The dragon wheeled above Fair Isle, vast enough to blot out the sun. Below it, the island's white towers rose along the cliffs above the Sunset Sea, marble-pale and once unmarred. Now they were fouled by ironborn banners and the stink of salt and blood.
The Cannibal descended with a thunder of wings. Its talons closed around the spire of one of the tallest towers. Stone screamed as it tore free.
The spire fell.
It struck the city wall with a sound like the breaking of the world. Masonry burst outward, the wall collapsing in a cloud of dust and shattered stone.
"Kill them!"
"Slay the sea devils!"
Cries echoed through the streets as Fair Isle dissolved into chaos. It was a small city, stoutly built, but walls and courage meant nothing before a dragon. From the saddle, Aegon looked down without haste, weighing his choices. He could burn Fair Isle until nothing stood but fused stone, as Harren the Black's folly had burned. Or he could wait, and see whether the Red Kraken would crawl from hiding to meet his fate.
The choice was taken from him.
Crossbows creaked. Arrows hissed upward from towers and battlements as ironborn stumbled from sleep into terror, loosing bolts at dragon and rider alike.
The Cannibal roared and climbed. The arrows fell far short, pattering uselessly through the air.
"Dracarys," Aegon said.
The Cannibal was no hatchling. It was fully grown, its flames no longer wild but absolute. When it opened its jaws, the fire that poured forth was a baleful green, bright enough to sear the eyes. It washed over the towers in a single, merciless tide.
Men vanished in flame. Ironborn screamed once, if at all, before becoming blackened shapes locked forever in their armor. The fire clung as if alive, crawling across wood, leather, cloth, even steel, until the city itself seemed to burn from within.
Fair Isle burned.
White towers turned black, their stones cracking as if in pain. Green fire burst from windows and arrow slits while the dragon circled overhead, breathing ruin again and again.
"Red Kraken," Aegon called, his voice carrying over the roar of the flames. "Submit to me."
He leaned forward in the saddle, his eyes fixed on the city below.
Heat shimmered in the air. Stone wept, mortar running like tears. Below, the lion banners rose as the Lannister host reached the city with the surviving townsfolk. Men stared upward in awe and terror as the red dragon of House Targaryen was raised among them.
The stench of burned flesh hung thick in the air. Ironborn flesh.
With a groan, the great gate of iron and oak swung open, pushed from within by unseen hands. Smoke poured out like breath from a dying beast.
Then they emerged.
At their head strode Dalton Greyjoy, Nightfall naked in his hand, its dark blade catching the firelight. Behind him came his captains. Alister Wynch with his calculating eyes, and Gonsor Codd, broad as a siege ram, his voice rumbling even when he was silent.
The Glutton circled once more before settling. Aegon swung down from the saddle and walked forward alone.
Lady Johanna Lannister stood with the commanders, armored and unbowed, her jaw set hard. Lords Prester and Tarbeck flanked her, with Ser Eowyn Lannister close by. Every eye followed Aegon as he approached, fear and reverence mingled together. All of them knew the truth. Without dragonfire, Fair Isle would still be lost.
Dalton Greyjoy stepped forward. He was lean and sharp-featured, black eyes bright beneath wind-tangled hair. Though only eighteen, he carried himself like a man who had never known restraint.
"We were once allies, Prince," Dalton said. His grip tightened on Nightfall, knuckles whitening.
Aegon studied him in silence. He saw no regret there. Only hunger.
"We were never allies," Aegon replied. His voice was calm, colder than the stone beneath their feet. "No oath was sworn. You defiled the dignity of the Dragon Throne, and you woke a dragon that should have been left sleeping."
He took another step closer. "I will offer you one chance. Bring your longships. Bend the knee. Serve under my command, and I will give you a place in my fleet."
Dalton threw back his head and laughed, sharp and loud. "The Red Kraken does not kneel." He spat onto the scorched stone. "I bow only to the Drowned God and the Old Way."
Then his smile returned, crooked and bold. "But I could swear fealty another way. I have salt wives aplenty, yet no rock wife. They say Your Grace has twin sisters. Silver hair. Purple eyes. Give me one, and I will be your brother. I will bleed for you."
Aegon's gaze hardened.
Dalton shrugged, untroubled. "If she is already wed, there are widows enough in the realm. Lannister. Tyrell. Hightower. Baratheon. Or a maid of the Vale. Any would do. And there is one other choice I would gladly take."
"Enough," Aegon said.
The word fell like a blade.
Around him, the Lannister host roared in fury. Hands went to sword hilts. Faces twisted with hatred.
Aegon knew the Greyjoys well. They stank of brine and dead fish, wrapped themselves in the Old Way as if it were virtue, and mistook cruelty for strength. They preyed upon the helpless and shrank when faced with true power.
During the Dance of the Dragons, the blacks had suffered Dalton Greyjoy as an ally. Peace had laid bare the truth. The ironborn had never cared for blacks or greens, king or pretender. They followed only plunder.
Dalton Greyjoy had never crowned himself king, yet for years he had ignored the Iron Throne as if it were beneath his notice.
Now he stood amid smoke and ash, Nightfall in his hand, facing a host that outnumbered him a hundredfold. He showed no fear.
"I wield the sacred authority of the Drowned God," Dalton proclaimed, spreading his arms as if daring the world to strike him down.
Aegon's expression did not change. "Then I shall send you to meet him."
A murmur rippled through the field.
Dalton's mouth curled into a grin. He lifted Nightfall and kissed the flat of the Valyrian steel, his eyes never leaving Aegon. "I once crossed blades with the lion of the west. Now let me dance with a dragon. Your father was a master. Let us see whether the son is worthy of the name."
"Your last dance," Aegon said, and stepped forward.
"Regent," Lady Johanna Lannister called sharply, taking a half-step toward him. Her helm was off, her hair damp with sweat. "This is folly. Give the word and he dies by arrows."
Behind her, Lannister bowmen already had shafts nocked, hands trembling with restrained violence.
Aegon did not turn back. "Stand down."
Trial by combat was older than the Seven Kingdoms themselves. Even reavers understood its weight.
Dalton laughed under his breath as Aegon drew Blackfyre. The great blade caught the firelight, dark steel edged in rippling red, as if remembering other wars.
Steel met steel.
The clash rang out sharp and clear, cutting through the crackle of distant flames. The sea devil and the dragon closed, boots grinding on scorched stone.
Dalton struck first, hard and fast, his blows coming in rolling surges like the tide. He fought without restraint, shoulders hunched, teeth bared, Nightfall flashing in brutal arcs meant to break bone and spirit alike.
Aegon gave ground only when he chose to. His movements were economical, measured. Blackfyre turned aside each cut with inches to spare, the blade humming with every parry.
Sparks flew.
The sound of steel rang again and again, so close that onlookers flinched. Life and death hung on the narrowest margin.
Dalton pressed harder, breath coming fast, expecting the boy before him to falter. Instead he found calm eyes, steady footing, and an awareness that bordered on the uncanny. Every feint was read. Every overreach punished.
Heat roared in Aegon's veins, echoing the presence behind him.
Faster.
Stronger.
More.
I am the storm.
Blackfyre rose and fell with growing violence, each strike heavier than the last. The dragon's rhythm entered his limbs, relentless and inexorable.
Dalton's grin vanished. Sweat streaked the soot on his face. His breath grew ragged as he gave ground for the first time.
"Dalton is beaten!"
"Go home, Red Kraken!"
Shouts rose from the Lannister ranks, sharp with triumph.
Snarling, Dalton shook his head as if to clear it. Rage drowned what sense remained. With a hoarse cry, he lunged forward, abandoning defense entirely. Nightfall thrust straight toward Aegon's belly, a killing stroke meant to trade life for life.
Aegon stepped inside the blow.
"I know you, Dalton," he said quietly.
He twisted as he struck. Blackfyre reversed its arc in a smooth, flowing motion that seemed almost effortless.
The first cut flashed.
Dalton's sword hand fell to the ground, fingers still curled around nothing.
Nightfall struck stone and skidded away.
Before the scream could form, the second blow followed. An upward slash, clean and precise.
Dalton Greyjoy's head left his shoulders and rolled across the blackened stones.
Aegon stepped forward and set his boot upon it, pinning it in place.
"You are the first," he said, his voice carrying across the field. "Care to tell another joke, Dalton?"
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