Chapter 173 — One Wish Fulfilled, Another Begins
Catelyn Stark and Robb Stark looked at the dragon scale in Arya Stark's hand, then up at Drogon soaring back into the sky. Neither of them had expected that the dragon would not only forgive Arya's boldness—but even gift her a scale.
Naturally, they were pleased. If Arya could form a bond with the black dragon, it would, in a way, strengthen their ties with Daenerys Targaryen herself.
The army would take several days to reach The Twins. Drogon's visit with Rhaegal had simply been to familiarize the dragon with Robb and the route. When the time came, Rhaegal would fly directly there.
Not long after returning to Dragonstone, Drogon set out again—this time toward Storm's End, where Viserion had already departed alongside Daario Naharis.
He knew that Cersei Lannister had ordered Qyburn to develop a weapon—something even more powerful than the scorpion ballistae used before.
Although Drogon had been training Rhaegal and Viserion to deal with such weapons, he still wasn't entirely comfortable letting them operate alone without knowing the full extent of this new threat.
It wasn't just about avoiding injury—or sparing Daenerys the grief.
He himself didn't want anything to happen to them.
They had hatched together.
Grown together.
And during his own transformation, they had stayed by his side.
That bond alone was enough—he would never allow them to be harmed if he could help it.
Storm's End stood as one of the most formidable fortresses in the Seven Kingdoms—its towering walls and strategic position having endured for centuries. It had been the ancestral seat of Shireen Baratheon's family for generations.
But no matter how strong the walls…
Before dragons, even the greatest castles were no different from ordinary stone.
Even the impregnable The Eyrie had once fallen—when Aegon I Targaryen unleashed Balerion the Black Dread.
Once the army reached Storm's End, the assault began almost immediately.
Viserion led the attack.
Drogon remained high above, observing.
To preserve the integrity of Shireen's ancestral castle, Drogon had already instructed Viserion—
Burn fewer walls.
Burn more men.
Standing below, Daario couldn't help but feel relieved at having Viserion on their side. Without a dragon, even doubling their forces wouldn't have been enough to breach a fortress that had stood unbroken in the Stormlands for a thousand years.
From the sky, Drogon sensed something else.
A familiar presence.
A faint energy clinging to the walls—something reminiscent of what he had felt at The Wall.
Magic.
Legends claimed that Storm's End had endured for centuries because it was protected by ancient spells.
Now, it seemed those stories were true.
Drogon recalled another tale—
When Stannis Baratheon sought to assassinate his brother, Renly Baratheon, he had smuggled Melisandre into the castle with the help of Davos Seaworth.
Perhaps it had been precisely to bypass the castle's magical defenses—so her shadow-born assassin could pass through.
As he studied the walls, Drogon also assessed the defenders.
Their numbers were clearly lacking.
Most likely, a large portion of the garrison had been withdrawn—
To reinforce King's Landing.
Just then, Drogon spotted movement along the battlements of Storm's End. Soldiers were hauling out a massive ballista from behind the crenellations—larger than any of the training scorpions he had used on Rhaegal and Viserion.
So Cersei Lannister had already succeeded.
The moment Drogon saw it, his vigilance sharpened.
Viserion, busy strafing soldiers below, noticed the weapon a heartbeat too late. By the time he turned, the scorpion was already drawn and aimed.
He veered instinctively, trying to swing around its flank—but the sharp twang of a released bowstring cut through the air. A dark bolt streaked toward him, faster than the training shots by nearly a third.
Judging its trajectory in an instant, Viserion snapped one wing upward and narrowly avoided the shot.
After months of training—and a few painful ambushes—both he and Rhaegal had learned their lesson. In unfamiliar battlefields, they always scanned first for scorpions. Surprise attacks were no longer enough to catch them off guard.
Having dodged the first bolt, Viserion surged toward the weapon, eyes sweeping the ground for any others.
The crew below adjusted quickly. The scorpion pivoted—fired again.
But now he was ready.
The instant the string snapped, Viserion banked sharply, the bolt slicing harmlessly through empty air.
That was the last shot they would get.
He dropped from the sky.
A torrent of crimson dragonfire erupted from his jaws, incinerating the distant soldiers manning the machine. Then he swooped directly overhead, claws and wings working in tandem—tearing apart the remaining operators or sweeping them screaming from the walls.
Drogon had warned them: if a scorpion posed no real threat, don't waste time destroying the weapon—kill the crew instead.
Even as Viserion landed along the battlements, soldiers hurled spears at him. He batted them aside with wings and talons—sparring against Drogon had not been for nothing.
Once the area was cleared, he took to the air again, circling once more in flame before diving toward the gates.
Three blasts of dragonfire.
The gates collapsed.
Behind them, Daario Naharis led the assault. His forces poured into the fortress, and it wasn't long before Storm's End fell completely under their control.
Drogon had already withdrawn by then, slipping away unnoticed the moment Daario breached the gate—his presence concealed from both Viserion and the soldiers below.
Five days later, Rhaegal descended upon The Twins.
Compared to Storm's End, its defenses were laughable. No scorpions. No formidable walls. The outcome was never in doubt.
Robb Stark seized the castle with ease.
House Frey was shattered—most were slain, the survivors captured. The North now held the great crossing, the vital bridge between the North and the rest of Westeros.
With the Twins secured, Robb's gaze drifted northward.
He already knew that Ramsay Bolton—the Bastard of Bolton—had taken Winterfell.
Every instinct urged him to march home and reclaim it.
But reason held him back.
With his current strength, taking Winterfell would be difficult—perhaps impossible. And he could not, in good conscience, ask Daenerys Targaryen for another dragon to settle a personal war.
The southern campaign was already underway. Even his victory here owed half its success to Rhaegal.
He had pledged himself—but earned little in return so far.
Winterfell… would have to wait.
For now.
In the aftermath, as calm slowly returned, Arya Stark slipped a silver coin from her pocket.
It had been given to her by Jaqen H'ghar—a man she'd met while enslaved by the Gold Cloaks in King's Landing.
A Faceless Man.
When the time came, she only needed to travel to Braavos, present the coin to any Braavosi, and speak the words in High Valyrian:
"All men must die."
They would bring her to him.
Her wish—to save her family—had been fulfilled.
Now, a new path called to her.
Meanwhile, on Dragonstone, Daenerys sat in her chambers as Barristan Selmy handed her a scroll.
Most of its contents were routine intelligence from King's Landing.
But one line puzzled her.
"Night's Watchman Sam has arrived at the Citadel in Oldtown."
Sam?
She frowned. The name meant nothing to her.
Why would this matter?
Before she could think further, Drogon suddenly snatched the letter from her hands and flew out of the room.
Daenerys blinked in surprise.
Was that message… important to him?
Curiosity piqued, she followed. Drogon didn't go far—just down the corridor and straight into Shireen Baratheon's chamber.
Daenerys paused outside, hesitating.
Then—
A delighted shout rang out from within.
The door flew open.
Shireen rushed out, face lit with excitement.