By then, the night had retreated, and a pale, damp morning laid bare the full horror and tragedy of what had happened. The capital resembled a city ravaged by barbarians, its entire southern quarter burning and smoldering. From atop the walls, I could see the frantic movement in the harbor—how people rushed about, and how ships hastily pulled away from the piers, cutting mooring lines and ropes in their desperation to reach open water.
Below, the dragon raged and roared. It was selling its life dearly! If I remembered correctly, Daenerys's largest dragon was called Drogon. Ours had brought down one of the smaller ones, which meant the fallen beast was either Rhaegal or Viserion.
Watching their brother dying below, the two remaining dragons went feral, as if unchained. They began burning everything in sight, trying in any way they could to save their kin.
Somewhere down there were Jaime, the Kingsguard, and many other warriors. I shuddered—surviving in such a place would not be easy.
At times, when gusts of wind carried the unimaginable stench up to us, the soldiers could not hold back and vomited. Then, wiping away mucus and saliva, they returned to the ballistae and took up their bows and crossbows once more.
The battle around the fallen dragon lasted three hours. In the end, waiting until the flames began to die down and the dragons exhausted themselves, Jaime dragged ballistae in from several streets and finished off the raging beast.
The surviving dragons climbed even higher and circled for a time, filling the air with their howls and roars. It seemed they were bidding farewell to their fallen brother.
From the dungeons came the growling of Turquoise. She was locked in one of the halls, clearly hearing what was happening, and though she had enough sense not to try to break free and join her kin, she had no intention of remaining silent.
Then the dragons turned and flew off to the south. I watched the small figure astride Drogon's back, clad in black, with unmistakable silver hair, until it was lost to sight.
Daenerys had struck without warning. I was furious at her stunt, yet in some way I even understood—war makes use of every weapon. Still, she should not have set the capital and its people to the torch. Though perhaps the original plan had been different—to burn only the Red Keep and all within it, and spare the city. But we managed to wound one of the dragons; it fell into the city, and the whole plan went to hell.
***
The fire-breathing beasts were gone. The city continued to burn on its own. The flames reached the walls, leapt over them, engulfed the harbor and various structures, then met the waters of the Blackwater and gradually began to subside.
In one of the halls, servants began laying out the dead. Margaery and I stood hand in hand. On my other side stood my brother Tommen. Tears streamed down his soot-streaked face as he looked down at the bodies.
Kevan Lannister had burned worse than most. He was identified only by the remnants of his rich clothing, his height, and his build. About a dozen warriors of the Westerlands had died with him—all from his personal guard.
Olenna Tyrell lay to the left of the Hand—small, fragile, an old woman. Beside her lay her bodyguards, forever still—Right and Left.
Nearby they placed what had become of Ser Addam Marbrand—a charred husk—the commander of the Gold Cloaks and Jaime Lannister's childhood friend. Marbrand had not died in the barracks but on the wall, where he had run despite the danger, determined to support his men.
But the most terrible sight of all was the fourth body… Her face was almost untouched, and her magnificent golden hair and green eyes seemed beautiful—and faintly surprised.
Myrcella… my dear little sister. The kindest, brightest soul in the Red Keep. Quiet, intelligent, so gentle and tactful. A true beauty and a lady whom I had come to love almost as much as Margaery. My little sister…
Beside her lay the burned body of Kingsguard Ser Arys Oakheart—he had tried to save her, it seemed.
Tyrion Lannister, clad in clothing burned and stained like the rest of us, slowly bent over Myrcella. He gently kissed her forehead and closed her eyes. My uncle looked at her for a long time, then straightened and went to Sansa, who looked utterly shaken.
Grand Maester Pycelle sniffed mournfully, putting on a show of sympathy and grief. At that moment, I looked at him with hatred—damn the old man's resilience, nothing seemed to touch him!
Mathis Rowan stood behind me, his entire bearing expressing readiness to help and support. Rage and grief were frozen on the faces of Tyrek and Lancel. Mace Tyrell approached and embraced Margaery.
Qyburn and Marwyn the Mage, alive and relatively unharmed, were tending to the wounded in the neighboring hall.
In addition to our kin, twenty-three knights, one hundred sixty-seven Gold Cloaks, and many servants and squires had perished. And that was only in the Red Keep.
While the dragon was being finished off, more than four hundred Gold Cloaks and soldiers burned in King's Landing, along with another Kingsguard—Irven Swygert. Jaime had survived. He was smeared in blood and soot, burned and smoke-blackened—but alive. I do not know what I would have done had he died as well.
As for the townsfolk, more than twelve thousand had perished. From all sides came curses directed at the Martells, the dragons, and their mother—Daenerys Targaryen, the Stormborn, the Unburnt.
And it was then, for the first time, that I truly considered the price of a slain dragon. We had lost a great many townsfolk, warriors, and those dear to us. Were we truly prepared to pay such a cost for the death of a single beast? To compare such things is blasphemy… yet I understood that no victory—not even the slaying of the greatest dragon—could ever reconcile you to the loss of those you love.
A dragon was priceless… and yet worth nothing at all, if the lives of one's kin were the price.
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
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