A Hightower scout burst into the study where Lord Ormund Hightower and Prince Daeron sat huddled over a table of war maps.
Near the heavy oak doors stood Ser Jon Roxton, one hand resting casually on the pommel of Orphan-Maker.
“My lords,” the scout panted, bowing hastily.
“The Pretender’s host has been spotted, nine or ten thousand strong. They come to lay siege to the town… and they have dragons. Vermithor and Silverwing were sighted flying ahead.”
“Is that so?” Lord Ormund said, looking up from his maps with a faint smile.
“Wonderful. Go and rest then, and take a bath.”
“My lords.” The scout bowed and left the study.
“You seem very relaxed, Uncle,” Daeron inquired, searching Ormund’s face for an answer.
“What’s your game?”
“Game?” Ormund feigned ignorance.
“There is no game. I merely have trust in my men… and the Gods.”
“The Gods?” Daeron repeated.
“Yes, my prince,” Ormund nodded, his smile widening.
“Though the Gods guide our boat, we ourselves must have the strength to row, and the wit to recognize the current. Any news from your brother at Harrenhal? He is not returning my ravens.”
“No, my lord,” Daeron said, shaking his head.
“I haven’t received word from him either.”
“I was hoping to have his support in this battle, but it matters little. Let him do whatever he pleases at Harrenhal, so long as he keeps Daemon bogged down with him.”
“Come now, Uncle, the suspense is eating me alive,” Daeron said, flashing his most charming smile.
“Tell me what your game is. Would you really hide your plans from your own nephew?”
But his charm fell on deaf ears.
“Hah!” Ormund laughed heartily, shaking his head.
“What plans? I told you, my prince, I have none. Besides, there is another lesson here for you to learn.”
“Learn what?” Daeron asked.
“Patience,” Ormund said softly.
He walked over to the arched window, looking out over the defenses they had managed to set up in the short time they had.
Down below, thousands of Hightower infantry were moving into position, shields interlocking and spears bristling against the coming army.
Turning back from the glass, Ormund caught Ser Jon Roxton’s eye and offered a subtle, knowing smile.
Roxton returned the nod, turned on his heel, and strode out of the study to carry out his orders.
Soon, the assault began.
The infantry charged the wooden palisades, swinging axes and throwing up ladders to tear down the defenses.
Behind them, their archers rained light volleys into the air, careful to arch their shots so as not to strike their own vanguard pressing against the timber walls.
Overhead, Vermithor and Silverwing circled in the sky, their massive shadows sweeping over the defenses.
The foot soldiers cheered from below, eagerly awaiting the wall of dragonfire that would splinter the Hightower lines into ash.
In the center of town, Prince Daeron stood in the stirrups atop Tessarion, his hands working quickly to fasten the heavy iron riding chains tight around his waist.
The Blue Queen shifted beneath him, her claws scraping against the cobblestones as she growled nervously at the growing roar of battle.
“Calm down, girl,” Daeron whispered, stroking her sleek blue neck scales while keeping his eyes locked on the dragons above. Follow the newest chapters on novelping.com.
Then, Silverwing dove.
And Tessarion rose.
Silverwing folded her wings and plummeted from the clouds, her jaws snapping open, not over the town’s wooden palisade, but directly over the packed ranks of the Black host.
A great, terrible sheet of dragonfire ripped through the attackers who had been cheering her name only seconds before.
Shrill shrieks and total pandemonium erupted as entire vanguard units were incinerated where they stood.
Before the survivors could comprehend the horror, Vermithor followed suit.
The Bronze Fury roared, a sound that vibrated through the earth itself, and unleashed a torrent of flame even broader and more devastating than Silverwing’s.
The Black army’s ranks vanished into smoke; the assault collapsed into a blind, screaming rout.
Daeron stared from Tessarion’s saddle in complete bewilderment.
Deep beneath the dense canopy of the woods bordering Tumbleton, Aemond sat in Vhagar’s saddle.
The massive dragon lay crouched low among the trees, her deep, rhythmic breathing shaking pine needles from the branches as they waited to spring up and ambush Vermithor.
Beside them, Aegon kept Sunfyre held tight beneath the dark shadows of the treeline.
“They are attacking their own men…” Aemond called out in utter confusion.
“Why are they attacking their own men? What’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” Aegon grunted.
“But we must assume they are our allies now. Up! Let us take to the sky and burn as many fleeing cunts and oathbreakers as we can!”