Moon Weeps Blood

Lead-gray freezing fog gripped King's Landing before dawn, while the pungency of sulfur and damp chill seeped into the bone. Before the Dragonpit's arches, shaped like the throat of some colossal beast, four dragon silhouettes cast a suffocating pressure beneath the dim sky, nightmares from ancient myths made manifest.

Vhagar, the immense ancient dragon clad in blue-green scales, resembled a moving mountain range. Time had carved deep ravines into her heavy armor, and every labored breath came with a bellows-like rasp, spewing sulfurous vapor flecked with sparks. When she spread her scarred wings, their shadow nearly swallowed the entire square, the membranes like weathered sails in the faint light. Yet deep within those molten-gold slit pupils, sleeping fury was awakening. Prince Baelon stood beside her thick neck, checking the saddle straps one final time. His movements were precise as machinery, his deep-purple eyes like a frozen lake, containing nothing but pure killing intent. The old wound beneath his ribs throbbed faintly amid the murderous atmosphere, but he stood straight as an unsheathed blade, allowing no hint of wavering.

Caraxes was entirely different. The scarlet beast paced restlessly in the confined space, claws scraping against the flagstones and throwing sparks in every direction.

Her molten-gold slit pupils burned with a primal thirst for blood, and a deep roar rolled through her throat, as though it came from the depths of the earth. Each blast of scorching breath raised a cloud of white mist. Daemon Targaryen calmed her with almost showy ease, patting her neck as his silver hair gleamed red beneath the dragon's breath. His face held undisguised excitement and battle lust. From time to time, he glanced at Glutton, his eyes flashing with the eager spark of competition.

Glutton was black as the deepest eternal night. It stood still as an abyss, silently devouring the surrounding light, like a cold, living slab of obsidian. Its enormous head hung slightly lowered, its green-fire slit pupils half-lidded like the crater of a sleeping volcano, exuding a chilling cold that made hearts tremble. Occasionally, its eyelids rose, and one sweep of its icy gaze was enough to make even the bravest dragon guard hold his breath and retreat. Its massive body nearly merged with the shadows, only the edges of its scales gleaming with a ghostly metallic sheen in the dim light. Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen stood beside one of its huge claws, as insignificant as a speck of dust. He wore simple leather armor beneath a cloak against the cold, his palm tightly gripping the silver dragon-scale amulet Gael had given him, as if drawing what little warmth it offered. He looked up at his fierce companion, the mark on his shoulder carrying a cold, powerful connection. A silent, destructive force gathered in the stillness.

King Jaehaerys sat as steady as a mountain atop Vermithor. The bronze beast held itself with composure, its immense body second only to Vhagar's and radiating regal majesty. The old king wore dark black riding clothes, with a heavy gold-trimmed cloak to ward off the cold of the upper air. His deep-purple eyes swept over those below, pausing briefly on Daemon Blackfyre, his scrutiny touched by a faint expectation difficult to discern. He raised an arm, the gesture simple and powerful.

"Depart!"

Prince Baelon was the first to leap into Vhagar's saddle. An ancient, low command in Valyrian rang out. The aged blue-green dragon abruptly raised her head and unleashed an earthshaking roar that tore through the air, its waves shaking the Dragonpit's stone walls! Her powerful hind legs struck the ground, kicking up a storm of shattered stones and dust. Her enormous wings churned violent gusts, and her mountain-sized body shot like an arrow from the string, trailing sulfur as it charged straight toward the pale-purple heavens dyed by dawn!

"Keep up, Blood Wyrm!" Daemon Targaryen roared excitedly as he leapt onto Caraxes almost at the same moment. The scarlet dragon answered with an even wilder roar. Without a running start, she beat her enormous wings with all her might, her crimson form like a bolt of burning lightning that ripped through the morning fog and raced after the blue-green figure!

Daemon Blackfyre took a deep breath of cold air mixed with sulfur and dust, forcing down the resistance, anxiety, and faint instinctive thrill surging within him. He walked toward Glutton's lowered head and reached out, gently placing his palm against the cold, hard scales along its snout. No words were needed. His thoughts passed through the burning mark. Glutton's green-fire slit pupils snapped open, its icy gaze fixing on him as a low rasp rolled from its throat, like boulders grinding against an abyss. It slowly lowered its massive head, its neck forming a slope easy to climb.

Daemon gripped the raised scales along its neck. His movements were not as flamboyant as the other Daemon's, yet they carried a strange fluidity, as though he and the dragon were one. He swung himself onto the rough temporary saddle and clutched the handle before it. At the slightest shift of his thoughts, Glutton's enormous body tightened like a drawn bow, its powerful hind legs exploding with enough force to shake the ground! Its black wings crashed open, and the gale they raised instantly swept away every trace of dust and mist! Like black lightning tearing apart the dawn, it shot skyward with a piercing shriek, catching up to the scarlet and blue-green dragons in an instant.

The four dragons circled above King's Landing, their vast shadows sweeping across the sleeping city and drawing terrified upward gazes. Vhagar's blue-green settled into ancient weight beneath the dawn, Caraxes's scarlet flowed like rushing lava, Glutton's black was an abyss that devoured all light, and Vermithor's bronze was like an eternal throne. Four dragon roars, each distinct in tone yet equally earthshaking, rang through the skies, proclaiming that the Dragon King's fury had descended upon the mortal world. Then they turned, their enormous forms cutting across the heavens as they sped toward the northeast—the shadow of the Mountains of the Moon.

Widow's Wail Canyon.

The echoes of House Arryn's tragedy from days ago had yet to fade, but now they had been replaced by a more primal, more suffocating silence of death.

At the canyon entrance, the spear bearing the dried, blackened head of the Duke of Arryn still hung alone, its empty sockets staring indifferently at the gray sky. The air was thick with an unbearable stench of char, blood, filth from the wildling camp, and ashes not yet extinguished, blending into a nauseating breath of death. Drunk on the lingering joy of plunder, the Stone Crows had not left this "place of victory."

Deep within the canyon, beside crude huts pressed against the rock walls, lay scattered scraps of fine fabric taken from House Arryn's convoy, twisted silverware, and even children's toys. The wildlings sat around dying embers, tearing into half-raw meat as they boasted crudely of their "accomplishments" and mocked the "cowardice" of the Vale knights.

Several wildling children, wrapped in fine but ill-fitting clothes stripped from corpses, chased one another through the mud. Keeping watch? In their eyes, the noble lords of the Seven Kingdoms were only fit to tremble inside their castles.

Yet the shadow of death had already silently covered the entire valley.

The sentries perched high on the cliffs were the first to notice something strange—several black dots rapidly growing larger on the horizon. At first, they thought they were giant eagles. But when the outlines became clear, an ultimate terror of ancient predators, born from the depths of their bloodline, seized them instantly.

"Dragons... dragons!" A shriek twisted and broken by overwhelming terror struck the silence like a stone thrown into still water.

The clamor around the campfires came to an abrupt halt. Every gaze turned fearfully toward the sky.

The four dragons were already almost upon them!

Vermithor's bronze body bore the majesty and crushing force of a king;

Vhagar's blue-green form moved like a mountain, her oppressive presence pressing down from above;

Caraxes's scarlet body was swift as lightning, the shriek of her wing tips ripping through the air deafening;

And Glutton, that pure light-devouring black, was like Death's descending cloak, bringing the deepest despair.

"Run—!" the wildling chief wailed with all his strength, but it was already too late.

Atop Vermithor, King Jaehaerys's aged face looked like cold, hard stone beneath the morning light. His arm swung down without hesitation! An ancient Valyrian command burst forth like thunder:

"Dracarys!" (Dragonfire!)

Vermithor raised his enormous head, and a blinding golden-red glow lit deep within his chest! The next instant, a torrent of dragonfire as thick as a waterfall of molten gold erupted forth, carrying heat capable of destroying everything and precisely engulfing the densest cluster of huts at the canyon entrance! The flames instantly swallowed the thatched wooden shelters. The wildlings, like insects cast into boiling water, became curled black charcoal in moments amid inhuman screams! The spear that symbolized humiliation, along with the head upon it, vaporized instantly in the dragonfire, leaving not even ash behind!

Almost at the same time, Prince Baelon's command, cold as ice, rang across the battlefield:

"Dracarys!"

Vhagar unleashed an ancient roar that shook the canyon, filled with long-suppressed fury. Her dragonfire was not as grand as a waterfall, but it was thicker, hotter, and steeped in a deep blue-green hue. Like a flood of molten bronze, it rushed and burned along the narrow canyon path! Wherever it passed, rocks burned red and burst apart. Wildlings hiding in cracks in the cliffs let out shrieks so agonized they lost all shape, their flesh sizzling, peeling away, and carbonizing beneath the heat until they became warped black silhouettes. Their wails ricocheted and collided throughout the canyon, composing a symphony of hell!

Daemon Targaryen had long been unable to restrain his boiling killing intent. He needed no command. At the moment Caraxes plunged to her lowest point, he unleashed a wild battle cry:

"Burn them all! Dracarys!"

Caraxes answered with an even fiercer roar, transforming into a scarlet comet that swept at high speed along the jagged cliff walls. Her dragonfire was like the nimblest crimson serpent, licking swiftly and precisely at caves and protruding stone ledges. Those wildlings who tried to use the terrain for cover were instantly swept into the red tongues of flame, turning into twisted, burning fireballs that screamed as they fell into the abyss below! The scarlet dragon moved at unimaginable speed, making several deadly passes through the canyon and spreading destruction evenly across it. Daemon Targaryen threw back his head and laughed wildly atop her back, the pleasure of destruction burning through his nerves like strong liquor.

Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, meanwhile, guided Glutton in circles above the higher reaches of the canyon. The cold morning wind tore at his silver hair. Below lay a churning inferno: golden-red and blue-green flames soaring skyward, rolling pillars of black smoke, desperate screams rising and falling before finally fading, the foul stench of burning flesh and fat... It all assaulted his senses, turning his stomach. He had experienced the bloody battle of the Red Grassland, where warriors fought warriors. But what lay before him was a one-sided crushing of insects, like divine punishment. The mark on his shoulder throbbed with heat, as though answering the murderous yearning in the depths of Glutton's soul.

Glutton's green-fire slit pupils looked coldly down upon the burning slaughterhouse below. It adjusted its position steadily, without any of Caraxes's agitation. When Daemon's thoughts came through—carrying a decision made after struggle—Glutton released a low, satisfied sound from its throat, like the roar of an abyss splitting open.

"Dracarys..." Daemon's voice was hoarse and low, but the command was clearly branded into their soul-link.

Glutton's enormous head suddenly rose, then snapped downward! A stream of pure, profound black dragonfire burst forth, as though it could devour and erase even light itself! It had no dazzling radiance, yet it carried a strange cold capable of freezing the soul. The dragonfire silently swept over a group of wildling warriors who had gathered together, clutching crude weapons and attempting one final desperate struggle. Wherever the black flames passed, time seemed to freeze. There was no explosion, no firelight—only instant, absolute silence! The wildlings could not even force their screams from their throats. Their bodies seemed to have been stripped at once of all moisture and life, visibly shriveling, carbonizing, and solidifying into blackened statues frozen in the terrified poses of their final moments! A faint breeze passed, and the charred figures quietly crumbled into fine black powder that scattered on the wind! Even the rocks beneath their feet became coated in frost-like black crystals that gleamed with a ghostly cold luster!

This horror beyond comprehension became the final straw. The surviving wildlings collapsed completely, throwing down their weapons and screaming meaningless, crazed cries as they stumbled about the burning canyon like headless flies. In the end, they were swallowed by flames, crashed into red-hot rock walls, or slipped and plunged into the abyss.

Widow's Wail Canyon now echoed with nothing but the dying cries of wildlings and the roaring of flames.

Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen stared at the strange black domain of death he had created with his own hands, watching lives turn to ash in an instant. A cold shudder shot from his spine to the top of his head. Glutton's dragonfire did not merely burn flesh away; it seemed capable of freezing the life from a soul. He gripped the reins so tightly that his knuckles lost all color, while his stomach cramped and convulsed. He forced himself to look away, toward the darker depths of the canyon. The inertia of history whispered in his mind: the core of the Stone Crows, their fiercest warriors and their chief, must be cowering at that very moment within deep, labyrinthine caves beyond the reach of dragonfire. They would survive, becoming another terrifying legend of "dragonfire survivors" in the Mountains of the Moon—lurking among the ashes, nursing their wounds, and breeding hatred for the future.

The flames of vengeance burned through the canyon, and scorched his soul as well. He had completed his task, proven his "value" and innocence, and secured his position. But the price was witnessing and participating in a purge far more primal and nauseating than the bloody battle of the Red Grassland in his previous life. He lowered his head. The silver dragon-scale amulet in his palm still retained a faint warmth beneath Glutton's cold breath, and Gael's pale face, filled with worry, flashed through his mind against the backdrop of fire and black smoke.

The canyon had become a furnace. Dragonfire raged, melting stone into streams of red-hot slurry and forging life into ash. The shadows of four dragons crossed and wheeled through smoke and flame like emissaries from the depths of hell, scattering destruction.

And Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen, this solitary Black Dragon from a hundred years in the future, rode an ancient beast that brought the coldest death. In the cruel baptism of blood and fire, he understood for the first time with such clarity that the weight carried by the name "Targaryen" was far colder, thicker, and more steeped in unerasable blood than he had ever imagined. That weight pressed heavily upon his young shoulders and his burning mark.