The sky darkened in a single, sweeping breath.
Aboard the Braavosi warships, crewmen froze at their stations, jaws slack and eyes wide as they stared upward into the sudden twilight.
Only the steady cadence of the galley masters beneath the decks kept the heavy oars churning through the swell, otherwise one might have thought the entire fleet had been turned to stone.
Raegor’s colossal shadow fell across the water like an early sunset.
When the Hundred-Eyed Giant plunged into the gloom, the three-hundred-oared titans Titan’s Wrath and Maiden’s Kiss flanking her were swallowed simultaneously.
The golden dragon’s head threw fractured patterns of sunlight over the scout galley Little Falcon at the front of the line, while his heavy, butterfly-shaped tail fin was only just clearing the stern of the rearmost galley.
“Pale Maiden of the Moon…
Storm Goddess…
Merling King…
Father of the Waters…
Bakkalon…” The first mate of the Hundred-Eyed Giant dropped to his knees against the pitch-soaked planks, rattling off every name he had ever muttered before leaving port.
Yet even after repeating the list three times, the shadow overhead had not passed.
“Pale Maiden preserve us,” Admiral Spyro breathed, a visible tremor shaking his voice as he gripped the rail.
“When I return to the lagoon, I will cast my stone for that damned Darchu.”
He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
His grandfather’s old boast about carving a piece from a fallen dragonlord seemed like utter madness now.
Nothing born of mortal woman could fell a mountain with wings.
Spyro’s knees buckled.
Only when Raegor’s trailing fin finally cleared the masthead did the admiral recover his breath.
Catching sight of the black beast trailing behind and the silver-and-green sails rising along the western horizon, he nudged his prostrate mate with the toe of his sea boot.
“Get up, you coward, and lend me a shoulder.
My legs have turned to wet rope.”
The mate scrambled up, steadying the admiral against the quarterdeck rail.
Spyro grabbed the speaking trumpet leading down into the rowers’ benches, roaring with fresh vigor: “Put your backs into the stroke, lads!
Our allies have taken the sky!
Let the Volantene dogs drown in their own blood!”
High above the salt spray, Raegon felt his blood racing.
The day had finally arrived.
He was mounted on the back of a living titan.
Clad in dark, salt-stained leather armor with a simple steel cap, the boy leaned low over the high pommel of the gilded war saddle.
Ahead of him rose the tall dorsal ridges and spines of Raegor’s neck, framed by four sweeping antler-horns and thick whiskers whipping in the gale like the mane of a golden lion.
The beast was so massive that Raegon could only see the sea below when the dragon dipped his broad snout.
The Volantene line was collapsing into chaos.
The lead vessels had failed to complete their turns, tangling their oars with the advancing ranks behind them, while the rear squadrons were already wheeling their rudders in a desperate bid to clear the mouth of the Gullet.
Balerion surged past the slower, heavier elder, his black wings carrying him in a wide arc to seal the northern exit.
Raegor had bargained a fat sheep for the honor of the vanguard, and the ancient beast intended to collect his due.
Raegon closed his eyes and snapped them open.
His pupils narrowed into sharp vertical slits before steadying.
Far below, Raegor’s amber eyes picked up a faint violet ring around the iris.
Shared Sight.
A brief dizziness washed through his thoughts as his awareness expanded into the dragon’s perception.
The surface of the sea resolved with terrifying clarity.
He spotted them instantly: the three-hundred-oared flagship Pride of Volantis, flanked by sister dreadnoughts Long Bridge of Vhalyros and Scourge of the Rhoynar.
“Target the great ships, grandfather,” Raegon commanded in High Valyrian, his gloved fingers pressing into the gilded leather of the reins.
Raegor let out a rumbling roar of pure delight.
The thick mane along his jaw flared outward as his throat began to glow with blinding golden heat.
Aboard the Pride of Volantis, terror had already broken the ranks.
“Lord of Light, save us!” a galley slave shrieked, scrambling toward the hatch.
A flash of steel silenced the cry as a tiger-cloaked guard brought down a crescent axe, cleaving the man where he stood to halt the panic.
“To the weapons!” Lysander screamed, his voice cracking against the wind.
If he survived the day, he swore he would skin the envoy who failed to secure Dragonstone’s neutrality.
“Man the scorpions!
Aim high!”
The admiral snatched a heavy crossbow from a dead marine, leveling the bolt toward the approaching golden shape.
Beside the flagship, the hundred-oared scout Sweet Maiden released its iron-tipped ballista bolt with a heavy thrum.
The heavy missile, forged to punch through iron plate, struck Raegor’s breastplate squarely.
The iron head shattered into splinters against the golden scales, failing to leave even a pale scratch.
A storm of crossbow bolts followed, bouncing harmlessly off the dragon’s hide like hail against stone.
“Aim for the rider!
Aim for the eyes!” Lysander shouted, his heart pounding in his throat.
He scanned the towering neck in vain.
Against the immense bulk of the dragon, the boy in the saddle was an invisible speck.
“Valar dracarys, dori sopton!” Raegon’s voice rang through the wind.
Raegor’s throat swelled.
A torrent of molten golden flame erupted from his jaws, descending upon the sea like a solid spear of pure daylight.
Admiral Lysander, who had shattered the Lysene exiles and driven the Purple Fleet from the Stepstones, could only stare into the descending sun.
The golden lance struck the deck of the Pride of Volantis.
Oaken timbers seasoned to withstand catapult stones vanished into smoke.
The beam of fire drilled straight through three decks, melting ballast stone and tearing the great hull in half.
Lysander closed his eyes.
There was no pain, only blinding light.
The flagship snapped like dry kindling.
Boiling pitch and sulfur stores in the lower hold detonated with a deafening roar, showering burning debris and flaming oil across the surrounding water.
The inferno spread instantly to the Long Bridge of Vhalyros and the Scourge of the Rhoynar.
“Valar sobrat!” Raegon called out, shifting his weight.
Raegor swept his long, serpentine neck in a wide arc.
The stream of golden fire dragged across the surface like a blazing scythe.
The Scourge of the Rhoynar was sheared cleanly through her waist before her crew could wet the canvas.
Screams of burning men and the groan of snapping oak filled the channel.
In their panic, the Long Bridge of Vhalyros rammed the Sweet Maiden, her bronze beak crushing the smaller vessel’s ribs before the dragon’s breath engulfed them both.
Golden fire detonated between the two hulls, swallowing wood and bone alike.
Nearby, the two-hundred-oared Golden Tiger shoved past the lighter Wine-Shrimp, seeking an escape route through the burning shoals.
Raegor dipped his wings, his front talons descending upon the fleeing warship.
The heavy iron hooks tore through the quarterdeck, crushing timber and flesh into a crimson slurry.
The immense weight of the elder beast broke the spine of the two-hundred-oared vessel, sending the shattered halves slipping into the red water.
Far across the strait, Balerion moved with cold, mechanical slaughter.
The Black Dread glided over the retreating rear guard, dropping globes of black flame onto each galley that broke formation, burying twenty hulls beneath the dark water in quick succession.
Raegor let out another rumbling roar of satisfaction.
Raegon felt the ancient thrill of the hunt humming through their shared bond, carrying a fierce, primeval joy that shook his mortal chest.
The golden sovereign banked once more, unleashing a concentrated blast that ripped through the deck of the Silver Tiger.
Within moments, twelve Volantene war galleys burned together in a contiguous ring of fire, turning the channel into a boiling expanse of smoke and ash.
White banners rose above the few surviving vessels.
The remaining captains struck their canvas, surrendering before the Braavosi galleys even closed the distance.
Balerion ignited the last fleeing scout ship before circling back to meet Raegor in the upper air.
“We fly south!” Aegon shouted across the wind, pointing Balerion’s snout toward the open sea.
“To Tyrosh!”
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