"Gods—no! It's a Targaryen dragon!"
The moment the black shadow revealed itself, the surviving Dornish and Triarchy soldiers lost all discipline.
For over a century the Targaryens had ruled Westeros with dragons, burning entire armies to ash. Every man in the Narrow Sea had grown up fearing them.
Dorne in particular had never bent the knee. Their cities had been scorched again and again by dragonfire. Even though they had once managed to kill a dragon through luck and grit, the sight of this monstrous black beast filled them with raw terror.
"It's coming straight for us—run!"
The Dornish remnants spun around and sprinted back toward their beached ships in blind panic.
"Cannibal!"
High above, silver hair whipping in the wind, Logar stared down at the scattering enemy and bared his teeth.
"Dracarys!"
The Cannibal answered with a thunderous roar. Its jaws snapped open and a torrent of sickly green dragonflame poured down like molten death, swallowing the charging ranks whole.
Soldiers in armor had no time to dodge. They were incinerated where they stood, bodies turning to charred husks in an instant. Agonized screams rose and fell across the beach.
Logar's first time commanding a dragon in battle sent a savage thrill through him. He slapped the Cannibal's neck with fierce delight.
"Well done, my friend! Keep going!"
The Cannibal rumbled with pleasure, green eyes gleaming with contempt as it banked sharply and unleashed another blast across the shoreline.
Green flames rolled over the beached ships. Men who had almost reached safety were roasted alive alongside their vessels. Wood exploded in the heat, sails turned to ash, and the entire harbor glowed blood-red through thick white steam.
"Hahaha! Beautiful work, Cannibal! You'll get a feast tonight!"
After two sweeping passes that burned away most of the enemy's strength, Logar left the few scattered survivors to their fate and guided the Cannibal down.
He knew dragonfire consumed the beast's inner reserves. A dragonrider never wasted it on stragglers—save it for the decisive blow.
The Cannibal folded its massive wings and landed heavily in front of the fort, shaking the ground.
The beach was a blackened wasteland. Enemy corpses lay twisted in their final running poses, the air thick with the sickly-sweet stench of burned flesh.
Femon, Kendel, and the surviving World Devourers staggered out of the shattered fort, weapons still in hand. When they saw the rider on the black dragon, their eyes widened in disbelief.
"Captain… is that really you?!"
Femon's voice cracked with tears.
Logar looked at his blood-soaked, exhausted men and his face darkened instantly.
"How did it get this bad?! I left you orders to hold the fort!"
The moment the exhausted mercenaries realized their captain had returned—riding a living dragon—they dropped to their knees, sobbing with relief.
Only Kendel managed to speak through his tears.
"The enemy reinforced and counter-attacked. You were gone, and the Velaryon fleet refused to help. We were out of arrows, out of food, out of everything!"
Logar's expression turned murderous. He stared toward the island where Malentin's fleet was anchored.
"Malentin… that bastard still thinks he can use my men as cannon fodder and sit back safely. He will pay for this!"
Every time Malentin had abandoned him in the past flashed through his mind—leaving him to die while the Velaryons watched from a distance.
"His cowardice has let the Stepstones fall back into chaos. All our hard work nearly undone. He must answer for it!"
Logar turned to Femon and Kendel.
"Get the men on the ships. We're sailing to their base right now. I want answers."
"Yes!!"
The despair that had nearly broken the World Devourers vanished in an instant. Tears of exhaustion turned to tears of fierce loyalty.
Their captain had returned. And not just returned—he had come back riding the most fearsome dragon alive.
With the Cannibal at their side, nothing in the Stepstones could stand against them anymore.
The Velaryon fleet was anchored at Broken Spear Island, the rearmost isle in the chain.
It sat safely behind Logar's forward base, protected by the main Velaryon fleet and far from any real fighting. The waters here had stayed calm for weeks.
That same day, Malentin Velaryon—Corlys's chosen fleet commander in the Stepstones—was lounging on the deck of his luxurious flagship, fishing.
Two Lysene servant girls attended him—one massaging his legs, the other feeding him grapes. Life was good.
"Uncle?" Daemon Velaryon came hurrying up the beach, breathless. "I just returned from Driftmark with fresh supplies and received an urgent plea from Blackgold Island! If we don't send help soon, Logar's mercenaries will be wiped out!"
"Let them die," Malentin said lazily, popping another grape into his mouth. "They're not our men anyway."
"Lord Corlys is pleased with our current progress. He wants us to hold position. With any luck, I'll soon be granted lands on Driftmark itself and leave this miserable rock behind."
"When I go, you'll take command of the fleet—"
He was still talking when the fishing rod jerked violently. Thinking he had a big catch, Malentin grinned.
But the entire sea suddenly trembled as if struck by an earthquake.
ROAR—!!
A deafening dragon cry rolled across the water.
Malentin and Daemon whipped their heads up.
A monstrous black shadow was racing toward them low over the waves, wings beating with terrifying power.
"What in the Seven Hells?" Malentin swallowed hard. "Why would the Targaryens send a dragon all the way out here?"
The Cannibal grew larger by the second, its savage silhouette blotting out the sky.