The earth trembled with a thunderous crash.
The crash jolted Victarion out of his stupor. He snapped back to his senses just in time to see the Three-Headed Dragon come crashing down from the sky.
Its enormous body struck the flagstones of the docks, throwing up clouds of dust and sending broken stones flying.
Its spread, pale golden wings blocked the sunlight, casting an immense shadow over Victarion.
He narrowed his eyes against the light and could barely make out a long dragon neck lowering in an arc.
A figure slowly descended beneath that neck, as though walking down a flight of stairs.
Dazzling sunlight spilled around the edges of the dragon's wings, preventing Victarion from making out the man's face.
He could discern only long silver hair, black armor, and a deep crimson cloak.
Boots struck the flagstones with crisp, steady footfalls.
The figure stopped a short distance in front of Victarion.
At last, Victarion could see the newcomer's face clearly.
It was a young face, with violet eyes as cold as ice staring at him, as though he were already dead.
Aegon Targaryen studied him, the corners of his mouth curling into a cold smile as he slowly said, "Your face reminds me of someone I once knew."
Victarion frowned deeply, not knowing what he meant.
"A pervert who dyed his lips and fingernails blue." Aegon's tone was level, but held a trace of undisguised disgust.
"What blue lips? What are you talking about?" Victarion had no idea what he meant. He could only conclude that this Targaryen must be mad.
After all, madness was a tradition in House Targaryen. He had heard that long ago.
But this was no time to dwell on such things. He forced his trembling legs straight.
With his life at stake, finding