Twin streams of orange-yellow dragonfire burst from the jaws of Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost, tearing across the field like twin suns loosed from the sky.
Strictly speaking, Baelon had approached from the rear of the wildling host. From that angle, his first strike should have fallen upon the exposed back ranks, where men were packed shoulder to shoulder and panic would spread the fastest.
Yet as he looked down and glimpsed the black-and-white banners of House Umber scattered among the press, his jaw tightened.
"To the front," Baelon murmured, his gloved hand tightening against Sheepstealer's ridged neck. "Leave the rear to Grey Ghost."
Sheepstealer answered with a low, rolling growl that vibrated through Baelon's bones. The great brown dragon banked sharply, wings biting the air, and plunged toward the head of the wildling charge.
Grey Ghost peeled away at the same time, its smaller silhouette slipping toward the wildlings' rear. Fire poured from its throat, carving a blazing wound through the packed mass of men.
At the front, Sheepstealer descended like a falling star.
Orange-yellow flame washed over the battlefield. Where it passed, wildling warriors vanished into smoke and screaming shadows. Spears blackened, shields warped, and bodies collapsed into charred heaps before they could even fall properly.
Baelon forced himself to breathe slowly as he surveyed the carnage below.
If only Tyraxes had not exhausted himself so badly, he thought, a trace of regret tightening behind his eyes. Bloodflame would have torn through such dense ranks far more cruelly than ordinary fire.
Tyraxes had already regained much of his strength and was winging his way toward Last Hearth even now. Baelon could almost feel the dragon's distant presence.
For the moment, Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost would have to suffice.
A dragon was a dragon. Against a wildling army, even two were instruments of absolute annihilation.
Though Sheepstealer too had endured a long flight, it was older than Tyraxes, lighter in build, and far more efficient in the air. Its wings still beat with stubborn strength, each stroke measured and deliberate. There was stamina left, not much, but enough.
Enough to hold, Baelon told himself, until Tyraxes arrived.
It was only now, watching the strain in Sheepstealer's flight and feeling the ache echo through his own limbs, that Tyraxes's flaws became impossible to ignore.
Ever since they had crossed the Wall, the great dragon's stamina had drained at an alarming pace. Grey Ghost could cover distances that Tyraxes simply could not.
Baelon exhaled slowly through his nose.
Considering Tyraxes's grotesque weight and wings far shorter than those of other dragons, it was hardly the creature's fault. The fault lay elsewhere.
The Dragon Gene Elixir Type I he had drawn must have higher iterations. Type II, perhaps even Type III.
Type I had reforged Tyraxes's bones, muscles, and scales into something monstrous, but his wings and internal organs had been left behind. The imbalance was severe.
A dragon overgrown in strength and defense, yet crippled in endurance.
In the brutal cold of the North, a land never meant for dragonkind, that flaw was magnified without mercy.
To put it plainly, Tyraxes was something like a half-evolved mutant.
Powerful, yes, but fatally flawed.
"Prince Baelon!" a hoarse voice cried from below. "The prince has come on dragonback!"
Whitefrost Umber dropped to one knee the instant he saw the dragons overhead. His sword slipped from numb fingers and struck the frozen ground with a dull clatter.
The rush of despair, followed by sudden, violent hope, was more than his heart could bear.
"My lord," an Umber soldier gasped, catching him by the shoulders before he collapsed entirely. The man's eyes were wide, his breath ragged. "Should we keep charging?"
Whitefrost jerked his head up, staring at him as though the question itself were an insult.
"Charge?" he snapped, spittle flying as his voice cracked. He shoved himself upright, swaying. "Charge where? Are you blind?"
He thrust an arm toward the field, where dragonfire still raged.
"There is nothing ahead but fire and death. Fall back. Fall back into the city, now!"
All the savage courage that had driven him through the gates moments before drained away like blood into snow. In despair, a man could meet death without fear. But with hope returned, only a fool would throw his life away.
"Move!" Whitefrost roared, voice breaking as he waved them back. "Move, you bastards!"
The Umber soldiers who had surged out in a frenzy turned as one, panic seizing them, and fled back toward the gates of Last Hearth.
"Dragons!"
"Gavv and Chelly are dead. Burned alive!"
"We cannot fight dragons. Run!"
The wildlings' shouts rose in a chaotic howl. The sudden appearance of two dragons shattered their will like ice under a hammer.
Sheepstealer, in particular, cast a crushing shadow. Its massive body stretched sixty or seventy meters from horned head to lashing tail, and its presence alone pressed down on the wildlings' spirits like a physical weight.
After incinerating the vanguard of the charge, Baelon finally lifted his gaze toward the distance, where a lone figure stood amid the chaos, still trying to impose order.
The Bone-Armor King.
"Hold!" the man bellowed, his voice carrying even through the roar of flame. He lifted a horn crusted in bone and blew it with brutal force. "Do not run. It is only two dragons. We still have giants!"
Baelon's eyes narrowed. His lips curved, not quite into a smile.
"So this is the Bone-Armor King," he said softly, fingers drumming once against Sheepstealer's neck. "Wrapped in the dead from head to toe."
He leaned forward.
"Burn him to ash."
Sheepstealer rumbled, wings tensing, and turned toward the distant figure.
Before it could dive, a shrill, agonized dragon's cry tore through the air.
Baelon's head snapped around.
Grey Ghost had flown too low during its attack. The stink of dragon was thick, unmistakable, and even the giants' dull senses caught it.
Massive shapes moved below. Giants seized boulders and torn logs, muscles bunching as they hurled them skyward.
Grey Ghost twisted frantically, wings beating in panicked bursts, but one stone struck.
It smashed into the dragon's fragile wing.
The sound was sickening. Grey Ghost shrieked and spiraled downward, crashing hard into the earth amid a spray of snow and blood.
Giants three to four meters tall closed in at once, dragging enormous warhammers behind them.
Baelon's breath hitched.
"Save Grey Ghost," he barked, voice sharp with fear. He dug his heels in and leaned low. "Now. Do not let them touch him!"
The Bone-Armor King vanished from his thoughts entirely.
Grey Ghost was barely ten meters long. It was no Tyraxes. Against giants with hammers, it would be torn apart in moments.
Even a mob of smallfolk had once slain a dragon in King's Landing. Giants were far deadlier than men.
"ROAR!"
Sheepstealer surged forward, wings beating violently. Fire poured from its jaws, engulfing the giants nearest Grey Shadow. Thick fur ignited, and their howls echoed across the field.
Baelon's hands were clenched white around the saddle.
This is bad.
Giants and wildlings alike pressed inward, forming a tightening ring. Though their morale had cracked, the giants showed no fear. Even as more than a dozen burned and fell, the survivors continued to hurl stones, trying to repeat their success.
Sheepstealer's scales deflected most blows, its bones dense and resilient, but Baelon could feel the dragon's exhaustion mounting. Each breath of fire came slower, weaker.
If it kept flying, it would soon lose the strength to burn.
Without fire, Grey Ghost would die.
Tyraxes was coming, but not yet.
Baelon closed his eyes for a heartbeat.
"No choice," he murmured. "I will have to use you."
With a silent command, he reached into the space of his consciousness and summoned the Bloodflame Legion.
They could not appear far. A dozen meters at most.
So he abandoned all restraint and called them forth directly within the giants' encirclement.
Nineteen hundred warriors emerged from nothingness, armor gleaming darkly, blood-red dragon heads etched into every breastplate and blade. He kept one hundred close to himself.
Sometimes those hundred were worth more than tens of thousands.
Only with them near did Baelon's pulse steady.
"For Lord Baelon," their captain roared, raising his sword. "Kill!"
Spears flashed. Steel bit flesh.
Giants and wildlings froze in stunned disbelief as enemies appeared among them like ghosts.
"What in the hell," someone screamed, "where did they come from?"
"Bloodflame Legion," an officer shouted, already scanning the field. His voice was calm, practiced. "Formation Three."
"Yes!"
They moved as one. Squads of five broke off, each assigned to a single giant.
Crossbow bolts punched into eyes and joints. Spears stabbed into knees and ankles, dropping massive bodies to the ground.
When a giant fell, the executioner stepped forward.
With a single, brutal arc of a greatsword, the head came free.
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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