The royal pavilion was simple inside—nothing flashy except the Dragon Horn. That massive, cursed thing took center stage like it owned the place.
Jon Connington gripped it with both hands and started blowing. No way in hell was he letting the prince risk it. The horn was taller than most men; this was his burden to carry.
For one split second the Griffin hesitated—step forward or step back? But this was their best shot: Andalos, the Golden Company, the horse lords. Miss this window and they'd never get another.
Viserys was probably bleeding out under that storm of arrows right now. No better time.
One dragon. One golden dragon. Who would dare question the prince's claim after that?
Jon made his choice. He'd been ready to die for Rhaegar years ago; this was just delayed payment.
The horn's red-gold and black-iron bands flared as the ancient Valyrian runes started glowing blood-red.
Aaaaahhhhhh—errrrghhhhh—ooooohhhhh!
The sound that ripped out was pure hell—raw pain and fury, like it wanted to scorch your eardrums off.
"This horn comes straight from the Seven Hells," Young Griff gasped, clamping his hands over his ears. The noise clawed right into your skull.
He stared in awe. So this was the Dragonlords' legendary horn—the one that called dragons to heel.
Viserys had to be dead by now. Once the dragon answered, Aegon would be the one true king.
He was only eleven or twelve, but every magister, lion, and tutor had drilled the same dream into him: the Iron Throne, beautiful princesses, all of it belonged to him.
The runes burned hotter, spitting white fire. The sound rolled on and on, echoing across the quiet camp and even reaching the screaming battlefield ahead.
That terrible wail swept over the plains of Andalos, filling the whole chaotic world with its shriek. Men in the thick of the fighting felt it in their bones—rage and courage flooding their veins, turning them into wild beasts who just wanted to kill.
Just when Aegon thought it would never stop, the horn cut off dead.
Jon Connington sagged. The second he'd started blowing, he knew something was wrong.
"Run!" he tried to shout, but fire was already roaring through his veins. He couldn't move his fingers, couldn't speak.
His blood boiled. Flames seared his lungs and heart.
The Dragon Horn had its price—life and blood, every drop, until there was nothing left.
The Griffin finally understood why Viserys had left the pavilion wide open. No guards. No traps.
It was a trap. A blood-and-fire trap.
"This whole thing was a lie?" Jon wheezed. "Viserys's game? He knew about us—me, Myles, Varys, Illyrio. He knew anyone who blew this thing would die."
No… no… Run, boy…
The Griffin collapsed, strength gone. He couldn't even whisper a warning.
That Viserys was far more terrifying than any of them had guessed. The stories were true.
No one dared set foot in the ruins of Valyria. Viserys had walked out alive.
Illyrio and the others thought they were the ones pulling the strings, swapping dragons like pieces on a board. Turns out the real hawk was still Viserys.
No mortal could blow the Dragon Horn and live. That was why Viserys had left it sitting there like bait. And it was too damn big to steal anyway.
"It wasn't Viserys who killed us," Jon rasped, blood and blisters bubbling on his lips. "This rotten world did."
The horn's inscription burned in his mind:
To sound this horn is to offer one's life.
A thin wisp of smoke rose from the horn as Jon Connington fell still. Dead.
After today, the world would never see the Griffin again.
"Father!" Young Griff threw his arms around the body, clear tears cutting tracks down his face.
He barely remembered his real parents. The Griffin had been the only father he'd ever known.
He stared at the horn that had murdered Jon. No dragon roar. Just the black-iron thing sitting there, still glowing faintly.
He'd blown it. No dragon came. Now what?
"I am the Binder of Dragons. No mortal may sound me and live. Blood for fire, fire for blood."
Aegon read the runes again. The words tasted like copper and death.
The price was life itself.
"Prince, we have to go!" one of the Griffin's attendants burst in, shoving the tent flap aside. He froze at the sight of the corpse and the still-glowing horn. "The sound—someone will have heard—"
"Get out!" Aegon snarled. The man backed away fast.
Do I run? Or spend the rest of my life as my uncle's lapdog?
Aegon stood frozen. That ear-splitting wail had been loud enough to wake the dead. They'd be found any second.
No king forgave thieves—especially not Viserys. And after what the Griffin had sacrificed, Aegon refused to crawl on his belly.
He knew his uncle's reputation. Charismatic. Merciless. The Tyroshi and Dothraki had already learned what the Butcher of Andalos could do.
He was sick of waiting. Sick of dyed hair. Sick of hiding.
Robert's rule was growing stronger. Viserys's power was rising. Was he supposed to beg for scraps?
"No," Aegon whispered, eyes locked on the horn. "I am the true dragon. Not some mortal. Viserys can ride that beast—why can't I? The dragon should be me…"
He was true dragon blood. Mortals couldn't blow it. But he could.
A wild, desperate madness surged through him—the same madness and greatness that had always lived in the blood of dragons.
The Dragon Horn sounded a second time.
Aaaaahhhhhh—errrrghhhhh—ooooohhhhh!
The note burned like liquid fire in his veins.
Aegon tried to drop the horn, but his fingers wouldn't obey. It held him like a lover who refused to let go.
The runes flared white-hot, blinding. Heat. So much heat.
His bones felt like they were on fire. Blood, throat, chest, everything burned from the inside out.
The sound went on forever—one long, endless scream from a thousand throats, splitting his skull, stealing his soul.
"ROAR!"
A dragon's bellow rolled across the sky. Aegon staggered, thinking the beast had finally answered.
"Am I… the dragon?"
"Crack."
Blood and blisters burst across his lips. His chest caved in like a punctured bellows.
Aegon collapsed beside the Griffin. The black-glowing horn drank the last of his life and went still.
Two sacrifices. Two dead men.
Dick Crabb, riding toward the front lines, suddenly yanked his horse around. His face hardened into something colder.
"Back to camp—now. Round up every Golden Company man. Seal the whole damn place."
"Yes, m'lord."
On the left wing, the Golden Company soldiers heard the same hellish wail. It clawed at their nerves, turning rage into something darker.
"Did it work?" Myles Toyne wondered for half a heartbeat.
Then the dragon roared overhead—but no shadow fell on the royal pavilion.
"It's over," Myles whispered. Sweat poured down his face. Once. Twice. Everything was finished.
He and Varys and Illyrio had their secret pact. No one else in the company knew.
…
The Griffin had thought Myles was helping the restoration. He never knew Myles had glimpsed the truth about the boy.
"I'm sorry, old friend. I lied to you. Let me pay for it with my life."
"Forward!" Myles roared, sword high, charging straight into the meat grinder of the battle.
High above the chaos, Viserys heard the double blast of the horn cutting through the wind.
First time. Second time.
So both the Griffin and the boy were dead.
Only death could buy life.
He felt the magic in the air surge like a tidal wave. The Ring of Fire on his finger pulsed.
Now.
Sunblaze wheeled high, chasing clouds like a hunting hawk.
The Binder's call grated on the dragon's nerves, stirring rage and confusion. This wasn't a true dragon-binding horn—it was a weapon meant to drive dragons and slaves mad.
The real ones carried binding spells that made dragons dance to your will.
Sunblaze twitched, but the Heart Spell and Viserys's calm voice settled him. The dragon stayed high, refusing to dive toward the horn's location.
Without that binding magic, the horn really could have stolen a dragon.
Viserys stroked the Ring of Fire. Wind whipped his black cloak with its red three-headed dragon.
His pale violet eyes glittered like winter steel.
Game over.
"Down, Sunblaze!"
The golden dragon folded its wings and dove like a thunderbolt toward the battlefield.
"A dragon!"
"The dragon and the king—they're both alive!"
Dothraki and Tyroshi warriors looked up in pure disbelief, morale shattering.
All those arrows. The best crossbowmen. The scorpions. None of it had mattered.
This wasn't a man. This was a battlefield demon.
"Viserys! Viserys!" the Andal soldiers roared, shields parting as the army surged forward to finish the broken enemy.
Count Donnel and Bloodworm led the center. Lord Roland charged with them.
Ser Agos and his heavy knights slammed home like a steel avalanche. The Red Viper and eight hundred loyal screamers became living razors, harvesting the broken horde.
The golden dragon shadow swept low, golden-red fire rolling out in waves.
Blue-haired Daario flinched. "Impossible—I had that many archers—"
Most of his men had already broken. No one would listen anymore.
"Dracarys!"
Golden-red dragonfire speared down like divine spears. The exhausted longbowmen and scorpion crews who'd already been burned once now faced judgment again.
Scorpions melted in the flames. One iron bolt the length of a spear screamed toward Viserys's chest—then dissolved mid-air in a flash of golden fire.
The few arrows that actually struck his silver plate rang like bells and fell away harmlessly.
Sunblaze danced—rising, diving, spinning with impossible grace. The dragon's agility was perfect. Ordinary weapons couldn't touch Viserys. His armor held like Valyrian steel; fire itself seemed to bow to him.
Crossbowmen burned alongside their weapons, screaming as living torches.
"He's not human… he's a devil."
"Run! That armor can't be pierced!"
"He's some stinking sorcerer!"
"No!" Daario raised his hand one last time. Dragonfire swallowed him whole—blue hair first, then the ridiculous lace and gold medallions, eyes bursting like overripe fruit.
Khal Drogo's bloodrider Koso tried to lift his dragonbone bow. Fire took him from crown to boots.
["Defier of Fate" Viserys Targaryen has delivered righteous judgment upon multiple "villains." Base attributes increased once. Strength ↑ Agility ↑ Toughness ↑]
Viserys felt the familiar rush as his stats lit up and leveled.
BOOM!
Blazing golden-red fireballs detonated across the field. Burning men and horses ran in every direction.
The maddest archers died fastest. Sunblaze skimmed low; their arrows missed or vanished in golden flame.
Viserys and Sunblaze sealed the back of the pocket. Heavy cavalry and infantry closed the sides like jaws.
The slaughter was total.
Horns blared from every direction. The feast had begun.
Far across the plains, the Broken Prince watched the blood-soaked field and the dancing dragon.
"No more waiting," he growled. "We still have a part to play. Kill!"
The Windblown riders howled with glee and charged.
"Kill!" Ser Agos roared, Valyrian steel arakh flashing like black smoke. Unstoppable.
Heavy knights in full plate were iron monsters—slow but invincible on this broken field. The shattered Dothraki and Tyroshi charged anyway and died anyway.
Screams rose on all sides. Hooves thundered. Countless men were trampled or hacked apart.
The heavy drumbeat of war rolled across the earth until it became one glorious, bloody symphony.
"Run!" Bloodbeard of the Company of the Cat saw fire everywhere and Viserys still very much alive. He knew the war was lost.
He spun his horse to flee—straight into Ser Agos waiting like a patient wolf.
CRACK!
The dark arakh sang. Bloodbeard's body flew apart, guts spilling across the grass.
Then the next man. And the next. Agos became a rampaging beast in the middle of the carnage.
The Red Viper speared left and right with his spear, eyes hunting the biggest fish—Drogo. Who would claim that glory?
"Long live King Viserys!"
"Long live King Viserys!"
The battlefield turned into one great abattoir. The horse-lord army shattered like glass under a hammer.
More and more men threw down their weapons. Tyroshi sellswords surrendered. Dothraki screamers cut off their own braids and tossed them on the dirt.
The bloody day finally drew its curtain.
All prisoners were herded into the center, weapons discarded. The screamers knelt and sheared their hair themselves.
From dawn to dusk Viserys watched the sun bleed red across the sky.
He slid from Sunblaze's back. The dragon tore into charred horse corpses, the air thick with fire and sulfur.
"Your Grace," Ser Agos said, breathing hard. "We've found Khal Drogo."
"Dead?" Viserys asked.
"Not yet. But soon."
The honor of killing a king belonged only to another king.
Viserys's black boots crunched across blood-soaked grass, dew mixing with red.
He found Drogo slumped against a small mound, body covered in dozens of wounds. His golden belt was drenched crimson.
Blood still trickled down Drogo's face. Chest wounds gaped open to show torn muscle and white bone.
Even dying, the Great Khal had taken men with him. His dead bloodriders lay beside him.
Drogo's eyes locked on the victor.
"It wasn't anyone else who killed you," Viserys said quietly, drawing the purple Valyrian steel sword. "It was me—Viserys Targaryen."
The blade sang through the air. Then blood and a head danced.
Viserys noticed Drogo's dead bloodrider still clutching a circle of heads—one man, two women.
"Whose are these?" he asked.
"Jhaqo's khal," a trembling Dothraki prisoner answered. "His pregnant wife… and a witch woman."
Viserys nodded. That was enough.
"Burn them with the rest," he ordered.
The long day ended in fire.