Littlefinger stood inside the gates of the Eyrie and took a deep breath.
The thunderous noise outside had died away.
But he knew perfectly well what that noise meant.
Dragons...
Only a dragon could make such a sound. Only a dragon could make the entire Eyrie tremble.
Aegon Targaryen had come riding a dragon.
Tywin had lost.
The thought flashed through his mind, cold and clear.
Tywin had marched out with an army of three hundred and seventy thousand, drawing on the full strength of three regions, yet he had still lost.
Littlefinger's mind raced.
His most urgent task was to distance himself from all this.
He had to find a way to enter Targaryen's service, and quickly-he had to clear himself before Aegon decided he was Tywin's accomplice.
He still had cards to play: Tommen Baratheon, Sansa Stark, and the Eyrie itself.
All of them were bargaining chips.
He straightened his collar once more, put on a gentle smile, and walked out through the gates.
Then he stopped.
King Ghidorah had landed atop the Eyrie.
The pale gold, three-headed dragon perched on the castle's highest point, his enormous body covering several towers, his wingspan blotting out half the Eyrie.
Three heads snaked down from above, six golden eyes with slit pupils surveying the castle below like a giant examining a toy in his palm.
His wings were half-folded, resting on the tower spires to either side and shrouding the entire courtyard in shadow.
Aegon stood at the edge of a dragon wing, having just slid down it.
Black armor, a red cloak, and long silver hair streaming in the wind.
Littlefinger hurried forward and bowed, his manner humble and respectful. "Prince Aegon! You've finally come!"
His voice held just the right amount of excitement, like a man whose long-awaited