The sea breeze on Dragonstone always smelled of sulfur.
It was the breath of the volcano at the island's heart—but these past three days, another smell had mingled with it. Blood. The blood of the dead, seeping into the black earth.
Aemond Targaryen sat on a hillside overlooking the carnage.
Before him, a fire burned. A sheep spitted on an iron frame sizzled and popped, its fat dripping into the flames. The smell of roasting meat mixed with sulfur and blood—a strange, almost obscene perfume.
He carved the mutton with his dagger.
The blade was sharp; the meat was cooked perfectly, crisp on the outside, tender within. Juice ran down the steel and over his fingers as he cut.
Aemond's face was pale.
Not the pallor of fear, but the sickly white of a man who had lost too much blood. His left arm was wrapped in bandages from wrist to elbow.
In the past days, he had fed four dragons with his own blood.
Below him, the four dragons sprawled across the scorched hillside.
Vhagar lay outermost. The old dragon's left wing-root was thick with dressings, though the bandages could not hide the damage beneath. Her scales caught the sun with a dull bronze gleam; her eyes were closed, but Aemond knew she was not sleeping. She was waiting.
Lothron paced restlessly beside her.
The young black dragon was agitated. He kept up a low, rumbling growl, the scales on his neck rising and falling. His eyes—dark red, with a ring of gold so fine it seemed painted—fixed on Aemond with something like accusation.
My blood, that rumble said. My blood!
Aemond understood Lothron's grievance. Of all his dragons, Lothron was the most bound to him—not hatched from his blood, but wokenfrom a dead egg by it. Their connection went deeper than rider and mount. It was something closer to kinship.
And Lothron was jealous.
He had tolerated Vhagar drinking their shared blood. He would not dare challenge her. But Grey Ghost? Sunfyre? Strangers?
Three days ago, Aemond had fed his blood to the wounded Grey Ghost and the broken Sunfyre. Lothron had not forgiven him.
Sunfyre lay on the far side of the clearing.
The golden dragon had been near death when they brought him down from the battlefield. Now, his wounds were closing. His breathing was steadier. He made a low, rumbling sound—the noise a dragon makes when it is comfortable, when it is content.
Aegon was not with him. The prince had been sent back to King's Landing, too badly injured to remain.
He will live, Aemond thought. Both of them will live.
Thanks to my blood.
And then there was Grey Ghost.
The dragon who had belonged to Mirax, the dead bastard of the blacks. He lay closest to Aemond of all.
Three days ago, Grey Ghost had been broken. His chest was stove in, his wing shattered, his breath so shallow it seemed each exhale might be his last. He could only lie on his belly and wait to die.
Now, he could move.
His pale scales gleamed with a metallic coldness in the sunlight. His eyes—milky yellow, strange and beautiful—were fixed on Aemond with an expression that was hard to read. Wariness, yes. But also something else.
Hope, perhaps. Or greed.
Slowly, Grey Ghost shifted his body. His great bulk dragged across the black earth, leaving a furrow in the ash and stone. Ten feet. Eight. Five.
Close enough that Aemond could feel the heat of his breath, smell the sulfur and fish on it.
Grey Ghost lowered his head. Placed his massive jaw on the scorched ground. His eyes looked up—up—at the silver-haired prince.
He wants blood too, Aemond realized.
He is begging.
Aemond exhaled. He stabbed his dagger into the mutton and raised a hand to rub his brow.
If this continues, I will bleed out.
Four wounded dragons. Four giant beasts, each needing his blood to heal. It was a bottomless pit.
«Your Highness…»
A servant's voice came from below. Careful. Timid. Afraid to disturb.
Aemond looked up.
Seven or eight servants labored up the slope, carrying two great wooden barrels between them. The barrels were full of fish—fresh-caught, silver scales glittering in the sun.
They approached Grey Ghost slowly, nervously, keeping as much distance as they dared. Using long poles, they tipped the fish toward the dragon's maw, their hands trembling.
Grey Ghost did not even look at the fish. His eyes remained on Aemond.
«Eat,» Aemond commanded.
Grey Ghost hesitated. Then, slowly, he opened his jaws and let the servants pour the fish inside.
One barrel. Two.
Grey Ghost ate both barrels full. Only then did Aemond reward him—a few drops of blood, drawn from his own arm, smeared on the dragon's waiting tongue.
Grey Ghost's eyes softened. He made a sound—low, rumbling, satisfied—and finally lay back, curling his long body into the ash to rest.
Aemond looked at his dragons.
Four dragons. Each day, they ate four cattle, twenty sheep, half a ton of fish.
All of it brought by the fleet, shipped across the narrow sea at ruinous expense.
And still they want more, he thought. Still they want blood.
«It's broken! It's broken! »
Excited shouts came from the direction of the dragonhold.
Aemond looked up.
Ser William Darklyn was running from the castle.
A second son of the Darklyns of Duskendale, William had been a landed knight when he chose the greens three years past. Now he served Aemond directly.
His face was smeared with soot. Blood spattered his armor. He ran up the hillside, dropped to one knee, and gasped out his news.
«Your Highness! The dragonhold is breached!»
«The last inner gate has fallen! The defenders have withdrawn to the keep—they cannot hold more than a few hours!»
Aemond nodded. He did not look particularly pleased.
He cut another piece of mutton, speared it on his dagger, and held it out to William.
«Rise. Sit.»
William blinked. Then he obeyed, climbing the slope and settling onto a wooden crate across from the prince.
«How many men have we lost these past days?» Aemond asked. He held out the dagger, the meat still on its point.
William looked at the meat. Looked at Aemond's calm face. His throat moved. He opened his mouth, took the meat carefully, chewed, swallowed.
Then he answered.
«The Velaryon prisoners…»
«One hundred thirty-seven executed for desertion.»
«Those who died assaulting the dragonhold—more than a thousand of the surrendered soldiers, and perhaps three hundred of the royal host.»
«It must be more than fourteen hundred in total.»
When he finished, he was breathing hard.
Aemond pulled the dagger back. He cut more meat, not looking at the knight.
«Do you think me cruel?» he asked.
William bowed his head. «I would not presume, Your Highness.»
«Speak the truth.»
William was silent for several seconds.
Then: «Your Highness, the dragonhold held barely two hundred defenders.»
«We spent more than a thousand lives to take it. That is… a dear price.»
«And many of those prisoners who died were not slain in battle. They were forced to die.»
He stopped. Aemond was looking at him now.
Not with anger. Not with warning. Just… looking. Waiting.
«Go on,» Aemond said.
William gritted his teeth. «On the third day—this morning—Your Highness decreed that if the dragonhold did not fall by nightfall, the prisoners' families would be attainted.»
«After that… the prisoners went mad. Truly mad. They threw themselves at the walls like men who wanted to die.»
He could not continue.
Aemond bit into his own piece of mutton. Chewed. Swallowed.
«Do you think we should have besieged them properly? Waited for hunger to force their surrender?»
He did not wait for an answer.
«We have no time, William. The black fleet could return from Pentos at any moment.»
«Daemon is no fool. He knows my dragons are wounded.»
He tossed a sheep bone into the fire. The flames leaped higher.
«As for the prisoners… Two thousand heavy infantry of House Velaryon surrendered to me. Not out of love. Not out of loyalty. Because I held a dragon over their heads.»
«The moment the situation changes—the moment they scent an opportunity—they will turn on us. Every last one.»
«Better to use this siege to consume them. Better to let their lives buy us a fortress than to keep them as a knife at our backs.»
«More than a thousand lives. The dragonhold, taken. A hidden danger, eliminated.»
«It is a fair price.»
A fair price.