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Game of Thrones White Dragon Rising
Game of Thrones The Sun Dragon Descends
Rage boiled in Lynn's chest, but he forced himself to stay ice-cold.
Right now the only real muscle they had left were the giants and their mammoths. Then the southern longbowmen joined the fight—hundreds of them—and even the giants started to buckle.
The enemy commander spotted the mammoths' weakness fast. One burning tent had already spooked one of the bulls, so he ordered fire arrows. The greasy, matted hair on the mammoths caught like kindling. It wasn't lethal, but the big, skittish beasts panicked and bolted. No amount of shouting or cursing from the giants could turn them back. The whole herd stampeded after the lead bull, heading for open ground.
If this kept up the Free Folk would shatter on their own. Half of them would die trampling each other before the southerners even needed to chase.
Lynn was about to act when a strange, electric buzz shot through him.
Instinct made him whip his head toward a clearing in the trees.
A small knot of knights had gathered there, and in their center stood a woman who looked like she belonged on a throne instead of a battlefield.
Through the dragon's razor-sharp eyes he saw she was red from head to toe—bright, impossible red that stood out against the snow like fresh blood.
She wore a long silk gown that shimmered like living flame, sleeves trailing to her wrists, deep V-neck revealing a darker blood-red underdress. A tight choker of red-gold circled her throat, set with a ruby the size of a hen's egg. Her hair wasn't ordinary orange-red or golden-red; it was polished copper, deep and metallic. Even her eyes were red.
But her skin was milk-white and flawless. She was tall for a woman, taller than most of the knights, with full breasts and a narrow waist.
Right now she had one arm raised toward the sky, fingers spread as if she could cup the flying creature in her palms. Her heart-shaped face was lifted, scarlet lips moving in a silent chant no one could hear.
Lynn understood exactly how Varamyr's eagle had died.
Because his own body was suddenly on fire.
Maybe the woman in red hadn't realized what she was attacking. Maybe she had and wanted to test it anyway.
Either way, the flames that wrapped Weeping Blood didn't burn—they poured into the dragon like warm honey. Lynn felt a rush of pure, savage pleasure roll up from the beast's soul. Raw magical power flooded them both, stronger than anything he had ever felt.
He couldn't help it. A dragon's roar tore out of him—high, piercing, and ancient.
Every horse and every wild animal on the field went mad.
Then he burst out of the flames, wings tucked, and dove straight at the red woman.
His original target had been Stannis's crowned-stag banner, but every instinct screamed that she was the real danger—even if her magic had just supercharged his dragon instead of killing it.
When the flying creature shot untouched through her fire and came screaming down at them, the knot of knights lost their minds. Some fumbled for bows, some leveled lances, some just waved swords like that would help.
Only the tall woman in red stayed perfectly still. Surprise flashed across her face, but she didn't run.
Lynn dove, leveled out, then opened his jaws at the perfect angle.
A jet of dragonflame forty feet long swept across the knights. Men and horses screamed. Lynn banked hard on one wing, dodging the few arrows that came his way.
The fire wasn't Weeping Blood's own. He had stolen it from the red woman's spell. Adult-dragon strength. He figured he had maybe two more blasts like that left.
He climbed again, hunting for Stannis's banner, and glanced back at the scorched clearing.
The tall woman was still standing.
Her fine silk gown was gone—burned to ash. She stood there naked, skin untouched, hair untouched. She made no move to cover herself. Instead she stared up at the small red dragon with an expression that mixed shock and raw hunger.
The ruby at her throat glowed like a live coal.
Lynn shoved the shock aside. The battle came first. The terrifying woman could wait.
He gained altitude, then looked down at the center of the fight.
The heavy cavalry had already re-formed after their first charge and were ready for another. The Free Folk were in ruins—hundreds fleeing in every direction. Fewer than a thousand were still trying to fight.
He spotted Mance riding back and forth, shouting, trying to hold a thin line in front of the tunnel mouth. The tunnel itself was jammed solid—people crushed together, unable to move in or out.
Harma Dogshead finally galloped in from the east with maybe eighty riders left. She had chased the Eastwatch decoys too far and paid for it.
It still wasn't enough. Against six or seven hundred plate-armored knights their line looked like paper.
Lynn stopped hesitating.
He streaked toward the middle of the battlefield, screaming the whole way to make sure every eye on both sides turned upward.
The dragon was still small—wings spread, maybe twelve feet tip to tip. From the ground he looked more like a bright red blur than a monster. But the color was unmistakable, and the Free Folk who knew it stopped running. The southern knights forming their next wedge charge faltered at the sound no living soul in Westeros had heard in over a century.
Once he had their full attention, Lynn folded his wings and dove.
The entire field seemed to hold its breath for one heartbeat.
Then a huge sheet of dragonflame exploded downward from a hundred feet up.
He had spread the fire as wide as he could, sacrificing raw heat for area. The flames were pale yellow instead of white-hot, hot enough to blister but not instantly kill. Still, the sight was terrifying.
The "spearhead" of the heavy cavalry vanished inside the rolling inferno. Horses and knights shrieked and scattered in every direction. The neat formation disintegrated.
Lynn had done it on purpose. He wanted the wildlings to see hope. He wanted them to believe they could still win.