The sea wind on Dragonstone always carried the smell of sulfur.
It was the scent drifting from the volcano at the center of the island, along with a trace of blood. In these three days of siege fighting, quite a few men had died...
Aemond sat on a distant hillside. Before him burned a campfire, and on the iron rack above it was a roasting lamb. Fat dripped into the flames with a sizzling sound. The aroma of the meat mingled with sulfur and blood, yet it carried a strange sort of allure.
He was cutting the meat with a dagger.
The blade was sharp, and the lamb was roasted just right—crisp on the outside, tender within. With a single cut, the juices ran down the blade and onto his fingers.
Aemond's face was somewhat pale.
The sickly pallor of excessive blood loss.
His left hand was wrapped in bandages.
Over these past few days, he had fed four dragons with his own blood.
Not far away, the four dragons occupied a stretch of scorched slope.
Vhagar lay at the outermost edge. Thick medicinal herbs were packed against the root of the old dragon's left wing, and her scales glimmered with a dark bronze sheen beneath the sun. Her eyes were closed as she rested.
Lothorne paced at Vhagar's side. The little black dragon seemed restless.
He kept letting out low growls. The scales along his neck rose and settled again, and his dark red vertical pupils, ringed at the edges with an extremely fine circle of gold, were fixed on Aemond. He was displeased.
My blood, my blood!!
Aemond understood Lothorne's growls well. The bond between him and this dragon ran deeper than the one he shared with Vhagar. In a way, Lothorne was his "own-blood" dragon—not hatched, but awakened from a dead egg with his blood.
They shared a connection that went beyond that of rider and mount.
And because of that, Lothorne had always been fixated on his blood.
Though Vhagar drank his blood as well, Lothorne did not dare roar.
But three days ago, Aemond had fed blood to the grievously wounded Grey Ghost and the bone-broken Sunfyre.
That made the little dragon Lothorne feel betrayed.
Sunfyre lay on the other side. The young golden dragon was already in much better condition. He was making a low rumbling sound now, the sound dragons made when they felt comfortable.
Because of his injuries, Aegon had been sent back to King's Landing by Aemond.
Last came Grey Ghost.
The dragon that should have belonged to the Black bastard Miraxes was now lying closest to Aemond. Grey Ghost had suffered the worst wounds. Three days ago, he could only lie there waiting for death, his breathing so faint it seemed ready to stop at any moment.
But now, he could move a little.
His gray scales reflected a cold metallic gleam beneath the sun, and his dragon eyes were a murky yellow. At that moment, they were staring fixedly at Aemond.
That look carried a trace of cautious flattery.
Then he slowly shifted his body. The great dragon's bulk dragged a furrow through the black earth as he edged closer to Aemond bit by bit.
Ten meters, eight meters, five meters—close enough that Aemond could feel the heat of the dragon's breath, heavy with the smell of sulfur and rot.
Grey Ghost lowered his head, resting his massive jaws upon the scorched ground, his eyes turned upward, staring straight at Aemond.
He still wanted blood.
Aemond let out a breath, stabbed the dagger into the roast lamb, and raised a hand to rub his brow.
If this kept up, he really would end up anemic.
Four wounded dragons, four great beasts that needed his blood to speed their healing—this was simply a bottomless pit.
"Your Highness..."
A servant's voice came from below, cautious, as though afraid of disturbing something.
Aemond lifted his eyes and looked over.
Seven or eight servants were carrying two large wooden tubs. Inside were fish freshly hauled from the sea, their silver scales glittering in the sunlight.
They slowly approached Grey Ghost, not daring to get too close. Using long wooden poles, they forked up the fish and shakily offered them to Grey Ghost's mouth.
Grey Ghost did not even look at the fish. His dragon eyes remained fixed on Aemond.
"Eat," Aemond ordered.
Grey Ghost hesitated for a moment, then finally opened his mouth and let the servants pour the fish in.
One fish, two fish... Grey Ghost ate two whole tubs of fish. Only after Aemond rewarded him with a few drops of blood did he withdraw that aggrieved look and lie down nearby to rest.
Aemond looked at those dragons.
Four dragons. Every day they ate four cows, twenty sheep, and half a tonne of fish.
And all of it depended on the navy bringing in supplies without end.
"It's breached! It's breached!"
Excited shouts came from the direction of the castle in the distance.
Aemond raised his eyes and looked over.
Willem Darklyn was running toward him from the direction of the castle.
Originally, he had been the second son of old Lord Darklyn of Duskendale in the Crownlands. A knight by station, he had gone over to Aemond three years ago, when Aemond had only just been granted his lands.
Now Willem's face was blackened with soot, and blood was splashed across his armor. He ran to the foot of the hillside, dropped to one knee, breathing heavily, and said with excitement, "Your Highness! The castle has fallen!"
"The last gate of the inner keep has been smashed open. The defenders have fallen back to the main tower for a final resistance. At most, it will be taken within the hour!"
Aemond nodded, not looking especially excited.
He carved off another piece of meat from the lamb, speared it on the dagger, and beckoned to Willem.
"Come up. Sit."
Willem froze for a moment, but still obeyed. He walked up the slope and sat on a wooden crate opposite Aemond.
"How many died these past few days?" Aemond asked, at the same time handing him the dagger with the piece of lamb skewered on the tip.
Willem looked at the meat held out before his mouth, then at Aemond's calm face. His throat bobbed. He opened his mouth, carefully bit down on the meat, swallowed, and only then answered.
"The Velaryon surrendered troops..."
"The deserters who were executed—one hundred and thirty-seven."
"In the assault on the castle, more than a thousand surrendered troops died, and more than three hundred royal soldiers."
"It should be around more than fourteen hundred in all."
After speaking, Willem let out a sigh.
Aemond withdrew the dagger, lowered his head, and continued slicing the meat.
"Do you think me cruel?" he asked.
Willem lowered his head. "I would not dare, Your Highness."
"Speak plainly."
Willem fell silent for several seconds before finally speaking.
"Your Highness, the garrison of Dragonstone Castle numbers only a little over two hundred men."
"We spent more than a thousand lives to fill the breach... it was too extravagant."
"And those surrendered troops—some of them did not die in battle. They were driven to their deaths."
He stopped, because Aemond was looking at him.
Not in anger, not as a warning—just with a calm gaze.
"Go on," Aemond said.
Willem gritted his teeth. "On the third day—this morning—Your Highness gave the order that if the castle was not taken today, their families would share their guilt."
"And then those surrendered troops... they went mad. Truly mad..."
He could not go on.
"Do you think I should have let them slowly encircle the castle? Wait until the defenders ran out of food and surrendered?" Aemond bit off a piece of lamb himself, chewed, and swallowed.
"We do not have the time, Willem. The Black fleet may come out of Tyrosh and strike back at any moment."
"Daemon is no fool. He knows my dragons are wounded."
He tossed a lamb bone into the fire, and the flames leapt higher.
"As for those surrendered troops... Willem, two thousand fully armed Velaryon soldiers surrendered not because I was merciful, but because I had dragons in hand."
"The moment the situation changed, the moment they thought they had a chance, they would be the first to turn against us."
"Rather than keep them as a hidden danger, it is better to spend them in this siege."
"More than a thousand lives, in exchange for this castle and the removal of a hidden danger—it is well worth it."
Well worth it.
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