The Golden Company soldiers all craned their necks skyward, watching the dragon glide past overhead. There was no mistaking what they had just seen.
A golden streak soared high across the heavens like a blazing, radiant sun.
Viserysfort possessed a real dragon — and that dragon belonged to King Viserys.
"How is that possible? A dragon that huge?"
"It really is a dragon… I just saw a golden storm."
"I didn't see wrong, did I? That was truly a dragon."
"King Viserys… the true Dragon King." The sellswords whispered among themselves, voices thick with awe.
When the Golden Company was founded, dragons had already vanished from the world.
If dragons had still existed back then, perhaps the Targaryens would never have been forced into exile, never slowly lost their divine aura.
For these generations of exiled sellswords, the sight of a living dragon was a miracle their ancestors had never witnessed.
In short, with a dragon on their side, the possibility of actually landing in Westeros had just skyrocketed.
Wild joy, stunned disbelief, and nervous unease rippled through the camp — from one tent to the next, from one sellsword to another.
The largest pavilion belonged to the Captain-General. Gold-threaded canvas, ringed by tall spears, each topped with a gilded skull.
One skull was massive and grotesquely misshapen; beneath it sat one the size of a child's fist — Maelys the Monstrous and his nameless younger brother.
The rest were ordinary enough — some cracked by hammers in life, another still showing neat, sharp teeth.
"Everything happened too fast," Myles Toyne said, fingers idly tracing the watchtower railing. His hawk-like gaze stayed locked on the White City, expression grave. "If this war dances entirely to King Viserys's tune, it's not entirely good news for my sellswords."
The Golden Company's ten thousand men had originally been extremely valuable. They were not some hastily gathered levy of vassal knights and peasants — they were Bittersteel's heirs.
Even for a mercenary company, discipline was the very core of the Golden Company.
With those ten thousand disciplined spears, they could have left a deep impression on Viserys and finally returned to the homeland and lands they had dreamed of for generations.
But Viserys's side had suddenly gained a dragon… and their value had correspondingly plummeted.
"No way around it. He really went into the ruins of Valyria — the place the gods cursed…" Griffin said softly.
"No mistake," Myles nodded. "That's exactly what worries me the most. What we're facing may not be a mortal man at all, but someone shrouded in mysteries."
"You're afraid?" Griffin looked at him.
"Truth cuts like a razor, my old friend. For sellswords, boldness and caution are not always contradictory," Myles replied. "What's terrifying isn't longbows, sharp swords, or axes — it's older, stranger things we cannot resist."
"But he is still only a man. In my heart he remains Rhaegar's arrogant little brother," Griffin insisted.
"You've grown steadier and more mature, Griffin. Even your old enemies — Lord Tywin and the Usurper — would barely recognize you now. Except when Rhaegar's name comes up… then you lose your composure far too easily," Myles sighed.
A man's nature is hard to change.
"Will you go see Rhaegar's brother again and think it over once more?" Myles asked. "Though the brothers are different, everyone says Viserys's bearing and looks surpass Rhaegar's. Rhaegar had indigo eyes; Viserys has pale violet."
"No," Griffin shook his head. "Viserys is not Rhaegar. No one can compare to him. He was the only one."
There could be many Targaryens in the world, but only one Rhaegar.
So Myles fell silent. He felt that Griffin's feelings for Rhaegar had long since become something deeper than loyalty — closer to attachment, to nostalgia, stronger even than the passion of lovesick men and resentful women.
Love is the great enemy of great endeavors, true in every age and every land.
Griffin stared at the white walls of the city. Had the dragon's shadow reappeared?
Everyone in the world knew that dragons were unmatched machines of war — the true crown of any Dragon King.
Griffin absolutely could not allow Young Aegon to be exposed. He dared not guess how Viserys III, the boy's uncle, would act.
Viserys was handsome, brave, graceful… but he was not lacking the cunning cruelty or burning ambition of any ruler.
Without those gifts, Viserys could never have left Braavos with nothing and built a rising kingdom in Andalos.
Some already called him the Second Conqueror — tall, with kingly charisma. Others whispered "Andalos Dragon" and "Butcher."
Perhaps Viserys would make good use of his nephew.
Or perhaps he would be like those ruthless uncles in the old Dragonlord families — Maegor, Daemon — and personally kill his own kin.
Griffin dared not gamble so boldly.
He had never considered bending the knee to Viserys. He only remembered every detail of Rhaegar.
Back then he had been too young, too proud. The Mad King had named him Hand and given him command of the royal army. He had sworn not to fail that trust, not to fail Rhaegar's love. He would personally slay the rebel leaders and be immortalized in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.
But fate had been cruel. At the Battle of the Bells he had refused to burn the town and lost everything.
Fortunately… fortunately he now saw that glimmer of dawn.
"We will succeed," Griffin said, unsure whether he was comforting himself or Myles.
"Let's hope so," Myles nodded.
Years ago, Griffin would never have dared dream of victory.
Storm's End was fiercely loyal to House Baratheon and King Robert, and the great lion-wolf-fish-eagle-stag alliance loomed like a mountain.
But now everything finally showed signs of change. Dragons and fire, even the great army of Andalos.
The closer success came, the more patience was required. It might not be honorable, but Griffin knew it was all for his prince. He could not fail his son again.
The old Griffin had been bound by morality. The current Griffin had learned cold necessity.
Myles looked at his friend and realized the words he had meant as caution had only pushed Griffin deeper into obsession.
Perhaps he had always been this kind of man — living only for Rhaegar.
As for the future, Griffin's ambitions were vast. He would choose a new bride worthy of his shining prince.
A princess who truly deserved the name. Rhaenys and Daenerys were both excellent choices — healthy and of true dragon blood.
Griffin still remembered Rhaegar's wedding as clearly as if it were yesterday. How had Elia ever been worthy of him?
She had been born frail and sickly. Pregnancy and childbirth had ruined her further. After Rhaenys she had lain in bed for half a year; giving birth to Aegon had nearly taken her life. Afterward the maesters told Rhaegar she could bear no more children.
Griffin would not repeat that mistake. He would arrange a proper marriage for the prince.
Once the prince sat the ancestral Iron Throne in the Red Keep, his own task would be finished. He only wanted to return to the castle where he and Rhaegar had once walked together.
...
On the walls of the White City of Viserysfort, Viserys glanced toward the Golden Company's camp.
What would they do now?
Viserys thought. The current Golden Company still had Myles — Jon Connington's good friend — in command, not that slippery Harry Strickland.
He didn't fully trust them either; he was simply waiting to see their next move.
But that was fine. There were always a thousand days to be a thief, but never a thousand days to guard against one.
"After today's strikes on both camps, the Tyroshi have lost all their horses and baggage. The Dothraki have lost their heavy supplies, though they still have plenty of mounts left. Because of this, this coalition cannot simply retreat — they will have to find a way to force a decisive battle with us," Viserys analyzed calmly.
"Wear them down, toy with them, then devour them whole," the Red Viper's eyes lit up.
"Exactly," Viserys nodded.
Speed was vital in war, but one wave of dragon raids had robbed both the horselords and the Tyroshi of any chance to move quickly. On top of that they were furious. If they didn't leave now, they would never get the chance.
However, according to everything Viserys knew about this army, they would still hold out a little longer.
And that would be their doom.
"Pass my order," Viserys emphasized again. "Everyone hold the walls firmly. Continue relying on the trebuchets and longbowmen to destroy any attackers."
"As you command, Your Grace!" the knights roared.
"Agos," Viserys instructed. "Keep drilling the heavy cavalry. When the decisive battle comes, they will be the hammer."
"Rest easy, Your Grace," Agos promised.
"The boys are almost rusting in their armor — they can't wait to ride out and butcher those savages," Count Donnel grinned.
"Patience," Viserys ordered. "Eat, drink, and rest as usual. In seven days or less, we end this."
"This is to annihilate them completely," Black Balaq drew a slow breath. The Tyroshi and the horselords weren't running. After a few more rounds of torment, the final annihilation battle would be on a scale never seen before.
Only now did Black Balaq truly realize how frighteningly large this young king's appetite was.
Viserys had given himself the hardest task — something only a dragon could accomplish.
Besides cutting off the enemy supply lines, he still planned night raids. That was the cruelest cut of all.
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