The war horns blared, signaling the first wave of the siege force to advance.
At the vanguard, shield-bearers held massive tower shields aloft to intercept the arrows raining down from the battlements.
Behind them, archers drew their bows to fire returning volleys.
Further back, infantrymen carried scaling ladders, flanked by four siege towers lumbering forward at a grueling pace.
Aboard the walls, Lord Staunton's garrison stood ready.
"Loose!"
At the command, arrows fell from the sky.
Though several shield-bearers at the front were struck and collapsed, the men behind them immediately stepped up to fill the gaps.
Scaling ladders slammed against the pale stone; soldiers bit down on their blades and climbed desperately.
Stones were hurled down, followed by boiling oil. Screams of agony rose from every side.
One soldier, halfway up a ladder, was struck in the head by a falling rock and plummeted backward, knocking down three men beneath him.
Another had just crested the battlements when a pot of boiling oil was dashed over his head; he fell shrieking, the flesh peeling from his face.
But there were too many Green soldiers. As the first wave was pushed back, a second immediately took its place.
Finally, the siege towers lurched against the walls. Their hatches swung open, and soldiers poured onto the battlements, engaging the defenders in a brutal melee.
Cold steel flashed; flesh and blood flew. A Green soldier leaped onto the wall, only to be skewered by three spears simultaneously, falling backward with a terminal cry.
Nearby, a red-eyed defender with a severed arm used his remaining hand to throttle an enemy's throat, sending both men tumbling off the wall together.
The battlements were quickly strewn with corpses, and blood seeped deep into the cracks of the masonry.
"Hold! Hold your ground!" Lord Staunton personally took to the front lines, hacking down an enemy who had just scaled the parapet.
"Reinforcements are almost here!"
His voice was swallowed by the din of slaughter. Another ladder was raised. Another wave of enemies swarmed the top.
The defenders were gradually being overwhelmed.
At that moment, a world-shaking draconic roar echoed from the distance.
Everyone looked up at once. In the western sky, a scarlet shadow burst through the clouds, growing larger and faster with every passing second.
Meleys. The Red Queen.
"It's the Blacks' dragon!"
The shout acted like a knife thrust into a hornet's nest. The entire Green army instantly erupted into chaos.
Soldiers stared at the sky; some cried out in terror, while others immediately began to retreat.
Gwayne's face turned ashen. The Blacks' dragonrider had arrived.
But where was the Prince? Where were his dragons?
Gwayne snapped his head up, searching the sky. Vhagar and Morghul were nowhere to be seen. They had long since departed.
Had they returned to King's Landing, or gone elsewhere? He didn't know. He only knew that the scarlet dragon was currently diving straight for them.
"Archers, ready!" he roared.
It was useless, and everyone knew it. Yet they prayed a stray shaft might strike the rider; a dragon was not a beast to be brought down by mere arrows.
Meleys's speed was too great. By the time the soldiers raised their bows, she was already overhead, her scarlet wings blotting out the sun and casting a gargantuan shadow over the earth.
Dragonfire poured down, not in a single stream, but in a deluge like a torrential flood. Wherever it passed, men became living torches, warhorses turned to charred husks, and the banners of the golden three-headed dragon burned to ash.
The screams, the wails, and the crackling of flames merged into a chorus so horrific that one could no longer distinguish between man and beast.
A phalanx took a direct hit and collapsed instantly.
Soldiers threw down their weapons and scattered, but two legs could never outrun draconic wings. The flames chased them down, reducing them to blackened coal one by one.
"Steady! Hold the line!"
"Break the phalanx! Scatter your formations!"
"Every knight watch over your own squad!"
"Deserters will be executed on the spot!"
Gwayne galloped through the ranks, barking orders, but his voice was drowned out by the agonizing screams. Another phalanx was hit, engulfed in a sea of fire.
The cavalry, caught between two formations, was swept by the flames; panicking horses bolted, trampling their own lines and plunging the army into further disarray.
"My Lord!" William's face was blackened by soot, his voice trembling.
"Where is the Prince? If he doesn't come soon..."
Gwayne gritted his teeth and looked back toward the forest in the rear.
There, the Prince's personal guard was retreating in an orderly fashion.
"Retreat to the forest!"
Retreat? To where? They had only been marching for two hours, and part of the vanguard was already engaged on the walls.
Fleeing across open ground meant being hunted down by a dragon. But if they didn't retreat...
Another draconic roar erupted from a different direction.
Gwayne looked up sharply. In the eastern sky, a second dragon was diving. Blood-red.
Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm.
"It's over..." someone murmured.
Two dragons. Two veteran dragonriders. They only had two legs, how could they possibly escape?
The Green army completely disintegrated. Soldiers ran blindly, trampling and shoving one another in their desperation to flee.
Caraxes dove from the east, his dragonfire sweeping through the crowds and leaving a trail of charred corpses.
Meleys looped back from the west, creating another inferno. The two dragons crossed paths in the air, hunting the men below like hawks chasing rabbits.
The Green army ceased to exist as a fighting force. In its place was a burning hell, with thick smoke rising to blot out the sun.
Gwayne was escorted toward the rear by his personal guards, looking back in horror as he fled.
Five thousand men. Five thousand! Hundreds had been burned alive in minutes, and over a thousand more had scattered in the rout. Gone, just like that.
A horse galloped up from the flank.
The rider shouted, "Lord Gwayne! The Prince has ordered an immediate retreat of the entire army!"
It was Hal, commander of the Prince's guard.
Gwayne roared in fury, "What is the meaning of this? Where is Aemond?!"
Hal's face remained cold.
"The Prince has given the order. You only need to withdraw. If you persist and this battle ends in total failure, the responsibility will lie solely with you."
Gwayne shook with rage. He assumed Aemond was afraid of facing Daemon and Rhaenys together and did not dare take the field.
"Retreat!" he barked through gritted teeth.
"Full retreat!"
Just as the words left his mouth, another gout of dragonfire fell from the sky.
His guards desperately grabbed his reins, dragging his horse toward the cover of the forest.
At that very moment, at the edge of the sky, a golden light broke through the clouds.
Sunfyre.
The golden dragon emerged from the cloud layer, his wings glittering brilliantly in the sunlight.
Astride Sunfyre's back sat a figure in polished silver armor.
Aegon II.
"It's His Majesty!"
"The King has come!"
"Long live the King!"
The soldiers fleeing toward the forest halted and looked up. In their eyes, sheer despair was rapidly being replaced by hope.
Gwayne reined in his horse and looked back at the radiant golden shadow.
The King had arrived. But... where was Prince Aemond? Where on earth was he?
Hal also saw the golden dragon, and his expression turned extremely grim. He knew the truth: Prince Aemond was not at Rook's Rest at all.
Morghul had circled the castle for half the day simply to draw the Blacks' attention.
By now, the Prince should be nearing Dragonstone.
But why was the King here? How had he come?!
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