Aegon walked toward King Ghidorah.
The pale gold behemoth lowered one head toward him. Aegon reached out and gently stroked the scales along his snout.
Those scales gleamed softly beneath the dark red sky, like freshly forged steel.
He looked into King Ghidorah's eyes.
Those golden slit pupils reflected him in turn.
There was no anger, no exhilaration after the slaughter, only a pure, contented calm.
As though power stored up for far too long had finally found an outlet, as though a longing suppressed for far too long had finally been released.
The corners of Aegon's mouth lifted slightly.
This was the first time he had let King Ghidorah unleash his full power.
Not intimidation, not a restrained demonstration... but destruction without restraint, with every ounce of his strength.
He withdrew his hand, turned, and surveyed his surroundings.
The entire Mountains of the Moon had ceased to exist, utterly leveled. Calling this place a plain from now on would hardly be an exaggeration.
Dark red, glasslike ground stretched to the horizon. Wisps of smoke rose from its cracks, and the air reeked of sulfur and scorched earth.
An army of three hundred and seventy thousand-from the Vale, the Westerlands, and the North-had been utterly annihilated by King Ghidorah's breath, buried beneath this wasteland.
Hoofbeats sounded in the distance.
Aegon raised his head and saw a troop of cavalry approaching.
The rider at their head reined in, stopping at the edge of the devastation.
Henry sat on his horse, staring at the scene before him, unable to utter a word.
He had followed Aegon for a long time, had seen the might of the Three-Headed Dragon, and had witnessed enemies perish beneath the golden thunder.
But he had never seen anything like this-an entire mountain range erased.
Not a single