Ser Duncan the Tall, The Kingswood.
"Rider coming," Wat called down from the watchtower.
Rolf looked up from sharpening his knife. "How many with him?"
"Just the one man. He's alone."
"He must be here to join the camp. That's the third hedge knight we've seen this month. The plague has made the whole King's Landing starve or die."
Around twelve men were sitting around fires.
"Please." Rolf heard a small voice.
The girl was eight name-days old. Her ribs showed through the holes in her shift. "My mother… she is hungry…. She will die."
Rolf kicked her in the stomach, and she went down with a grunt as the air left her lungs.
The rider reached the camp, he was a tall bastard, built like a stump of a tree, broad across the shoulders, and in unnatural black armor.
There was a sword in his hip, which was taller than any man in camp.
"We do not have work for you," Rolf called out. "Pits are already full, except you have a taste for what's inside."
When the plague started in King's Landing, few merchant caravans left the city, carrying the infected with them. They didn't reach much farther as the infection spread among them.
In the Kingswood, they were attacked by bandits.
Bandits had salvaged most things and made the caravan people dig a pit, so that when those people themselves died, they could throw them in it.
"I'm here to cleanse the Kingswood," Dunk said.
"You and what army?"
Bloodraven had been clear about it. No visible merit meant no Harrenhal. The King couldn't just hand over the biggest castle to a hedge knight who'd done nothing.
Dunk needed a deed. Something the smallfolk would hear about. Something the lords could swallow.
Clearing the Kingswood of bandits and restarting trade would be sufficient.
But that wasn't the real reason he was here.
Dunk needed life force. The skill orbs from his system could strengthen his body, but after that, his strength will stay the same... won't grow.
The ritual he'd found was different. It would let him grow.
As long as he put in effort, his strength would continue to increase; he just needed fuel… fourteen lives.
Dunk drew his sword and swung down on Rolf with one fluid motion. The sword cut through both of his legs.
Before Rolf even knew that he was missing both of his legs from the thighs, or his upper body slid down, Dunk was on the second one beside him. He tried to block it using his sword, but it didn't help much. He still lost his hand and legs.
The third tried to run but the blade still reached his back.
"Go stand by my horse. Don't move." Dunk told the girl who had just stood up and was looking at him with teary eyes.
He went back to work.
The bandits tried to fight, but the Valyrian steel sheared through leather and wool and bone. He took hands, he took feet, and he opened bellies, but he left them breathing…. He needs them alive for a few moments, just a few moments that he needs to draw a ritual circle from their blood and drag them inside it.
As he continued to move through the camp he found the girl's mother.
They'd kept her here for weeks. Maybe months. Her body told the story of what had happened through burns, bruises, and in the way she was curled on straw that stank of piss.
She whispered something. Dunk had to lean close to hear it.
"Please… Kill me."
Dunk reached into his inventory and pulled out the healing potion.
He forced the vial between her cracked lips and tipped it back. She tried to resist. He held her jaw until she swallowed.
"Your daughter needs you."
He waited until her eyes focused on his face. Then he pulled bread and dried meat from his pack. Left them beside her with a clean cloak.
"Girls by the horse at the gate."
The woman managed a nod and moved toward the gate of the camp.
He opened his inventory and selected the items he'd purchased from the system shop.
First, the dragon bone bowl, covered in runes.
Second, the glass vial of dragon blood. He'd brought the dragon blood which was 250 times more expensive then blood of Balerion.
Third, the jar of blue sap. It was one of the raw materials that was used for making the shade of the evening.
Dunk carried the items to the center of the camp.
He began arranging the bandits and quickly drew the ritual circle from their blood, as those bandit continue to breathe.
The placement had to be exact. He'd studied the ritual instructions for hours. One body out of position and the whole thing would fail.
The dragon bone bowl went in the center.
Dunk opened the jar of blue sap first. Poured it into the bowl.
Next came the dragon blood.
He unsealed the glass vial and tipped it over the bowl. The dragon's blood poured out reluctantly. It hit the blue sap and recoiled. The two substances didn't want to mix.
They stayed separate, blue at the bottom and red floating on top.
Dunk drew his knife.
He pressed the edge against his tumb.
One of his blood drop fell in the middle of the ritual circle and it activated.
The bandits started screaming again as their skin pulled tight against their bones.
In just a few seconds their bodies turned into dried husks that barely looked human.
The mixture in the bowl started spinning; blue and red started swirled together. They merged into purple. The color deepened until it was almost black.
Dunk lifted the bowl with both hands and raised it to his lips.
…
POV: Aerion Targaryen, The Red Mountains
"What do you want to show us, my love?"
Aerion kissed her forehead, "something beautiful."
He had a wooden chest under his arm, that he'd carried himself all the way from Summerhall.
They walked through scrub brush and red stone. The older woman followed three paces behind.
Six guards in Targaryen crimson flanked them on both sides.
The hollow between the red rocks opened before them. Someone had prepared this place carefully. Dry wood stacked in a perfect cone. An iron pole rose from the center, thick as a man's thigh. Chains hung from iron rings with shackles for two.
"What was that pyre for?" the younger woman asked.
"Put them on the pyre," Aerion ordered the guards.
"No—" Before the younger woman could protest, a guard dragged her to the pyre. The older one tried to run but was caught by a guard and also dragged to the pyre and bound to shackles.
"All of you walk to those rocks. Turn away. Don't look back until I call for you." The guards followed Aerion's order. As they moved away he lit the torch.
'Dragons had died out because the Targaryens forgot the price. They thought they could hatch eggs with candles and prayers to the Seven…. Fools.' Aerion looked at the flame of the torch.
'Life for life,' he thought and moved his finger toward the flame. He felt sharp pain; as he took his finger back he saw a red blister. 'Unlike that girl in vision, fire is burning me… maybe it likes me more?'
He moved the torch toward the pyre, however, before he lit the pyre a thought came to his mind… what if that dragon didn't recognize him as its rider?
So he decided to put his fresh seed in both of them again.
He took the younger one first. She fought. He hit her until she stopped fighting. When he entered her she made a sound like a dying animal.
Something warm and wet spread across the wood beneath her. She'd lost control of her bladder.
"Stupid whore."
He took the older woman from behind, she tried to cleverly grab the sword from his waist, but Aerion found out, he hit her on the face and bend her down again.
When he finished, he opened the chest.
The dragon egg inside was gold and silver. Like every prince of blood, he had been given a dragon egg, but unlike every other, he was going to fly on one and sit on a throne!
He placed the egg between the two women. Nestled it in the wood where it could feel the heat from both sides. From both bodies and from both unborn children.
Then he climbed down and lit the pyre.
The screaming started immediately.
The younger woman first. High and piercing like a hawk's cry. Then the older woman joined in. Lower. Deeper. A note of pure agony that made something in Aerion's chest tighten.
He ignored it.
The flames rose. The smoke went black and thick. The iron pole began to glow. Red first. Then orange and then white-hot.
Aerion stood close enough that the heat stung his face. He watched every moment. He needed to see it work. Needed to know that the price had been paid correctly.
The screaming stopped.
The pole sagged. The metal had gone soft as warm wax. The wood had burned down to embers. Everything else was ash.
Screech!
Something moved in the ashes. Small wings unfolded. A creature no bigger than a raven clawed its way free. It emerged from the remains of the egg. From the ash and the bone.
It had golden scales.
As Aerion moved beside it, the hatchling crawled up to his leg and then climbed to his shoulder.
….
Kingswood,
After burning all the remains of the ritual, Dunk was riding with the girl and her mother, whom he had saved. The girl was riding with him on Thunder, swinging her legs and munching on chips that Dunk had given to her; as for the mother, she was now physically completely healed, but she would take years to recover mentally.
As they reached the camp they saw Egg standing in the clearing with a bow drawn, aimed at something between the trees, even from this distance dunk can see something was wrong with Egg.
His head and face was coverd in something sticky
One of Bloodraven's men lay on the ground near the fire, breathing heavily. The other two guards had their spears leveled. They looked uncertain.
Dunk couldn't see at what Egg was pointing his arrow at because of the trees.
Dunk stopped his horse and unsheathed his sword. As he got nearer he saw a white hart standing between trees.
It was massive. Its antlers spread like winter branches, each point sharp as a spear. Its coat was as pale as milk.
"Egg."
Egg said without lowering his bow. "It appeared right where I was sleeping, and started licking my head!"
….