The flames surged—coiling, writhing, chasing one another up into the night.
Dang—dang… dang-dang-dang… dang… dang-dang-dang…
Hand on his sword-hilt, Gawen Crabb stood before the blaze. The fire kicked up a hard wind that snapped his blue cloak—embroidered with the marsh-marigold—like a banner.
Firelight danced in his eyes. She should be unharmed… He knew Daenerys did not burn, yet standing before a sea of flame, worry gnawed anyway.
How many dragons will it be? A flicker ran through him. I may witness my own coup de grâce.
As for "Young Griff"—Gawen did not take him for the true Aegon. He leaned toward the boy being a Blackfyre offshoot—or a scion of Aerion "Brightflame."
It was the game of thrones; Young Griff had come to him, thinking himself clever. A proper player never wastes a chance—cut first, question later.
Whatever the whelp's blood, it no longer mattered. Lord Crabb had set a new table; all would sit to his deal.
The blaze mounted, winging like a great red thing; glowing cinders drifted into the limitless dark like a thousand newborn fireflies.
Varys… Jon Connington (once the Mad King's Hand, "Griff," the boy's foster-sire)… the Golden Company… Gawen's other hand rubbed thumb to forefinger, thinking.
Before Daenerys, the fire writhed—dancing girls twirling in heat and light, alive within the flames, beautiful beyond telling.
The fire had eaten her last of kin; she smelled meat—cooked—no different from roasting flesh she'd known before.
Fire melts skin; bones remain.
Heat sent sweat across every part of her, even where tears should flow—she had forsworn them. She would never weep for Viserys again.
Smoke feathered from her clothes. She tugged; the cloth fell, blooming into red tongues.
A gust lifted from the heart of the flames and struck her full in the face. She did not stir. She was the blood of the dragon; the blaze lived within her.
In the flames she saw shapes—a scarlet lion, a golden great snake, a pale-blue unicorn of tiny tongues—each lovelier than the last.
Daenerys spread her arms to them; her skin glowed rose-red in the heat.
Gawen glanced back just as Mondon Waters brought his warhammer down on an orange-haired brute's skull. In Mondon's hands the weapon was ruin; bone burst to paste, blood spattering the ground.
The man fell and did not rise.
Catching his lord's eye, Mondon said with a sheepish grin, "M'lord, he kept glaring at you…"
One of Gawen's brows climbed.
Sensing he'd not quite explained himself, Mondon scratched his head and added, "He meant you harm."
The big bastard's instincts were near-beast keen—second only to Gawen's own. The lord gave a small nod and walked over.
As he looked the corpse over, Osanna's voice came. "My lord—his name was Rolly. A friend of Jon's."
Gawen turned to her. "Osanna—are the cordons set?"
Craaaack. Stone screamed. The ground shivered underfoot.
Craaaack. A shrill thunder; smoke boiled; the earth shook again.
Craaaack. The fire roared to heaven as if the world were splitting.
At last the flames sank; heat fled a little from the ground.
Crunch—crunch. Gawen stepped through the char, boots popping over coals.
In the ash he found Daenerys Targaryen—naked, gray with soot, the silver hair of memory burnt away.
She was whole. In her hands she cradled two hatchlings—one cream-and-gold, the other bronze-and-green; the black-and-crimson wyrmling hung from her shoulder, long serpentine neck twined along her jaw.
She lifted her eyes to the blue-cloaked figure. For a heartbeat she seemed to think him a vision. "Gawen!"
Three little dragons opened eyes like live coals and turned with her to stare.
Daenerys rose in a swift, sure motion. "Gawen?"
Hsssss—
The black one puffed white smoke in protest; the other two joined its thin, angry cries.
Gawen's brow ticked upward as he measured them. For a time yet… I remain the strongest thing alive.
He tore off his cloak in one snap and set it round her shoulders. She never took her eyes off the man she had longed for; her violet gaze only brightened.
Gawen slipped an arm behind her and lifted her with care. Her fingers seized his tunic; she pressed her face to his shoulder and breathed his name. "Gawen."
Hsssss—! The three small dragons flared translucent wings and beat the heated air, keening as one.
Davos Seaworth took in Dragonstone's suddenly crowded harbor. Sailors swarmed the piers hauling stores; every alehouse bulged with men—dice, drink, and hunting whores. It would be in vain; Stannis forbade whoring on the island.
He sent his son off and ducked alone into a tavern. At the far end, his friend Salladhor Saan waved him over.
Davos dragged a chair opposite and nodded.
Salladhor smacked his lips. "My friend, fire spreads. Too much light hurts the eyes."
Davos lifted a shoulder. "She says the red comet is foretold in Asshai's old books."
Salladhor sniffed. "I say the comet points me back to my proper trade."
Davos only crooked a smile.
A belch; then: "Who'd have thought Casterly Rock's old lion would set his dwarf to rule in King's Landing? Think he means to scare the foe with that ugly face—or make the Imp dance on the walls till we die of laughter?"
Davos sipped malt ale. "How are the city's defenses?"
Salladhor lounged back. "Walls—high and thick. They're raising trebuchets and great scorpions. And what of it? The goldcloaks are tame birds; beyond them, the Lannisters have no one to hold a siege."
He leaned in. "Strike fast—hawk stoops on hare—and the great city is ours. If the winds are kind, by tomorrow's dusk our Lord Stannis sits the Iron Throne—and we can paint the Imp like a jester and poke his arse with a lance till he dances for us!"
He chuckled, then leered. "Mayhap your good Lord Stannis will reward me a night with the lovely Queen Cersei. The very thought fires my warlike heart!"
Davos set down his cup. "Pirate, was it not you who called Westerosi too hasty? Lord Stannis is just; every oar you pull will be paid in gold."
Salladhor sighed theatrically. "Dear old friend, your poor Salladhor wants gold in hand, not promises on parchment."
"He shall have it when we take the royal mint, and you know it," Davos said, grave. "Stannis Baratheon is the most exact in his word; he will pay."
"Very well, very well." The Lyseni waved him off.
Davos allowed himself a small smile. "My thanks, friend."
Another sigh; then Salladhor leaned closer, smile gone. "Even so—suppose we seize the city. How long can we hold? Tywin Lannister marches with iron, and Renly Baratheon…"
He paused. "I hear the younger brother means to bring his pretty young queen, a garden of lordlings and shining knights, and a hundred thousand men up the Rose Road straight to that very city."
"You're sure? He'll bring his bride to war?" Davos frowned.
Salladhor shrugged, laughing. "Alas, the king fails to explain himself to me. Perhaps he can't bear a night from her bed—or perhaps he thinks his victory certain."
"I'll lay this before Lord Stannis," Davos said.
Salladhor upended his cup and wiped his mouth. "When does our captain give the word to sail, good knight?"
"Soon, I think."
"Still waiting for the red woman's—guidance?"
Davos hesitated, then nodded.
"I see." Salladhor rose. "Then we shall dine in the Red Keep ere long—and hear the Imp sing us merry songs."
He clapped Davos's shoulder. "Remind His Grace—come next new moon, he owes me another twenty-two thousand golden dragons. Hm—and if he lets me bed Queen Cersei, I'll forgive a jot of interest."
He swaggered out. Davos sat a while longer, brows knit; then, seeing the light fail, he drained his ale and left.
Outside the Dragonstone sept, fire towered. The Maiden and Mother, Warrior and Smith, pearl-eyed Crone, gold-bearded Father, and the Stranger—every image was taken by flame.
Hundreds crowded to see the burning of the Seven. Even the soldiers holding order were uneasy at such insult to gods many had served all their lives.
Melisandre paced the ring of fire, robed in blood-red. Her eyes gleamed as red as the great jewel at her throat, as if both burned.
She chanted as she walked: "We offer these false gods to you—the Seven-as-One, your foes. Take them and grant us your light, for the night is dark and full of terrors."
"Lord of Light, R'hllor—mankind gropes in darkness—come!"
Stannis Baratheon stood stony-faced. His wife Selyse Florent echoed the prayer devoutly.
Davos, watching from the rear, drew his brows tight. Opponents of the red god had been killed or clapped in irons; none would gainsay this now. The gods meant little to a former smuggler—but he would not harm his own folk over which god was true.
Black smoke boiled and twisted; the wind turned; men blinked and wept and rubbed their eyes.
Melisandre lifted her voice. "The old books of Asshai foretell: after the long summer, when stars bleed and the cold dark covers the world, a warrior shall draw from fire a burning sword—Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes. He is Azor Ahai reborn, who shall drive the darkness from the world."
She cried, "Azor Ahai reborn, beloved of R'hllor! Warrior of light! Son of the holy fire! Come—your sword waits! Take up your blade!"
At her words Stannis strode like to battle, thrust a gloved hand into the pyre, gripped a hilt, and wrenched the blade free.
Green-tinged tongues ran along the steel. Stannis lifted it high.
A murmur—almost a moan—rolled the crowd.
"The burning sword!" Lady Selyse cried.
Silence a heartbeat—and then the shout swelled:
"The burning sword!"
"The burning sword!"
"The burning sword!"
Melisandre raised both hands. "Behold, the promised sign fulfilled! Behold—Lightbringer! Azor Ahai has returned! Rejoice for the warrior of light—rejoice for the son of the sacred flame!"
"The night is dark and full of terrors—Lord of Light, grant us your fire!"
Davos saw Stannis drive the flaming blade point-first into the ground and strip off a smoking glove, dropping it to smolder.
The so-called Lightbringer still glowed dull red, but the fire along its length was guttering fast.
The steel went black, dead as scrap. Davos stared. This is the Red Sword of Heroes the red woman promised?.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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