly majesty and crushing momentum;
Vhagar's bronze-green was like a moving mountain, pressure covering the top;
Caraxes's scarlet was fast as lightning, the screech of wingtips tearing the air piercing the ears;
And The Cannibal, that pure, light-swallowing pitch-black, was like the falling cloak of the Reaper, bringing the deepest despair.
"RUN—!" The wildling chief let out a heart-rending howl, but it was too late.
On Vermithor's back, King Jaehaerys's aged face was like cold carved stone in the morning light. His arm swung down decisively! The ancient High Valyrian command exploded like thunder:
"Dracarys!"
Vermithor raised his massive head, blinding golden-red light igniting deep in his chest! In the next instant, a dragonfire stream as thick as a molten gold waterfall poured out, carrying heat that destroyed everything, precisely covering the densest cluster of huts at the canyon entrance! Flames instantly swallowed straw and wood. Wildlings were like ants in boiling water, instantly turning into curled charcoal amidst inhuman screams! The spear symbolizing humiliation, along with the head upon it, vaporized instantly in the dragonfire, vanishing into ash!
Almost simultaneously, Prince Baelon's command, cold as ice, rang through the battlefield:
"Dracarys!"
Vhagar let out an ancient roar that shook the canyon, filled with pent-up fury. The dragonfire she spewed was not as broad as a waterfall, but thicker, hotter, carrying a deep bronze-green hue, like a flood of molten bronze rushing and burning along the narrow valley path! Wherever it passed, rocks cracked red-hot. Wildlings hiding in rock crevices let out wails distorted beyond tune, flesh sizzling and peeling under the high heat, carbonizing, finally turning into twisted black shadows. The screams echoed repeatedly in the canyon, composing a symphony of hell!
Daemon Targaryen could no longer hold back his boiling killing intent. Without needing a command, the moment Caraxes dove to the lowest point, he let out a wild battle cry:
"Burn them all! Dracarys!"
Caraxes responded with an even wilder roar, transforming into a scarlet comet, skimming the jagged rock walls at high speed. The dragonfire he spewed was like the most agile red viper, precisely and swiftly licking the caves and protruding stone platforms on the walls. Those wildlings attempting to use the terrain to hide were instantly swept into the red tongues of fire, turning into burning, twisted balls of flame, screaming as they fell into the abyss of the valley floor! The scarlet dragon's speed was pushed to the limit, making several deadly turns in the canyon, spraying the rain of destruction evenly. Daemon Targaryen laughed wildly on the dragon's back, the thrill of destruction burning his nerves like strong wine.
And Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, piloting The Cannibal, circled slightly higher in the canyon. The cold morning wind tore at his silver hair. Below was a churning purgatory: sky-high golden-red and bronze-green flames, rolling columns of thick black smoke, desperate screams rising and falling before annihilation, the stench of burnt flesh and fat... All of this assaulted his senses, his stomach churning violently. He had experienced the bloodbath of Redgrass Field, but that was warrior against warrior. Before him was divine punishment, a one-sided crushing of ants. The brand on his shoulder burned and pulsed, as if echoing the killing desire deep in The Cannibal's soul.
The Cannibal's green-fire vertical pupils looked down coldly at the burning slaughterhouse below. He adjusted his position steadily, showing none of Caraxes's agitation. When Daemon's intent came through—carrying a decisiveness after a moment of struggle—a low, satisfied rumble, like an abyss cracking open, emitted from The Cannibal's throat.
"Dracarys..." Daemon's voice was hoarse and low, but the command was clearly branded into the soul link.
The Cannibal's massive head jerked up, then down! A stream of pure, profound black dragonfire, as if capable of swallowing and annihilating even light, poured out! It had no dazzling brightness, but carried an eerie, soul-freezing chill. The dragonfire silently swept over a group of wildling warriors who had gathered with crude weapons, attempting a desperate last stand. Where the black flame passed, time seemed to freeze. No explosion, no firelight, only an instant, absolute dead silence! The wildlings' screams were stuck in their throats, their bodies instantly drained of all moisture and vitality, shriveling and carbonizing at a visible speed, solidifying into pitch-black charred statues maintaining their terrified postures from life! A breeze blew, and these statues quietly disintegrated, turning into fine black powder drifting with the wind! Even the rocks beneath their feet were covered in a layer of frost-like black crystals shimmering with a ghostly cold luster!
This scene of terror beyond understanding became the straw that broke the camel's back. The surviving wildlings broke completely, dropping weapons, letting out meaningless, manic screams, running blindly in the burning canyon like headless flies, finally either swallowed by flames, crashing into red-hot walls, or falling into the abyss.
"Widow's Wail" Canyon now echoed only with the dying wails of wildlings and the roar of fire.
Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen stared at the eerie black field of death he had created with his own hands, watching life turn to flying ash in an instant. A cold shudder shot from his spine to the top of his head. The Cannibal's dragonfire not only incinerated the flesh but seemed to freeze the vitality of the soul. He gripped the reins deathly tight, knuckles losing color from the force, his stomach spasming. He forced himself to look away, toward the darker depths of the canyon. The inertia of history whispered in his mind: The core of the Stone Crows, the fiercest warriors and their chief, must be cowering deep in the labyrinthine caves where dragonfire cannot reach. They would survive, becoming another terrifying legend in the Mountains of the Moon about "Dragonfire Survivors," dormant in the ashes, licking their wounds, breeding future hatred.
The flames of vengeance burned the canyon, and also scorched his soul. He had completed the mission, proved his "value" and innocence, and solidified his position. But the price was personally experiencing and participating in a primitive and nauseating purge far exceeding the bloody battle of Redgrass Field in his past life. He lowered his head; the silver dragon scale amulet in his palm actually retained a faint trace of warmth under The Cannibal's cold breath. Gael's pale face full of worry flashed past against the background of firelight and black smoke.
The canyon turned into a furnace, dragonfire raging, melting rock into red rivers, forging life into ash. The shadows of four giant dragons crisscrossed in the thick smoke and firelight, like messengers from the depths of hell, sowing destruction.
And Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, this stray Black Dragon from a hundred years later, riding the ancient beast bringing the deepest cold death, in the cruel baptism of blood and fire, truly realized for the first time that the weight carried by the name "Targaryen" was far colder, stickier, and more soaked in un-washable blood than he had imagined. This weight pressed heavily on his young spine and the burning brand.
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