The war horns blared.
The first wave of assault troops began to advance.
At the very front were the shield bearers, raising massive tower shields to block the arrows raining down from the walls.
Behind them came the archers, drawing their bows and firing in volleys toward the battlements. Further back were infantry carrying scaling ladders, along with four siege towers that had long been prepared, slowly rolling forward.
On the walls, the forces of Lord Staunton were already in position.
"Loose!"
At the command, arrows poured down like rain.
Some of the shield bearers at the front were struck and fell, but those behind immediately stepped forward to take their place.
The ladders slammed against the walls. Soldiers clenched knives between their teeth and scrambled upward with all their strength.
Stones came crashing down.
Boiling oil was poured from above.
Screams rose one after another.
A soldier had just climbed halfway when a rock smashed into his head. He fell backward, knocking three men down with him.
Another had just lifted his head over the top when a pot of boiling oil was dumped over him. He screamed as he tumbled off the ladder, the flesh on his face peeling and writhing.
But there were simply too many Green soldiers.
When the first wave fell back, the second surged forward immediately.
At last, the siege towers reached the walls.
The doors swung open, and soldiers poured onto the battlements, clashing with the defenders in brutal close combat.
Steel flashed. Flesh tore.
A Green soldier had just leapt onto the wall when three spears pierced him at once. He screamed as he fell.
A defender had his arm hacked off, yet with bloodshot eyes he seized his enemy's throat with his remaining hand, and the two of them tumbled off the wall together.
The battlements were piled with corpses, blood running down the stone like a red stream.
"Hold the line! Hold!" Lord Staunton himself climbed onto the wall, cutting down an enemy who had just made it up. "Reinforcements are coming!"
His voice was swallowed by the roar of battle.
Another ladder went up.
Another wave climbed.
The defenders were beginning to falter.
Then—
From the distance came a dragon's roar that shook the heavens.
Everyone looked up at once.
In the western sky, a crimson shadow burst through the clouds.
Growing larger.
Faster.
Meleys.
The Red Queen.
"It's a Black dragon!"
No one knew who shouted first, but the cry hit like a blade into a hornet's nest.
The entire Green army erupted into chaos. Soldiers looked up in panic—some shouting, some stepping back.
Gwayne Hightower's face turned ashen.
The Black rider had arrived.
But where was the prince?
Where was the prince's dragon?
He snapped his head up, scanning the sky.
Vhagar and Lothorne were nowhere to be seen. They had already left.
Had they returned to King's Landing? Or gone elsewhere?
He didn't know.
He only knew that the crimson dragon above was diving straight toward them.
"Archers, ready!" he roared.
It was useless.
Everyone knew it was useless.
And yet they still prayed—to strike the rider.
A dragon could not be brought down by arrows.
Meleys was too fast. By the time the soldiers raised their bows, she was already overhead.
Her crimson wings blotted out the sun, casting a vast shadow across the ground.
Dragonfire poured down.
Not a single stream, but a torrent—like a waterfall, like a flood.
Where it passed, soldiers became living torches, warhorses turned to charred husks, and the black-and-gold dragon banners were reduced to ash.
Screams, wails, and the roar of flames blended together, until it was impossible to tell whether it was men or beasts crying out.
An entire formation was struck head-on by the dragonfire and collapsed instantly.
The soldiers threw down their weapons and fled in all directions, but two legs could not outrun dragon wings. The flames caught them, one by one, licking them into blackened corpses.
"Hold the line! Hold!"
"Break formation! Spread out!"
"Every knight, keep control of your own unit!"
"Any deserter will be executed on the spot!"
Gwayne rode through the formation at a frantic gallop, but his voice was drowned out by the screams all around him.
Another formation was hit.
Another sea of fire.
The cavalry between two formations was swept by dragonfire. The warhorses panicked, crashing wildly in all directions, throwing the lines into even greater chaos.
"My lord!" Willem's face was blackened with soot, his voice trembling. "Where is the prince? If he doesn't come soon…"
Gwayne clenched his teeth and turned to look toward the forest behind them.
There, the young troops were retreating in an orderly fashion.
"Fall back to the forest first!"
Retreat?
Where could they retreat to?
They had only marched for two hours. Part of the vanguard had already reached the walls and engaged in battle. If they fled now, they would only be hunted down by the dragons.
But if they didn't retreat…
Another dragon's roar rang out—from a different direction.
Gwayne's head snapped up.
In the eastern sky, another dragon was diving down.
Blood-red.
Caraxes.
The Blood Wyrm.
"It's over…"
Someone muttered it under their breath.
Two dragons.
Two dragonriders.
They only had two legs.
How could they possibly outrun them?
The army collapsed completely.
Soldiers scattered like headless flies, trampling and shoving each other in blind panic.
Caraxes dove from the east, dragonfire sweeping across the fleeing masses, leaving charred corpses strewn across the ground.
Meleys circled back from the west—another inferno.
The two dragonriders crossed paths in the sky, like hunting hawks chasing rabbits scrambling below.
The Green army no longer existed.
In its place was a burning hell—thick smoke billowing, blotting out the sky.
Gwayne was pulled back by his guards as he retreated, glancing over his shoulder again and again.
Five thousand men.
Five thousand.
At least five hundred burned alive by dragonfire. More than a thousand had broken and scattered.
Just like that… gone?
A rider came charging in from the side, shouting, "Lord Gwayne! The prince has given orders—full retreat immediately!"
It was Hall, commander of the youth corps.
Gwayne roared in anger, "What do you mean? Where is Aemond Targaryen?!"
Hall's face was cold. "The prince has already given his orders. You only need to withdraw."
"If you insist on continuing, then when this battle is lost, the responsibility will fall on you."
Hearing this, Gwayne trembled with rage.
He thought Aemond feared facing Daemon and Rhaenys together, and dared not take the field.
"Retreat!" he gritted out. "Full retreat!"
The words had barely left his mouth when another torrent of dragonfire came crashing down from the sky.
His guards desperately hauled on the reins, dragging his horse toward the forest.
Then—
At the far edge of the sky, a golden light burst through the clouds.
Sunfyre.
The golden dragon broke out from the cloudbank, its wings gleaming in the sunlight.
On Sunfyre's back rode a man in shining silver armor.
Aegon II Targaryen.
"It's His Grace!"
"His Grace has come!"
"Long live the King!"
The soldiers who had been fleeing toward the forest stopped in their tracks, lifting their heads to the sky. In their eyes, despair was being replaced by hope.
Gwayne reined in his horse and looked back at that golden figure.
The king had come.
But…
Where was Prince Aemond?
Where was he?
Hall saw the golden dragon as well, and his expression turned extremely grim.
He knew the truth—Aemond was not at Rook's Rest at all.
That Lothorne had circled for so long only to draw the Blacks' attention. By now, the prince should already be nearing Dragonstone.
But why had the king come?
Why had he come?!
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