Game of Thrones : True Dragon

read lotsstoryinpatre** : CaveLeather

Game of Thrones: Rune Bastard

Game of Thrones Wizard Dothraki

Game of Thrones: Knights Life

In the garden the blue sky stretched wide overhead.

A faint trace of sea salt drifted on the breeze, the ocean's gift to Tyrosh.

Sunblaze sprawled not far from Viserys. The dragon had clawed out a shallow cave for himself and every day he tore through several freshly slaughtered bulls.

Charred bones were hauled away, yet the air still smelled of sulfur and open flame.

"His name is Sunblaze," Melisandre said, puzzled. "Not one of the old Valyrian gods."

"Not every dragon needs a name from the old gods," Viserys answered. "Golden scales, burning fire—people see the sun and think of a king. Like summer itself. Hot. Fierce. Something you respect because it can burn you."

Melisandre studied the golden beast. "You won't build him a dragon pit like the old Targaryen kings?"

Viserys shook his head. "Pits aren't kind to dragons. I have other plans."

The red priestess remembered ancient scrolls she had read. "Perhaps it is better. Dragons raised in pits never grew to the size of Vhagar or Meraxes, let alone Balerion. The Black Dread lived free."

"Dragons aren't dogs," Viserys said, mouth tightening. "I won't chain mine."

Dragons belonged to sky and fire. Mountain peaks and high towers suited them far better than stone cages.

Magic rose and fell like the tide. Dragons and that tide fed each other. Even in the lowest ebb, Bloodraven had thrived beyond the Wall. Dragons were the crown of magic. When the Fourteen Flames fell, the number of dragons crashed and the tide never climbed as high again. By the Dance the dragons were nearly gone and magic had sunk low. Hatching new ones became almost impossible. That was why Aegon the Unworthy, the Dragonbane, and the King of the Commons all failed.

Now the bleeding sword had appeared. This was a wave of magic unlike anything seen in centuries. The Heart of Fire woke dragons. The Heart of Winter woke the Others. Both sides stirred in the same rising tide.

Melisandre looked at Sunblaze with sudden reverence. "Dragons are made of blood and fire. They carry the power of flame. The power of light."

"Careful," Viserys warned. "My friend has a temper. He answers only to me."

"I understand, Your Grace. He is your dragon and obeys only the Dragon King."

Dragons killed lies. Sorcerers had always feared them.

"I hear red priests like to sit close to fire and read it," Viserys said.

"That is true, Your Grace. I can show you."

"Then show me the prophecy about me."

A brazier was carried into the courtyard. Melisandre lit the flames with quiet devotion. She would never let the fire die. That was her first duty. She closed her eyes, whispered prayers, then opened them and stared into the dancing light again and again.

Golden and crimson shapes twisted before her. They merged, split, and formed terrible new shapes. She saw a black abyss rising from the sea, pale children, and the Weeping Lady of Lys roaring as she struck at Tyrosh's Three-Headed God. The images flashed and vanished. She saw nothing of Viserys.

The rings on Viserys's fingers—the Ring of Blood and the Ring of Fire—grew hot against his skin. They sensed the magic stirring around them.

Ancient charlatans had never been a match for a true Dragon King. Dragon Kings were materialists. Their power let them stand above most sorcerers.

"How can this be?" Melisandre stared at him, voice tight.

"I am sorry, Your Grace," she said, lowering her head. "Your flame and your life are too bright. I see nothing of your path. But I did see other things…"

Viserys smiled faintly. "Even your god cannot find my trail."

He was a Fate-Reverser. A life line with no trace to follow. He was also heir to fire magic and water magic.

"I saw the false gods of Lys and Myr," she said. "They were beating Tyrosh's Three-Headed God."

"War," Viserys said, unsurprised.

Lys and Myr had already joined hands. The vision only confirmed what was already coming. Viserys was ready.

"If you wish it, I can help you," Melisandre offered.

"Don't trouble yourself too much, my lady. You only need to guard my family from magic and knives. These smaller enemies I can handle myself."

"Tell me about Asshai," Viserys said. "The city you came from."

"It is my honor, Your Grace." Her voice carried a low, exotic warmth. "Asshai is the farthest and most forbidding city in the known world. Even Lomas Longstrider never reached it. Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, was the first Westerosi to set foot there."

Viserys knew the journey from Pentos to Asshai and back took at least two years. The Sea Snake had returned rich but had lost a lover and half his crew.

"Asshai is vast," Melisandre continued. "Behind its great black walls the city is larger than Volantis, Qarth, King's Landing, and Oldtown combined. Every building is made of black stone that drinks the light. The Ash River runs from the Mountains of the Morn, roaring through narrow canyons lined with hanging houses and sheer rock. By day the water looks only dirty and black. At night it glows with faint green fire."

Viserys thought the place felt poisoned, like the ruins of Valyria. Nights in Asshai were truly dark. Even in high summer the sky stayed gray and heavy. The fish in the river were blind and twisted, unfit to eat. Asshai lived on trade for grain and fresh water.

Black stone appeared in many strange places across the world.

"I hear Asshai is a city of magic," Viserys said.

"It is, Your Grace. Everything you can name is there—warlocks, shadowbinders, alchemists, blood witches, fire mages, necromancers, skinchangers, and worshippers of the Black Goat, the Pale Child, and the Lion of Night."

"Because of the walls?" Viserys asked, polishing one of his rings.

"Yes, Your Grace." Melisandre paused. "The walls of Asshai, like the Wall itself and the black walls of Tyrosh, hold old magic. They act like batteries. When sorcerers gather inside them, power wakes more easily. I felt stronger at the Wall than I ever did in Asshai, because the tide of magic was already rising when I arrived."

"So what help do you offer me, my lady?"

"I serve the Lord of Light. I can help you wield shadows. Shadows are servants of light, children of flame."

"And the price?"

"A little flame," she answered carefully.

"Your shadows are costly," Viserys said. "A mortal life-fire only burns two or three times before it gutters out. Am I wrong?"

Melisandre fell silent. She faced not a boy but something older and far more dangerous than any king she had imagined.

"No need for doubt," Viserys said, raising one finger. "No need for sacrifice. Rely on yourself. Power is power. Flame is flame."

He dismissed her for now. He still needed to trust gods, because one day he would stand level with them.

Besides securing Tyrosh, he had two other strongholds to strengthen.

In the tower of Winterfell, Eddard Stark turned the letter over in his hands. The crowned stag seal pressed into the wax. The words inside were warm and urgent, the same fire Robert had always carried into battle. They reminded Ned of the years they had fought side by side.

But the wars kept coming, one storm after another.

His Northmen were mostly farmers and small merchants. They had already bled for him against Balon. Now they would have to shoulder packs again and march south to face a living dragon and the Targaryen who rode it.

"You hesitated," Catelyn said quietly.

"I didn't hesitate," Ned answered. "I only pity my people. They went to die for me once. Now they must ready themselves to meet Viserys Targaryen and his dragon."

"Viserys," Catelyn repeated. The name tasted like iron on her tongue. "The living dragon."