The Stepstones, Throat-Cutting Isle Main Island
"Kill them!" "Gah!" Whoosh—!
Brooke, a shieldman in the "Chainbreakers" phalanx, gasped for air. Each breath was a struggle as the roar of combat and the rhythmic screams of the dying hammered against his eardrums.
He was just a boy from the gutters of Flea Bottom in King's Landing. Tall for his age and blessed with a bottomless stomach, his parents had cast him out to spare his siblings from starvation. He had wandered right into the clutches of the Sea Fox, a slaver galley disguised as a trader, and ended up here, in the Stepstones.
Though this was his second time seeing blood, Brooke still felt like a stranger to war. Most children of his generation had known only the long peace of King Robert's reign. But the Chainbreakers weren't just a rabble. They were disciplined, well-fed, and drilled until their movements were instinct. Despite the cold terror clawing at his gut, Brooke stayed rooted in place. He believed in Lord Jon. He believed in the miracles the man performed. He knew that when the Dragonfire fell, these screaming savages would be reduced to nothing but ash.
"Brace! Impact!"
At the command, Brooke tightened his grip on the handle of his massive tower shield, dropping into a deep crouch to absorb the coming shock. Garo had drilled them relentlessly: hold the line, let the spear-men behind you do the work, and even a heavy horse charge would break against their wall.
BOOM!
The impact felt like being struck by a charging bull. Brooke's vision blurred as the kinetic force vibrated through his bones.
"Watch out! Monsters!"
A cry went up from the ranks behind him. Brooke shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, but he wasn't fast enough.
Slurp... Squish...
A cold, wet sensation slapped against his forearm. Before he could look down, a bolt of agonizing pain flared through his mind.
CRACK!
The pain cleared his head instantly. Standing before him was a nightmare. It had the twisted face of a man, but its elongated features and horizontal pupils were sickeningly reminiscent of a goat. It was a grey, oily thing, and its "hands" were a mass of writhing, suckered tentacles.
The creature snarled, its unnatural strength nearly buckling Brooke's knees. Realizing the boy was holding firm, the beast gave a violent shove, launching Brooke backward into the ranks of his own squad.
"Bleat! Sss—!"
More of the twisted goat-spawn surged into the breach, their distorted cries filling the air. The Chainbreakers' spearmen jabbed frantically, their pikes finding purchase in the grey flesh. These things weren't immortal; enough steel could still kill them, but they were tearing the formation apart.
Behind the monsters, a sea of pirates swarmed the wharf like a carpet of angry ants. For every one picked off by a rooftop sniper, ten more seemed to take their place.
As Brooke scrambled to his feet, the monster that had thrown him approached, a blood-stained hand-axe raised high. Its horizontal pupils fixed on his throat.
Whoosh—!
A massive black blur streaked over Brooke's head. He caught a glimpse of a bulbous, spiked abdomen before the creature was intercepted.
"Charge!" Sam roared.
The Giant Poison Spiders hit the pirate line like a discharge of black lightning. Their massive bodies vaulted over the phalanx, their chitinous legs skewering pirates like toothpicks. The tide shifted in a heartbeat. Even the powerful goat-men were no match for the crushing weight and venomous bite of Jon's summons.
"ROAR—!"
Then, the sun was blotted out.
A gargantuan shadow swept across the Market District. It was a dragon of charcoal scales and jagged spikes, radiating an aura of pure, predatory dread. It ignored the buildings, banking hard toward the concentrated mass of the pirate vanguard.
Time to feel the Dragonfire, Jon thought, struggling to suppress the beast's maddening hunger.
The Glutton unhinged its jaw. Dark green embers danced between its serrated teeth before erupting into a roaring pillar of flame.
The Dragonfire didn't just burn; it plowed through the street like a molten sickle. It engulfed the central avenue, drowning the pirates in a sea of emerald heat. When the green flames touched skin, they behaved like leeches—clinging, burrowing, and refusing to be extinguished. Pirates became living torches, rolling on the ground in a futile attempt to smother a fire that fed on their very flesh.
"Help me!" "My hands! My eyes!" "Water! Get me to the water!"
The wharf became a symphony of agony.
Jon didn't linger to watch. He beat his wings, soaring out over the harbor. His golden eyes locked onto a flagship anchored two hundred meters out: the Queen Lexarino.
BOOM!
The Dragonfire struck the ship's midsection, turning the grand galleon into a funeral pyre. The dry timber shrieked as it ignited, and the sails vanished in a mushroom cloud of black smoke. Sea water turned crimson under the reflected glow of the inferno.
The pirates on the water were paralyzed. They had seen ships sink, and they had seen men die, but they had never seen a force of nature like this. Thousands dropped to their knees on the decks of their burning ships, weeping and begging for a mercy that the dragon seemed incapable of giving.
The sea smelled of salt and charred meat.
"Lord Salladhor! We have to go! Now!" Stone Lock shouted over the roar of the flames. "We are next! That beast is coming for us!"
Salladhor Saan stood on his deck, his face pale. He had kept his fleet far in the rear, intending to scavenge the remains of whichever side lost. But his calculations hadn't accounted for a dragon of this size.
"It's too late," Saan whispered, his eyes fixed on the sky. "There is nowhere to run."
"ROAR—!"
As if acknowledging him, The Glutton banked in the air, its golden eyes fixing on Saan's white-sailed fleet.
"Hoist the Rainbow Flag!" Saan screamed to his crew. "Signalman! Tell them we are here to negotiate! Lookouts—tell me! Is there a rider on its back? Answer me, you dogs!"
Jon hovered in the air, his draconic nostrils flaring as he watched the colorful flag of parley unfurl from the masts of the rear fleet. He paused, the green fire simmering in his throat, as he weighed the price of mercy against the thrill of the kill.