By common sense, dragons did not relish the taste of men. They would devour them when roused to fury or hunger, but flesh of cattle, sheep, and deer suited them far better.
And yet, when the fires of wrath had swept the battlefield clean, the three great founding dragons still lingered among the charred wreckage. Balerion the Black Dread lay coiled amid blackened stone, vast and terrible even at rest. Vhagar prowled nearby, tearing into scorched carcasses with slow, methodical bites. The third circled above, its shadow passing again and again over the dead.
They fed upon corpses.
Not living prey. But the fallen.
Among them moved another presence, smaller than the great conquerors yet far stranger. The Devourer was a self-awakened dragon of Dragonstone, a rare devouring breed born of the Dragonmont's deepest fires. Its hide was black as cooled obsidian, its eyes sharp with an unsettling, almost human awareness.
Within the mountain, it had swallowed eggs and hatchlings alike. By doing so, it claimed space, territory, and something far more precious. Each devoured dragon carried sparks of elemental fire magic, fragments that the Devourer made its own.
Now, its hunger had turned elsewhere.
Aegon stood before the corpse of the Red Kraken, its massive body sprawled across shattered stone and broken ships. He rested one hand against the Devourer's snout, feeling the heat beneath its scales, the slow vibration of breath.
He had felt the shift in the world when the kraken fell. History had bent, subtly but unmistakably, as if a great weight had been dragged from the sea. He had chosen to deepen magic and strengthen bonds rather than chase hollow power.
Only now did he understand why the Devourer had wanted this corpse so desperately.
"Blood of faith," Aegon murmured, his voice low, thoughtful. "Blood of the Grey Sea King."
He crouched beside the kraken, studying the dark ichor that seeped into the sand.
"The magic of the Drowned God is slaughter and destruction," he went on. "Blood, flame, and the sea."
The kraken houses were ancient. Older than many crowns. Their devotion to the Old Way was not mere custom but inheritance. While most noble houses of Westeros boasted descent from legendary heroes, only a few bloodlines still carried living magic within their veins.
The Starks of the North were the clearest example. Skinchanging did not appear from nowhere. It slept in blood, waiting.
Among the ironborn, such bloodlines surfaced from time to time. Enduring. Fanatical. Bound to an unchanging faith.
They worshipped the Drowned God and claimed descent from the Grey Sea King of the Age of Heroes. In the days of the kingsmoot, only House Greyiron and House Hoare had produced more kings than House Greyjoy.
Every ironborn house claimed the same lineage. Greyjoy. Greyiron. Harlaw. Blacktyde.
All of them children of the Grey Sea King.
Aegon's mouth tightened faintly as he remembered the exception.
House Hoare.
Black-hearted, cunning, and faithless to the Old Way. Traitors who had dared to turn their gaze inland and dream of ruling the green lands. Harrenhal had burned them from the world, dragonfire erasing their ambition.
As for the Drowned God himself, Aegon felt no reverence.
An evil god, by any measure.
Harsh and cruel, demanding obedience to the Old Way. The ironborn believed he had created them so they might rape, raid, and reap. To carve their names into the world with blood, flame, and song. They said he brought fire up from the sea and sailed the world with sword and torch. His eternal foe was the Storm God, who dwelt in cloud-halls and sent ravens as his servants.
"Bloodline and faith," Aegon said quietly, more to himself than the dragon, "are the foundations of magic."
He straightened, brushing ash from his sleeve.
"Only when the tide of magic rises does the gate truly open."
In later ages, when the dragons danced once more, magic would stir again across the world.
Its forms were many. The Valyrian dragonlords commanded blood and fire. The Storm God ruled wind and thunder. The Cold God held dominion over ice. The Drowned God ruled the Sunset Sea. The Rhoynar had called upon the waters of the Rhoyne. The Old Gods of the Children were nameless powers of stone, earth, and trees.
Crude divisions, perhaps. The Drowned God ruled the sea, yet also demanded flame and blood. Chaos made divine.
"The First Men and the ironborn both kept blood and faith," Aegon said. "Where the Seven took hold, magic faded. Where they did not, it lingered."
He suspected the kraken houses still carried traces of the Drowned God and the Storm God in their veins. Years hence, Euron Greyjoy would awaken that inheritance and drown the world in madness.
Magic slept in blood. Or belief. Waiting.
The Devourer shifted, lowering its head. Aegon pressed his chest against the dragon's snout, unafraid.
"What a cunning beast you are," he said softly.
The dragon hissed, a low, rasping sound, and flicked its tongue.
It was wild and violent, yet careful. It did not provoke Targaryens, nor humans without cause. The silver-haired dragonseed Dennys and his son had offered themselves freely. That was different.
The Devourer knew it had already crossed a dangerous line by devouring eggs and hatchlings. Men were another matter.
But the dead ironborn were fair prey.
Power fed on weakness. Waste nothing.
It was not only greed that drew the Devourer to the Red Kraken's corpse.
It was hatred.
Ice and fire. Heat and cold. Warring elements.
Dragons were born of flame. They were enemies by nature to both the Cold God and the Drowned God. Yet the power in that blood was undeniable.
By then, the war was finished.
The Lannister host swept through Fair Isle without mercy. Ironborn were cut down where they stood. Ships burned. Spoils were gathered. Women of the Westerlands were freed from chains, sobbing as they were led away.
Across the shore, voices rose, raw and exultant.
"Burner of Ships!"
"Burner of Ships!"
"Long live House Targaryen!"
"Long live Prince Aegon!"
The roar of the westermen surged like a breaking wave, rolling over the harbor and up the cliffs beyond. It drowned even Lady Johanna's commands, carrying with it something older than loyalty or law.
Fear.
Not the cringing fear of defeat, but dragonfear. The awe that bent the spine and silenced doubt. Power, naked and undeniable, was the truest foundation of obedience. Steel could fail. Gold could be stolen. Dragons could not be argued with.
At last, the shadow that had hung over the west was lifted.
War was cruel by its nature. Tumblestone had burned. Bitterbridge had choked on corpses. Harrenhal still stank of smoke and blood, its towers blackened by dragonfire. House Strong had been all but extinguished by Prince Aemond One-Eye, their halls turned into tombs.
Yet even among such horrors, the ironborn stood apart.
Reaving was not a consequence of war to them. It was their purpose.
The westermen hated them with a depth that bordered on the primal. Lannisport had been sacked. Fair Isle had been put to the torch. The sea itself seemed fouled by ironborn blood and memory.
Dalton Greyjoy alone had carried off six hundred women from Lannisport, along with treasures beyond counting. On Fair Isle, he had done the same. Four daughters of House Farman he took as salt wives. The fifth, deemed the ugliest, he gave to his brother Victarion as a jest.
The Lannister soldiers showed no mercy now.
Ironborn corpses were dragged through the streets by their heels. Heads were hacked free and piled like refuse. Bodies were burned quickly, the fires kept low and steady to ward off rot and plague. Smoke drifted across the square, thick with the smell of fat and charred wool.
The rescued women gathered there, hollow-eyed and shaking. Some clutched torn cloaks about their shoulders. Others stared at nothing, lips moving soundlessly. When they spoke, it was through sobs, words tumbling out in broken fragments of loss and violation.
Lady Johanna moved among them, her composure cracking at last. She knelt, embraced them, murmured promises she could not fully keep. Tears tracked down her cheeks as the women clutched at her skirts.
Again and again, they turned to Aegon.
They thanked him. Some kissed the hem of his cloak. Others simply bowed their heads, unable to meet his gaze.
Then one woman pushed forward.
She was young, no more than twenty, with pale skin and hair the color of ripe wheat. Her dress hung loose on her frame. She fell to her knees before Aegon so hard the sound echoed against the stone.
Lady Johanna stiffened. "Who are you, to behave so before the prince?"
The woman lifted her head. Her eyes were red, but blazing. "My name is Tess," she said hoarsely. "I am the daughter of a miller from Lannisport. Dalton Greyjoy paid iron coin for me." Her hands clenched into fists. "I have no home now. No family. I am nothing but a wretch."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Aegon stepped closer and lowered himself slightly, so he did not loom over her. His voice was calm. "We came too late," he said. "That failure is ours. What was done to you violates the laws of gods and men alike."
"I have lost everything," Tess cried. Her shoulders shook as the words tore free. "My parents. My betrothed. I want to kill Dalton Greyjoy a thousand times. Ten thousand times. I beg you." She swallowed hard. "Let me trample his head."
For a moment, only the crackle of fires answered her.
Aegon studied her face. Not pleading now. Burning.
"I praise your courage," he said at last.
He gestured.
The severed head was brought forward.
Tess rose unsteadily, then stamped down. Once. Again. Again. Each blow was clumsy, fueled by rage rather than strength. She screamed as she did it, a raw, wordless sound, until her voice broke and she sagged backward.
When it was done, the moment passed.
The women were led away. Tess with them.
Aegon watched her go. He would remember her. In time, she would be the woman who plunged a knife into Dalton Greyjoy's heart. Brave. Perhaps brave enough to stand beside Princess Rhaenys.
Later, standing in the square, Aegon's gaze drifted to the Devourer.
Magical power, he thought, that is what you crave most.
The dragon seemed to sense it instinctively.
"Do not eat the Red Kraken's head," Aegon commanded. His hand rested against the warm scales of its neck. "It will be sent to King's Landing. Eat the rest."
The Devourer obeyed. The headless corpse vanished beneath black jaws in moments.
Still, the dragon was unsatisfied.
"My lady," Aegon said quietly to Lady Johanna, "you and your guards should withdraw. My dragon is about to feed."
Her jaw tightened. She nodded once and turned away. The soldiers followed, pale and silent.
The Devourer chose its meal carefully. Ironborn nobles. Veteran warriors. Corpses were piled together like kindling.
Once, they had been fierce. Now, they were nothing but feed.
The dragon reared back and loosed its breath.
Green-tinged flame washed over the pile. Men gagged and turned away as the stench rolled across the square.
Then the Devourer tore into the remains, black teeth working like blades, swallowing flesh and bone alike.
Aegon smiled faintly.
"Good," he murmured. "Now… I have a small gift prepared for the Reach."
If the gods truly watched the world, the Drowned God had been grievously offended this day.
So be it.
Caution and boldness, in equal measure.
With Fair Isle broken and the western counterattack complete, the Iron Islands would need decades to recover.
He was Aegon, the Burner of Ships.
And now, the Butcher of Fair Isle.
Next stop: The Red Lake.
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