Dragonstone, The Aftermath of the Siege.
The sea breeze at Dragonstone always carried the scent of sulfur.
It drifted from the volcano at the island's heart, mingled now with the faint, metallic tang of blood. In the three days of the siege, many had died.
Aemond Targaryen sat upon a distant hillside before him crackled a campfire, a whole lamb roasting on an iron spit.
Fat dripped into the flames with a rhythmic sizzle, the aroma of cooked meat creating a morbidly inviting contrast to the surrounding stench of ash and death.
He was slicing the meat with a dagger. The blade was keen, and the meat was perfectly done, charred and crisp on the outside, tender within.
As he cut, juices ran down the blade and stained his fingers.
Aemond's face was pale. It was a sickly, translucent white born of excessive blood loss. His left hand was wrapped in thin bandages.
Over the past few days, he had fed his own blood to four dragons.
Nearby, the four beasts occupied a stretch of scorched slope.
Vhagar lay on the outer edge, her massive frame at rest.
Thick herbal poultices were plastered over the base of her left wing, her scales glinting like dark bronze in the sun.
Morghul paced beside her, the small black dragon visibly agitated.
He let out constant, low rumbles; the scales on his neck flared and flattened in rhythm with his breathing.
His dark-red pupils, ringed with fine golden veins, were locked onto Aemond.
He was displeased.
'My blood. My blood!!'
Aemond understood Morghul's frustration.
Their bond was deeper than that of Vhagar; Morghul was his "blood-bound" dragon, awakened from a dead egg with his own lifeblood.
They shared a connection that transcended rider and mount. Consequently, Morghul was possessive of Aemond's blood.
While Vhagar also partook, Morghul didn't dare roar at the matriarch.
But three days ago, Aemond had fed the severely wounded Grey Ghost and the crippled Sunfyre.
To the young black dragon, this felt like a betrayal.
Sunfyre lay on the other side. The young golden dragon was faring much better, emitting a rhythmic clicking sound, the draconic equivalent of a purr.
Aegon, due to his injuries, had already been escorted back to King's Landing on Aemond's orders.
Finally, there was Grey Ghost.
The dragon that should have belonged to the Black's bastard rider, Mirax, now lay closest to Aemond.
His injuries had been the most severe; three days ago, he had been waiting for death, his breathing so shallow it seemed ready to snap.
Now, he could move. His grey scales held a cold, metallic luster, and his murky yellow eyes followed Aemond's every movement with a touch of cautious, fawning desperation.
He edged closer, his massive body dragging across the dark earth.
Ten meters, eight meters, five... until Aemond could feel the dragon's hot, sulfurous breath against his skin.
Grey Ghost lowered his massive head onto the scorched soil, looking up at Aemond with pleading eyes.
He wanted more blood.
Aemond exhaled, sticking his dagger into the roast and rubbing his temples. If this continued, he truly would become anemic.
Four wounded dragons, four great beasts needing his blood to accelerate their healing, it was a bottomless pit.
"Your Grace..."
A servant's voice came from below, cautious as if afraid to wake a nightmare. Seven or eight attendants were carrying two large wooden tubs filled with fresh silver-scaled fish.
They approached Grey Ghost tentatively, using long branches to offer the fish to his maw.
Grey Ghost didn't even look at the fish; his eyes remained fixed on Aemond.
"Eat," Aemond commanded.
Grey Ghost hesitated, then finally opened his mouth, allowing the servants to dump the fish in. He ate two full tubs before Aemond rewarded him with a few drops of blood.
Only then did the dragon withdraw his aggrieved gaze and settle down to rest.
Aemond watched them. Four dragons. Together, they consumed four bulls, twenty sheep, and half a ton of fish daily.
And the Royal Navy provided a constant stream of supplies to maintain them.
"It's fallen! It's fallen!"
Excited shouts erupted from the direction of the fortress. Aemond looked up to see William Darklyn sprinting toward him.
The second son of the old Lord of Duskendale had pledged his sword to Aemond three years ago.
Now, William was covered in soot and blood-spattered armor.
He knelt at the base of the hill, his breathing heavy and elated.
"Your Grace! The Dragonmont has fallen! The final inner gate was breached. The defenders have retreated to the main keep for a final stand. It will be ours within the hour!"
Aemond nodded, showing no outward excitement. He sliced another piece of lamb and gestured for William to join him.
"Come. Sit."
William sat on a wooden crate opposite Aemond. Aemond handed him a piece of meat on the dagger.
William took it cautiously and swallowed.
"The Velaryon prisoners..." Aemond began.
"One hundred and thirty-seven deserters executed," William reported.
"In the storming of the fortress, we lost over a thousand of the captured turncoats and about three hundred Royal troops. Total casualties are around fourteen hundred."
William finished with a heavy sigh. Aemond looked down at his meat.
"Do you think me cruel, William?"
"I wouldn't dare, Your Grace."
"Tell the truth."
William was silent for a few seconds.
"Your Grace... the Dragonstone garrison had barely two hundred men. To use over a thousand lives to fill the breach... it was a high price. Especially the prisoners, some didn't die in battle; they were forced into the meat grinder."
He stopped as Aemond looked at him, not with anger, but with a flat, unsettling gaze.
"Go on."
William gritted his teeth.
"This morning, you ordered that if the fortress didn't fall today, the families of the prisoners would share their guilt. Those men went mad. Truly mad."
"Do you think I should have waited for a long siege? Waited for them to starve?"
Aemond took a bite of lamb, chewing slowly.
"We have no time, William. The Black fleet could sail from Tyrosh at any moment. Daemon isn't a fool; he knows my dragons are wounded."
He threw a bone into the fire.
"As for those prisoners... two thousand fully armed Velaryon soldiers didn't surrender because of my mercy. They surrendered because I have dragons."
"If the tides turn, they would be the first to stab us in the back. Better to expend them in a siege than to leave a hidden cancer in our ranks. A thousand lives for Dragonstone and the removal of a threat? A bargain."
A bargain.
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