Before his death, Ser Aegor Rivers ordered the skin and flesh of his skull to be boiled off and the bones gilded. On the day of their return to Westeros, his descendants would carry it into battle. Each successive captain of the Golden Company inherited this tradition.
And now, these ghosts lost in a foreign land had returned.
They had been waiting since the previous captain, Ser Myles Toyne "Blackheart," signed an alliance with Magister Illyrio of Pentos.
The fat merchant had planned to marry the Targaryen princess to a Dothraki khal in exchange for 40,000 screamers to support the Beggar King's restoration. The Golden Company would join this force and return to Westeros, but the Beggar King died. Then Illyrio placed his hope on the young princess, and the Golden Company could only continue to wait.
When Westeros fell into chaos from civil war and the Dothraki approached the Free Cities, they knew their time had come.
Captain Harry Strickland led the Golden Company across the sea from Pentos.
Tonight was dark and windy, with waves crashing loudly against the hulls. The ships could only drop anchor and furl their sails.
"Why not storm the castle? They're at the end of their strength."
Harry Strickland, the homeless exile, pulled his cloak tight and said, "Storming castles is bad business, and there's no gold waiting for you on this miserable island."
"What of Sharp Point?" the captain asked him.
"The defenses there weren't as strong as here. It's already fallen."
Harry Strickland shivered, "Westeros is much colder than Essos. We should build more fires."
"Harry, you'd better look there."
He turned to the east.
Dragonstone rose like a mountain from the sea, covered in twisted woods. The southern shore was mostly steep cliffs, the west rugged and rocky, while the east was flatter with beaches along the shore.
Sentries with spears and crossbows patrolled the camps on the eastern beach, while strong winds snapped at their banners.
The sky was unnaturally dark and cold, sapping men's spirits. A dozen sellswords huddled around fires, while others leaned back and dozed.
Occasionally, the sound of dice and singing could be heard.
The wind grew stronger, gusting like the wails of devils from the seven hells.
Moore sat by the fire, his spear beside his legs, arms crossed and eyes closed in rest.
The flames burned red through his eyelids. Suddenly, something flashed by, blocking the light, causing Moore to crack open his eyes.
Half-reclining and squinting at the sky, he saw a white shadow, startlingly bright against the dark night.
The shadow grew larger and larger until he could see clearly what it was.
Silver scales thick as metal, a head like a raised warhorse covered in hard ridges, sharp teeth protruding from its mouth, and wings spread wide like a soaring eagle.
He watched the beast swoop down and unleash a massive flame from its jaws, instantly engulfing the entire fire.
The flame was like a burning longsword, cutting straight through the ground before moving onward.
Woooooo!
The sound of horns carried across to the eastern camp.
Flames shot skyward, and howls rose one after another.
"We're under attack! Under attack!"
All eyes on Dragonstone focused on the eastern shore. Flames crackled and flashed as ships at sea and tents on shore billowed with thick smoke and dazzling fire.
The defenders in the castle clearly saw what was happening on the eastern shore. Their reinforcements had finally come. They had been ready for this moment. As soon as the flames flashed, the gates opened, and nine hundred soldiers rushed out with great momentum, charging toward the western coast.
Three hundred cavalry led the charge as the mercenaries stationed on the western shore moved to meet them.
Soon the two forces crashed together with shouts and screams, steel flashing in the darkness.
After fierce fighting, Davos led the soldiers who had broken through the siege to a predetermined hidden cove. Pursuers followed close behind. If reinforcements didn't arrive, this would be their grave.
Mysterious fog covered the sea, with nothing but the whistling breeze. Davos stared silently at the water. When the maester had brought him the injured raven with its message, he had wondered if it might be an enemy trap.
The calm sea seemed to confirm his fears—a trick to lure them out of the castle.
The enemy had surrounded them from all sides.
Davos turned back from the sea, longsword in hand.
He felt his men growing restless as despair spread quickly. Joffrey Dondarrion leaned beside him and shouted: Where are the reinforcements?
Lord Hugh Grandison of Grandview suggested they surrender.
"There! They come!" someone shouted.
All eyes turned seaward as pointed prows pierced through the fog like spears. Five warships rode the wind and waves, dozens of oars churning the water.
A roar of hope erupted from the shore as the defenders quickly formed ranks to welcome their allies.
Horns sounded across the water as the warships docked in the bay. Countless small boats were lowered, ferrying soldiers quickly to shore. Behind the warships, six more ships approached slowly.
Under the cover of the shore party, the landing troops successfully disembarked. The reinforcements boosted morale, and the mercenaries were quickly routed.
Caminor was the first ashore and hurried to Davos's side. "My lord, I was ordered by Lord Snow to attend His Grace the King."
Davos shook his head. "The king has..."
Caminor was stunned momentarily, then said, "Then please board the ships as quickly as possible. We'll provide cover."
Using the small boats, they rapidly retreated to the waiting ships.
The fire on the eastern shore still spread as the Golden Company's attention had long been drawn there.
"Shoot! Shoot!" An officer commanded the mercenaries to loose arrows at the flying beast.
It was too swift.
Harry Strickland brought reinforcements from the fishing village harbor.
Soon, all eyes caught the white shadow flying through the dark night.
Dragons had not been seen in Westeros for hundreds of years. People had different notions about their appearance, but all agreed that dragons breathed fire.
It was through these creatures that the Valyrians built their mighty Freehold, and the Targaryens conquered the continent of Westeros.
After destroying the eastern camp, the white dragon soared into the night and vanished.
What it left behind were charred corpses beyond recognition, raging flames, a camp and harbor in chaos, and the sounds of wailing and shouted orders echoing everywhere.