A Dragon.
A terrifying symbol of Valyria's supreme dominion, long since consumed by the Doom and lost amid the Smoking Sea and flames.
Yet now it stood here, atop the ruins of the Banquet Hall in the Governor's Palace of Lys.
Not faded majesty in a mural, nor the exaggerated verses of a bard.
A living, breathing Dragon, its scales gleaming with a cold, pale gold sheen in the lingering firelight and the reflections of shattered crystal chandeliers.
And it had three heads.
Time in the Banquet Hall seemed to have been frozen by an invisible hand.
There were no gasps, no screams, not even an instinctive attempt to flee.
Everyone, from the lofty nobles to the trembling captives and the Governor's guards, stood rooted to the spot.
They wanted to run, but their legs felt filled with lead, nailed to the sumptuous carpet.
They wanted to cry out, but an icy hand seemed to grip their throats, leaving them capable only of hoarse, breathless rasps.
They could only stare with eyes brimming with utter terror, every muscle trembling uncontrollably. Like grazing animals caught in a predator's sights, they could do nothing but await the inevitable end.
Dorian Antaryon, the Governor of Lys, had held the power of life and death mere moments before, deciding an ancient family's fate amid casual conversation.
Now his face was as pale as a corpse, his pupils unfocused, his entire body shaking like a leaf in the wind. Even his most basic powers of thought seemed to have stopped.
His entire awareness was consumed by those three savage Dragon heads, looking down on them as though they were ants.
King Ghidorah's immense body occupied half the collapsed Banquet Hall.
His three bone-armored heads turned slowly, six molten-gold slit pupils coldly surveying the tiny, fragile