The Riverlands, Fairmarket.
The sun shone brightly, cloudless. But now the people of Fairmarket felt as if the sky was falling. Two black dots in the sky above them grew rapidly larger. The black spots grew bigger and bigger, finally transforming into a young black dragon—Lothron. His scales glowed dully in the sun, his wings spread wide, golden flames burning in his eyes, dragonfire brewing in his mouth.
The other black dot was enormous, the size of a mountain. Vhagar. The largest dragon in history. Her body covered half the sky; each beat of her wings raised a gust of wind. Her scales were dark black, like hardened magma. The dragon's eyes looked down at the bustling market town below.
Fairmarket, located in the interior of the Riverlands, was an important commercial center at the confluence of three rivers. On ordinary days, merchants gathered, people came and went, and it was very lively. At this moment, it had become the seven hells.
"Dragon! The dragon is coming!" "Run!" "Help!"
Screams, wails, and the sound of hooves mingled together. People scattered, pushing and trampling each other, desperately trying to escape this place of death. But it was too late.
Lothron dove down. He opened his mouth, and dragonfire poured out like a waterfall—hotter, fiercer, more terrible than ordinary flame. Dragonfire fell on a wooden house, and it instantly turned to ash. It fell on a stone wall, which began to smoke and glow. Dragonfire fell on a person; he didn't even have time to scream before turning into a lump of charcoal.
Rows of houses burned. Two rows of houses burned. Whole blocks burned.
The Riverlands army stationed at Fairmarket tried to organize resistance. Archers drew their bows and shot into the sky. But those arrows bounced off the dragon's scales like shooting at iron plates, causing no harm.
"Retreat! Retreat quickly!" the garrison commander roared.
But where was there to retreat to? Vhagar was coming.
The dragon descended slowly, her enormous body nearly brushing the rooftops. She did not breathe fire; simply flew like that, but the strong wind from her wings sent people scattering through the streets. Her tail swept over two towers, which collapsed with a crash.
Then she breathed fire.
The fire was not a line—it was a sea. An entire block was engulfed in dragonfire. Hundreds of people, without even a chance to escape, were burned to ash.
The defenders began to surrender. Soldiers threw down their weapons, stripped off their armor, and desperately ran out of the city. Some ran to the river, trying to jump in to escape. Some fled into the forest, trying to hide among the trees.
Lothron soared low in the sky, chasing those who fled. Seeing a group of people running, he dove down, lit a fire, and burned them to ash. Seeing someone run the other way, he turned and breathed fire again. Lothron enjoyed the process.
Vhagar flew higher and watched coldly. She did not need to give chase, because she could cover a large area with one blast of fire. She flew slowly like this, and wherever she went, it was scorched earth.
Aemond rode on Vhagar's back, watching the inferno below. His long silver hair fluttered in the wind, his violet eyes watching coldly. He wore black dragon-patterned armor. He watched the fleeing people, the burning houses, the charred corpses, and his heart was as calm as a stagnant pool.
The Westerlands had been devastated by the northerners; more than a dozen villages destroyed. Naturally, he knew how to do such things. He would treat civilians in rebel-held territory the same. The only difference between him and the northerners was who died.
Lothron let out an excited roar and dove again, chasing a group of people fleeing toward the river. Dragonfire flashed; dozens of people instantly turned into torches and fell into the river, screaming. The river water evaporated.
After a while, Aemond looked away and left. He would garrison Harrenhal. He would wait. Wait for Daemon to come. If Daemon did not come, he would continue to burn. Castle after castle, town after town. How many castles were there in the Riverlands? How many towns? No one knew. He could afford to burn. He wanted to force Daemon out. If Daemon did not come out, the hearts of the Riverlands people would be lost. Those nobles, those lords, would hate the Blacks. Then the Riverlands would self-destruct.
Lothron breathed another blast of fire; piercing screams rose from below. Aemond stopped looking down and let the wind brush his face.
---
The lower reaches of the Red Fork, deep in the forest, the camp of the Riverlands coalition forces.
At sunset, the forest was dimly lit.
Lord Elmo Tully sat on a rock. Around him were several important figures of the Riverlands, including his son Kermit Tully, Benjicot Blackwood, Aly Blackwood—known as "Black Aly"—and Lord Forrest Frey of the Twins.
They had originally planned to lead the army to relieve Tumbleton. But just now, a group of refugees had flooded into the camp. These refugees had recently fled Fairmarket. They were ragged, covered in blood, and their faces held the terror of a lifetime. They wept and told disjointed stories of what they had experienced.
"Dragons... two dragons... black... grey, the size of a mountain..." "Fire... fire everywhere... people burning like candles..." "Ran... ran desperately... but couldn't get out... they fly too fast..." "My wife... my wife burned alive... right before my eyes... I couldn't save her..." "My lord, please... help us... help us..."
Weeping, wails, pleas—all mingled together.
Lord Elmo's face grew uglier by the moment. He was the nominal supreme ruler of the Riverlands, but his real headache came from his bannermen.
At this moment, Lord Forrest Frey was the first to break. He was a middle-aged man of about forty, bald with a thick beard. House Frey of the Twins was known for its cunning, and Forrest was one of the cleverest. He had long believed that the Freys should not be involved in this battle, and now he had finally found an opportunity to attack.
"Aemond is mad!" Lord Forrest Frey roared. "He's burning civilians! He's burning cities! What does he want?!"
Benjicot Blackwood said coldly, "He wants to force us out." Benjicot was a young boy; House Blackwood supported the Blacks, and they had close personal ties with Daemon. But at this moment, he also felt a deep sense of helplessness. "He doesn't know where our main force is. He is making us reveal ourselves."
Lord Elmo asked in a deep voice, "Can Fairmarket still be saved?"
"Saved!" Forrest snapped. "If we go to Fairmarket, he can burn us all alive in the open! We have no dragons—how can we fight dragons?"
Aly Blackwood asked quietly, "What about the people of Tumbleton?" Aly was Benjicot's sister, in her twenties, with black hair and brown eyes, known as "Black Aly," and highly respected in the Riverlands.
Forrest glared at her. "What do you want me to do? Wait to die? Why don't you go tell Aemond himself not to burn them?"
"You!"
"Enough!" Lord Elmo shouted, rubbing his temples. "What's the point of shouting? Write a letter. Write to Dragonstone. Tell the queen we need dragons. Without dragons, we cannot fight."
Forrest sneered. "Write a letter? And by the time it's finished? Wait for a dragon to be sent? By the time a dragon arrives, the Riverlands will be burnt to ash!"
He stood and paced through the camp, agitated. "Think—Aemond is at Harrenhal now. He can fly out at any moment and burn our castles at any moment! Wherever he goes, we have to hide. How can we fight this war? How?!"
No one could answer him.
Suddenly, the sound of hooves came rapidly. All turned toward the sound. Several cavalrymen burst from the forest, led by Riley Karstark, deputy commander of the northern vanguard.
Riley dismounted, quickly approached Lord Elmo, and saluted. "Lord Tully."
Elmo nodded. "Lord Karstark, why are you here?"
Riley glanced at the surrounding refugees and lowered his voice. "Aemond burned Fairmarket; we know too. My lord, I have a proposal."
"Speak."
Riley drew a deep breath. "Join forces with us in the North to crush the Lannister lion first."
Elmo was stunned. "The Lannisters? They're still in the Westerlands..."
"No, they've come out," Riley interrupted. "That fool Jason Lannister, enraged by our village massacres, has already led his army from the Golden Tooth and is heading toward Riverrun. The Lannisters are rushing, and their baggage train is behind them. If we join forces with the North and ambush them on the way, there's a good chance we can devour those eight thousand men."
Elmo was silent for a while, then asked, "What about Tumbleton?"
Riley asked rhetorically, "It's a dead city. If we go to help, Aemond can come at any moment. If he finds our main force, we're finished. You must be clear—only dragons can fight dragons."
Elmo's face grew even uglier, and he said, "If we abandon Tumbleton, Harroway will be next. Harroway connects the Vale and the North to the Kingsroad and the River Road. Then our three kingdoms will be threatened."
Elmo gritted his teeth. "You mean to abandon Tumbleton?"
Riley looked at him with a hint of mockery in his eyes. "Then you lead your army to Tumbleton. Use your Riverlands soldiers to fight Aemond. Let's see whether his dragon is stronger or your soldiers are more powerful."
Elmo was silent. He remembered the refugees' screams just now, and the two dragons blotting out the sky. He could not win. No one could win.
He sat down, somewhat defeated.
Riley walked to him, patted him on the shoulder, and softened his tone. "Lord Tully, Prince Daemon will soon come to the Riverlands. We will have dragons—then we can fight again. Tumbleton is lost now, but it can be recovered in the future. But when a man dies, there is nothing."
Elmo looked up at him, then at the people around him. Finally, he nodded.
"Good." His voice was hoarse. "Fight the Lannisters first. Tumbleton... for now, just leave it."
Riley smiled faintly and turned to leave.
---
Harrenhal stood on the shore of the lake, its enormous silhouette looking especially ominous in the setting sun. Built by Harwyn Hoare, this cursed castle had once been a symbol of the Iron Islands' domination over the Riverlands. Aegon the Conqueror had burned Harwyn and his sons with dragonfire, reducing the castle to ruins. Later it was rebuilt, but the curse of Harrenhal never faded.
At this moment, two dragons circled above the castle. Vhagar landed slowly outside the castle, while Lothron perched on a low tower nearby, letting out an excited roar that echoed through the castle, startling countless bats.
Aemond jumped down from Vhagar's back and landed on the wall.
Lucas Strong had already gathered a group of men. Lucas was the castellan of Harrenhal, a large man weighing over two hundred pounds. He wore a splendid satin robe embroidered with the Strong family sigil, his face full of fawning smiles.
"Regent!" He quickly stepped forward and bowed deeply. "You're here! Welcome, welcome! Our Harrenhal is truly honored!"
Aemond ignored him, removing the iron gauntlets from his armor as he walked. Attendants swiftly stepped forward and carefully took the gauntlets. The gauntlets were still hot; they nearly dropped them, but no one dared make a sound.
Aemond walked to the wall, pointed down, and said coldly, "Lucas."
Lucas quickly leaned over and looked down.
Below the wall, a group of people huddled in a corner, trembling. These were the civilians Lucas had hastily summoned to clean the castle and strengthen its defenses. But at this moment, their faces were ashen; some had even collapsed on the ground, their pants wet, terrified of the two dragons.
"I told you to prepare," Aemond said. "Is this your preparation?"
Lucas's face flushed; sweat dripped from his brow. "Regent, stop... Regent, please! You know, Harrenhal doesn't have many people. I... I did everything I could..."
Aemond looked at him and was silent for a moment.
He knew that Harrenhal was a vast city with many surrounding villages and towns, a population of tens of thousands. And this strong man before him was lying through his teeth?
Then Aemond reached out, grabbed Lucas by the neck, and lifted his two-hundred-pound body straight off the ground.
Lucas's eyes bulged; his mouth opened, but he could not make a sound. His arms flailed wildly, his legs kicked in the air, like a fat goose caught. He felt only that the hand was like iron pincers—no matter how he struggled, he could not break free. His face changed from red to purple, from purple to blue, his eyes nearly popping out.
The surrounding attendants retreated in fear, heads bowed, not daring to look. Their bodies trembled, their legs weak; some nearly fell to their knees.
Aemond held Lucas up to his face; his violet eyes looked at him.
"Speak clearly. I have no patience for wasting time."
Lucas desperately wanted to nod, but his neck was gripped and he could not move. He could only blink desperately, showing that he understood.
Aemond looked at him; there was not a flicker of warmth in his violet eyes.
Lucas felt his consciousness beginning to fade. He thought he might die. The Regent truly wanted to kill him. He was finished.
Just as he was about to suffocate, Aemond released him.
Lucas collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, his face covered with tears and snot. He lay on the ground like a dead dog, unable to get up for a long time.
Aemond looked down at him, his voice still calm.
"Lucas, how long ago did I order the defenses of Harrenhal to be strengthened? You didn't take it seriously?"
Lucas, lying on the ground, shook his head desperately. "No... no... Regent... I am incompetent... I am incompetent..."
Aemond looked away from him, turned, and walked toward the castle.
"There will be no next time," his voice came from behind.
Lucas lay on the ground, gasping, a deep fear rising in his heart. He knew Aemond's dragon was powerful. But he certainly had not expected Aemond himself to be so strong...