It was the sound that terrified Loren Lannister.
Not the sight of fire.
Not the screams carried faintly across the dark fields.
It rolled over the land like something from the beyond, a roar that made the very bones in his chest tremble. It was not like any beast he had ever heard.
Loren tightened his grip on the reins.
Highgarden was within reach. The great seat of House Gardener lay ahead, visible in the darkness by the fires that now consumed it. This was supposed to be his moment. The culmination of years of ambition, patience, and preparation.
He would have it all. The Reach would break before him. Edmund Gardener would kneel or die. The wealth of the Mander would join the gold of Casterly Rock. The south would tremble before the lion.
The sound came again.
The horses reacted first. They whinnied and tossed their heads, some trying to rear, others refusing to move forward. Men cursed and fought for control. Even seasoned warhorses, trained to endure blood, shouting, drums, and screams, shifted nervously beneath their riders.
Loren's own mount stamped the ground and snorted, ears pinned back.
"Easy," Loren murmured, though he was unsure whether he spoke to the horse or to himself.
"My king?" someone asked.
Loren did not answer.
His eyes were fixed on Highgarden.
A rider came racing toward them as if all the demons of the Seven Hells followed behind him. His horse was lathered white, foam dripping from its mouth, its eyes rolling with terror. The rider clung to the saddle with one hand, his other arm hanging limp at his side.
"Your Grace!" the scout screamed as he neared. "Highgarden burns! It burns!"
Around him, the lords of the Westerlands exchanged looks.
His brother, Prince Tyrek Lannister, rode closer.
"Yes, we can see that, but how?" Tyrek asked.
The scout tried to answer. His mouth opened, but only a choked sound came out.
"Monster," he whispered. "Dragon. Monster. Killing all. Killing all. The light, the light, it took them, it took them out of their bodies, it took them, it..."
His words dissolved into sobs. Then his eyes rolled back and he slumped forward on his horse, unconscious.
One of his men quickly grabbed him before he could fall.
Loren looked at Tyrek.For a moment, neither brother spoke. Then Tyrek turned his gaze toward the burning horizon.
"What in the Seven Hells happened?" he asked. "What did Edmund do?"
"We will find out soon."
Lord Reyne rode forward, his face filled with unease. "Your Grace," he said carefully, "perhaps we should..."
Loren turned on him, ready to scold him for cowardice, for hesitation at the very edge of victory.
Then the roar came again.
Closer.
Much closer.
Every man looked up.
The sky above them was dark, the moon half-hidden behind thin clouds. Smoke from Highgarden drifted westward, veiling the stars. For a moment, Loren saw nothing.
Then moonlight struck something moving in the sky.
A shape.
A gleam.
"What was that?" Lord Marbrand whispered somewhere nearby.
Loren stared upward, his breath catching.
A dragon, he thought in shock.
Could Edmund have gotten his hands on one? The idea was madness. The only living dragons in the world belonged to the Targaryens, and they were in Essos, remaking the Free Cities in their own image. Unless Edmund had somehow found some lost beast and unleashed it in desperation.
The thing roared again.
This time, it passed beneath the moon, and Loren saw it clearly.
It was a dragon. The creature's body gleamed like gold. It looked to be made of metal, or armored all around its body.
A metal dragon.
Loren felt his blood go cold.
"Scatter!" he roared. "Scatter into small groups! Now! Move!"
The order ripped through the army.
Horns blew. Captains shouted. Riders carried the command down the line. The great westermen host, which had been marching in disciplined formation toward Highgarden, began to break apart by command.
It was the only thing Loren could think to do.
Honestly, what could he do against a dragon?
His ally, the great dragonslayer, was not here.
The dragon descended from the sky. The wind screamed around its wings as it fell toward the vanguard.
"Archers!" Loren shouted. "Loose at the damn monster!"
Hundreds upon hundreds of arrows flew, struck, and did nothing. Some shattered against the golden body. Others glanced away in sparks. A few lodged briefly between plates before being shaken loose as the thing moved.
Loren watched in horror.
Metal.
It was fully made of metal.
Then the dragon opened its mouth, and a sickly green flame poured forth. The first attack erased an entire company.
But worse came after.
Loren saw golden lights being ripped from his men's bodies. At first, he did not understand what he was seeing. The pale lights rose from the dying like wisps of mist, pulled screaming toward the metal beast. Men whose bodies had not even been touched suddenly convulsed, their eyes burning gold as something inside them was torn free.
"Scatter!" Loren screamed again. "Scatter!"
The army began to panic. This time, no order could keep it clean. Men ran. Horses bolted. Some threw themselves into ditches. Others simply stood frozen, staring upward until death came for them.
Tyrek grabbed Loren's arm.
"Brother, we have to go," he said sharply. "We have to go now."
Loren did not move.
He was frozen.
This was his moment.
His moment of glory.
No.
No, this could not end here.
It could not end here.
He was supposed to win, damn it.
He had marched from Casterly Rock with the strength of the west behind him. He had outmaneuvered the Reach. He had come within sight of Highgarden itself. His name was supposed to be sung as the king who humbled the Gardeners.
Instead, his army was being devoured by a nightmare.
The dragon swept across the field, its golden wings slicing through the men. Lord Brax's forces were the next to suffer its full attention. A beam of green light struck the center of their formation.
Men burned and then were devoured by golden light.
"Your Grace, we must retreat!"
"Save the command!"
"The army is lost if you die!"
"We need to fall back to the forest!"
The forest.
Loren looked west. He had to get them out of this open field. There were woods not far from the road, dense enough to break the creature's line of sight, perhaps enough to scatter the men and deny it the great clusters it seemed to favor. If he could get men there, if he could pull them away from the open fields, some might live.
Loren gripped his reins.
"No," he said.
Tyrek stared at him. "No?"
"We do not simply flee and leave them all to die."
"Brother..."
"We save as many as we can."
Loren spurred his horse forward.
"Loren!" Tyrek shouted.
But the King of the Rock was already riding toward the chaos. His guards followed, cursing as they did. Tyrek rode after him. So did Reyne, Marbrand, and a dozen other lords who had not yet abandoned courage.
Loren drew the golden sword at his side, the gift from his friend and fellow king, Harald. The blade gleamed in the firelight, its metal bright and beautiful.
Loren raised it high. The sword caught the light of the burning green flame, shining like a beacon.
"Men of the West!" he roared. "To me! To me!"
His voice cut through the panic. A group of Crakehall men turned from their flight and looked toward him.
"Your king calls!" Loren shouted. "To the forest! Rally to me!"
More men noticed.
"To the king!" the men shouted. "To the king!"
They began moving toward them. Hundreds turned into thousands as Loren rode across the edge of the slaughter, gathering broken companies and terrified men.
He led them away toward the forest, toward what he believed would be safety.
Behind him, the dragon remained too busy consuming Lord Brax's forces to notice at first.
"Men of the West!" he roared until his throat burned. "To me! To the trees! Run, damn you! Run and live!"
Men rallied around him as he rode toward the forest. Some cried as they ran. Others stared blankly, moving only because those around them moved. A few kept looking back toward the slaughter, toward brothers and friends being consumed by the golden monster behind them.
"Keep moving!" Loren shouted. "Do not stop! Into the forest!"
Tyrek rode at his side, his face pale beneath the soot and blood streaking his cheeks.
"Brother!" he shouted over the screams. "We have enough! We must go now!"
"Not yet!"
"Damn you, Loren, look!"
Loren looked.
The dragon had turned.
The metal beast rose from the ruin of Lord Brax's forces, its head shifting toward Loren, and then roared. The sound rolled across the field and slammed into the fleeing westermen like a wave. Men stumbled. Horses panicked. Some dropped to their knees, clutching their ears as blood ran between their fingers.
Then the beast came. Its wings spread, each metallic component slicing the air with a sound like drawn blades. It lifted from the ground, flew low over the battlefield, and moved toward Loren's rallying column with terrifying speed.
"Run!" Tyrek shouted. "Run!"
The dragon landed, and the earth shook. The impact was so violent that Loren's horse reared, screaming. Loren tried to hold on, but the saddle lurched sideways, and he fell.
"Loren!" Tyrek shouted.
Loren forced himself to move. His fingers found the hilt of the golden sword. He pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet.
Nearby, the dragon was killing again.
It swept one bladed limb through a cluster of Lannister guards, cutting men apart as if they were wheat. Golden light poured from the dead and dying, drawn into the beast's chest.
If the dragon followed them into the forest, even that small hope would die.
Something inside Loren snapped.
Perhaps it was courage.
Perhaps madness.
Perhaps the desperate pride of a king who could not bear to watch everything he had built be destroyed. He raised the golden sword and struck its flat against his shield with all the strength he had left.
The sound rang through the chaos.
"Here!" Loren roared. "Here, you golden beast!"
The dragon continued feeding.
Loren stepped closer.
"Here!"
He struck his shield again.
"Loren!" Tyrek screamed from horseback. "Get back!"
Lord Marbrand shouted something too, but Loren barely heard him. Lord Reyne's voice followed, sharp with panic.
"Your Grace! No!"
Loren ignored them all.
He walked toward the metal beast, and finally, the dragon turned.
For a moment, there was only Loren and the monster.
The golden beast moved toward him, limbs scraping the ground, wings half-spread behind it.
Loren gripped the sword Harald had given him with both hands.
"You want me?" he spat. "Then come."
It lunged, and Loren swung. The golden sword struck one of its bladed limbs, and sparks burst into the night.
The dragon recoiled, and Loren felt the impact run up his arms. The force nearly tore the sword from his grip, but the blade had bitten into the strange metal.
It could be hurt.
The realization struck Loren with wild hope.
He shouted and swung again.
The second blow struck the same limb. More sparks flew, and the dragon jerked backward as if irritated.
Loren attacked again and again as he laughed, breathless and mad.
"Die," he snarled.
The dragon struck him, and Loren barely saw the limb coming. One moment he was raising his sword. The next, something hit him in the chest with the force of a charging bull.
His breastplate caved inward, and Loren flew backward and hit the ground hard. His sword spun from his hand and landed several feet away.
For several seconds, he could not move.
He could not breathe.
Pain filled everything.
Somewhere, Tyrek was screaming his name.
Loren rolled onto his side, coughing blood.
The dragon made its way toward him.
Around them, the men Loren had rallied were reaching the tree line. He could see them through blurred vision, hundreds and then thousands vanishing into the dark forest. Some carried the wounded. Some dragged friends.
Good, Loren thought.
Good.
He forced himself up. He nearly fell again, but he caught himself and staggered toward the sword. His fingers closed around the hilt. He lifted it with both hands and turned to face it.
The golden beast loomed before him.
Loren spat blood onto the ground.
"You want me, beast?" he rasped. "You want the king?"
The dragon lowered its head.
Loren raised the sword.
"I am Loren of House Lannister," he said, his voice growing stronger. "Blood of Lann. Son of Casterly Rock."
"King of the Rock."
The beast came closer.
Loren smiled bitterly.
"Come then."
It lunged and went for the kill. Loren closed his eyes, accepting death, but it did not come. When he opened his eyes, his body was half inside the monster's jaws. His face was inches from its shining teeth.
He stood there, panting in terror, his body frozen in the beast's mouth.
The dragon did not bite down. Instead, it took a step back, its head slowly turning south.
The light within its face pulsed once.
Then again.
Loren watched, shaking, as the golden beast lifted from the ground. It rose above the battlefield, above the dead and dying, above the ruined pride of the Westerlands.
Then it roared.
This roar was different.
It felt like a challenge.
As if it had found something greater to hunt.
Loren watched it fly south, its golden form vanishing into the night.
For a long moment, he stood there. Then his legs failed him, and he fell onto his back and stared up at the starry sky.
Around him, men still screamed. Horses cried out. The wounded begged for help. Loren could hear Tyrek calling his name. He could hear Lord Reyne shouting for healing potions.
But all he could see were the stars.
.
.
.
Harald rode fast toward Highgarden on his spectral horse. He rode as if all the Daedra in Oblivion followed him.
He had been riding for about fifteen minutes when his senses began to alert him to danger.
Harald looked up.
For one moment, the sky was empty.
Then the roar came.
Harald's blood ran cold.
He had faced dragons. True dragons. Immortal children of Akatosh. He had fought Alduin himself, and yet he had never felt dread like this before.
This was different.
The sound was not a dragon's roar. It was an imitation of one.
A shape moved beneath the moon, golden and gleaming. It flew toward him with great speed, wings of bladed gold slicing through the night.
Harald dismounted at once and watched the dragon descend.
The air changed around him. The fields became silent. No insects. No birds. Even the wind seemed to still as the golden horror lowered itself from the heavens.
Lowering his helm to his face he took his axe into his arms.
"Dovahkiin."
The beast spoke, almost whispering into his ears.
"What in oblivion?" Harald muttered It could speak.
Harald planted his feet on the road.
"Mul!"
The first word left his mouth like thunder.
The air shook.
"Qah!"
Power gathered around him, wrapping itself around his flesh and spirit.
"Diiv!"
Ethereal armor erupted across Harald's body as the road cracked beneath his feet.
The dragon roared again.
Harald raised his axe.
Then he shouted once more.
"JOOR! ZAH! FRUL!"
.
.
The next three chapters will cover the battle.
Here is a sneak peak...
A distant tower collapsed with a sound like thunder.
Rhaenys gripped Aegon's shoulder.
"Aegon," she said.
"We are safe, love. It is just an earthquake."
The dragons roared in the distance.
Balerion's voice came first, vast and furious, rolling over the city from the fields beyond the walls where he rested. Meraxes answered a moment later, full of alarm.
In the main courtyard, Orys Baratheon was already shouting orders.
"Get them away from the walls!" Orys roared, dragging a fallen guardsman to his feet. "Move, damn you! You, take men to the eastern wing. If anyone is trapped, pull them out before the roof comes down!"