A/N: Stay tuned, the next few chapters are gonna be action packed with Hardhome coming up! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a comment if you did! :)
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Year 300 AC
Skagos
The smoke from the fire pits stung Davos's eyes as he entered the council hall, the acrid scent mixing with the musty smell of old furs and dried meat. Stone walls loomed around him, adorned with weapons that looked older than the Wall itself—rusted axes, notched swords, and the curved horns of unicorns that gleamed dully in the firelight.
Four chiefs sat in a rough semi-circle on carved stone seats, their faces hard as the island they ruled. Rorik Boneson occupied the central position, a mountain of a man with arms thick as ship masts and a beard braided with small bones. To his left sat Harfinn Wolfhart, lean and scarred, fingers drumming against the hilt of a dragonglass dagger. Orra Frosthand filled the seat to Rorik's right, her white hair stark against weathered skin, one hand wrapped in sealskin where frostbite had claimed two fingers. Durgan Ironkeel completed the circle, youngest of the four but no less fierce, with filed teeth that glinted when he smiled.
Ser Marlon Manderly stood beside Davos, still shaken from the experience with the wights. The knight's eyes darted between the chiefs, sweat beading on his upper lip despite the cold.
"Chiefs of Skagos," Tharvor of Clan Crowbane announced, his voice echoing off stone. "I bring before you Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand to King Stannis Baratheon, and Marlon Manderly of White Harbor."
Rorik leaned forward, the bones in his beard clicking together. "Why does a southron lord seek the krakens' nest?" His voice rumbled like distant thunder. "What business have you with our shores?"
Kraken's nest?
Davos met the chief's gaze steadily. "I seek Rickon Stark."
The temperature in the hall seemed to drop. Harfinn's drumming fingers stilled. Orra's good hand moved to the bone charm at her throat. Only Durgan smiled wider, showing those filed teeth.
"The wolf pup is ours now," Rorik said, each word deliberate. "Found him half-dead on our shores, we did. Fed him, clothed him, taught him our ways. What claim does the mainland have on him?"
"He's a Stark of Winterfell," Davos said. "The North needs—"
"The North?" Harfinn spat into the fire pit. "Where was the North when the dead crawled from the sea? When our children screamed in the night as cold hands dragged them into the dark?"
Davos's shortened fingers ached with phantom pain. "The dead... we encountered them on your shores. Tharvor's men saved us."
"Aye, and there's more coming," Orra said, her voice like wind over ice. "Every moon brings more. The sea vomits them up like rotten fish. Three villages lost this past month alone."
"Which is why the North must unite," Davos pressed. "The Boltons hold Winterfell through treachery and murder. They'll not stand against what's coming. But with a true Stark to rally behind—"
"Bolton, Stark, makes no difference to us," Durgan interrupted, his accent thick with the old tongue. "Mainlanders all the same. You kneel to your kings and lords while we stand free."
Ser Marlon cleared his throat. "My cousin offers White Harbors resources."
"We know what White Harbor offers," Rorik cut him off. "Gold and grain and pretty promises. But gold won't stop the dead. Grain won't warm our children when the Long Night comes."
"Gold!" Orra laughed, a harsh sound. "How would gold help my grandson when he froze solid in his bed, turned blue as winter ice? When he rose again with blue-white eyes and tried to strangle his sister?"
The wind howled outside, rattling the heavy wooden doors. Davos felt the weight of their stares, the challenge in their postures. These weren't lords to be swayed by courtesies or titles.
"Stannis marches on Winterfell," Davos said. "He means to destroy the Boltons, restore order to the North. With Rickon Stark returned—"
"Your king is another southron pretender," Harfinn said. "Following his red witch and her foreign god. What does he know of the old ways? Of the true threats?"
How could such tidings arrived at this remote coastline? Davos pondered.
"He knows duty," He replied after a breath. "And he knows the realm needs unity against the darkness."
The chiefs exchanged glances, some unspoken communication passing between them. Davos waited, knowing that pushing too hard would close doors that might never open again.
"The boy has the wolf dreams," Durgan said finally. "Runs with his beast at night. Old Magnar's been teaching him the way of it, but..." He shrugged. "He can do more with the north restored."
"Then you understand," Ser Marlon said eagerly. "House Manderly remembers its oaths to House Stark. We have ships, men, supplies. When Lord Rickon returns—"
The doors burst open with a crash that echoed through the hall. A massive black direwolf stalked in, lips pulled back from teeth as long as daggers. Behind the beast came a boy, wild-haired and fierce-eyed, dressed in sealskins and fur. A dragonglass knife hung at his belt.
"Who wants to take me away?" The boy's voice cracked high and fierce. "This is MY home now!"
Shaggydog growled, the sound vibrating through the stone floor. The wolf's eyes fixed on Davos, green as wildfire and twice as dangerous.
"Lord Rickon," Davos said carefully, not moving. "I serve the king who fights for the North. I've come to—"
"Liar! The north fights for the Boltons now." The boy's hand went to his knife. "Father's dead. They're all dead. Mother, Robb, Bran, Arya. All dead!"
"Not all," Davos said softly. "Jon Snow lives. Your brother Jon commands at Castle Black."
The change was instant. The fury in Rickon's eyes flickered, replaced by something raw and desperate. "Jon?"
"Aye. Lord Commander of the Night's Watch now."
""What's your game, sneakin' 'round askin' after the little lord, eh? Best spit it out 'fore I gut you like a trout.""
Osha emerged from the shadows behind Rickon, spear in hand. The woman had a wild look to her, but her eyes remained sharp as the bronze point of her weapon.
"I serve King Stannis," Davos said. "He sends me to save help House Stark."
"Ain't never heard o' your King Stannis, and you ain't no one to me." Osha's laugh was bitter. "What's your names to him, eh? The Little Lord don't give a goat's balls who you are."
"He's the rightful king. And he means to see justice done for the Red Wedding, for—"
"Justice." Osha moved closer, her spear never wavering. "Where was justice when they butchered the Young Wolf?" She studied Davos with suspicious eyes. "How do I know ye're not another Bolton trick? Another lie to lure the boy out?"
"Jon!" Rickon blurted suddenly. "What's Jon like now? Does he still have Ghost?"
Davos saw his opening. "Aye, Ghost remains by his side. Your brother's grown into a man now, leads the Night's Watch with honor. He'd want you safe, my lord. He'd want you ready to reclaim what's yours."
"The boy's safe here," Osha said firmly. "Safer than he'd be in any southron castle."
"Safe?" Davos gestured toward the weapons on the walls. "With the dead rising from the sea? With winter coming harder than any in memory? The North needs its Stark. The realm needs—"
"Let the whole bloody realm go up in flames," Osha spat. "Ain't got no love for your southern squabbles—I'm keepin' the boy safe, and that's that."
An elderly man shuffled forward from the shadows, leaning heavily on a staff carved with runes. His milky eyes suggested blindness, but he moved with too much purpose for that.
"The boy dreams true," the old warg said, his voice like rustling leaves. "Sees through his wolf's eyes. Runs with the pack that was scattered." He turned those unsettling eyes toward Davos. "I've seen the dead walking. Seen the ice-blue eyes in the darkness. The Long Night comes again."
"Then you know we must stand together," Davos said. "Stark and Skagosi, northman and southron. Divided, we all fall."
The warg studied him for a long moment. "The boy's power grows, but wild. Unfocused. He needs..." The old man sighed. "He needs what I cannot give. His own blood. His own pack."
"No," Osha said sharply. "He's breathed this long 'cause of us. I won't be the one to let him die now."
"Osha." Rickon's voice was quiet but firm. "I want to hear more. About Jon. About... about home."
The wild woman's face crumpled slightly. She lowered her spear but didn't step back. The council chiefs watched this exchange with interest. Rorik stroked his beard, bones clicking. "The boy chooses his own path. That's the Skagosi way. But..." He looked at Davos. "What assurances can you give? What oaths?"
"My word," Davos said simply. "I've never broken it."
"The word of a smuggler?" Harfinn scoffed.
"The word of a man who lost his fingers for doing what was right," Davos held up his shortened hand. "Who serves his king not for gold or glory, but because I believe in justice."
Silence stretched through the hall, broken only by the crackling of the fire pits and Shaggydog's heavy breathing.
"I gotta talk to 'em!" Rickon burst out. "Osha. Magnar. Just us!"
The three withdrew to a corner of the hall, voices low but urgent. Davos caught fragments—Osha's protests, the warg's measured responses, Rickon's questions. The boy kept glancing back, something desperate in his young face.
Finally, they returned. Osha's jaw was set, her knuckles white on her spear haft.
"The little lord needs his pack," she said, each word dragged out reluctantly. "The wolves must run together when winter comes." She fixed Davos with a glare that could freeze blood. "But I go with him. And Shaggydog. Try to separate us, and I'll open your throat myself."
"Agreed," Davos said immediately.
The council chiefs conferred among themselves, voices rising and falling in the old tongue. Finally, Rorik stood.
"Skagos releases the wolf lord to your care," he announced. "But know this, Davos Seaworth—we do not forget. When the dead walk the mainland, remember who first stood against them. Remember who gave you the boy when we could have kept him."
"The North remembers," Marlon said formally. "And House Manderly will ensure Skagos is remembered as well."
"Pretty words," Orra said. "We'll see if they hold when the ice winds blow."
Durgan smiled his filed-tooth smile. "Take our dragonglass. You'll need it more than gold soon enough."
The rest happened quickly. Orders given, supplies gathered, plans made for departure at first light. Davos watched Rickon say his farewells, the boy trying to maintain his fierce facade even as his eyes grew wet. The old warg pressed a carved bone charm into the boy's hand, whispering words in the old tongue.
"For protection," the warg translated, seeing Davos's look. "From an old man who failed too many boys already."
As they prepared to leave the hall, Rickon stopped beside Davos. "You said Jon's Lord Commander now?"
"Aye, my lord."
"And he's... he's alive? Truly?"
"When last I saw him." Davos chose his words carefully. "He thinks of you often, I'm certain. Speaks of family with love."
Rickon gave a sharp nod, puffing out his chest like a lord. "Okay, we'll go. But if you're lying…" He gripped his dragonglass knife. "Shaggydog'll know. And he's real hungry!"
The direwolf growled agreement, and Davos had no doubt the threat was real. But he'd found what he came for—a lost Stark, wild as the island that sheltered him, but alive. Now came the harder task: getting him home before the realm tore itself apart.
Outside, the wind howled its warnings, and somewhere in the darkness, Davos knew the dead were stirring. Time was running short for them all.
Maegor's Holdfast, Kingslanding
The great solar of Maegor's Holdfast reeked of sweat and fear beneath the heavy perfume of burning braziers. Mace Tyrell shifted his considerable bulk in the ornate chair, the carved roses digging into his back as he surveyed the assembled lords and knights. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting long shadows across the Myrish carpet, but the warmth did nothing to ease the chill that had settled over the room.
"Kevan Lannister was no fool," Ser Garlan said, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. "Nor was Grand Maester Pycelle, for all his doddering. Someone wanted them dead."
"Someone with access to the Red Keep," added Lord Randyll Tarly, his weathered face grim as granite. "This was no common murder."
Mace nodded slowly, his rings catching the light as he drummed thick fingers against the chair's arm. The news had reached them at dawn—both men found dead in their chambers, no signs of struggle, no obvious wounds. Clean. Professional. Terrifying.
"Without Kevan's steady hand, our alliance with the Lannisters crumbles to dust," Lord Mathis Rowan observed, wine-dark stains marking his doublet from the morning's breakfast. "The man was the only thing keeping Cersei's madness in check."
"Madness that may have finally turned murderous," Ser Leo Tyrell spat, his hand resting on his sword hilt. The younger man's face flushed red with anger. "Who else benefits from Kevan's death? Who else has reason to see Pycelle silenced?"
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathered men. Mace felt the weight of their expectations, the burden of leadership that had fallen to him with Olenna's absence. His grandmother would have known exactly what to say, how to navigate these treacherous waters. He was a rose trying to grow thorns.
"The Queen Regent has motive," Lord Mathis said carefully, his words measured. "But would she dare? To murder her own uncle?"
"She burned the Tower of the Hand," Garlan reminded them. "Cersei Lannister's capacity for destruction knows few bounds."
"Perhaps," Tarly interjected, his voice like grinding stone, "but consider this—young Aegon Targaryen has landed in the Stormlands. A pretender with dragons' blood needs chaos in King's Landing. Dead advisors serve his cause well."
The room erupted in heated discussion. Voices rose and fell like waves against stone, each man certain of his theory, none willing to yield ground. Mace watched them argue, tasting bile in his throat. The game of thrones had turned deadly, and House Tyrell stood exposed.
"What of the Faith?" The voice belonged to Ser Horas Redwyne, barely above a whisper, but it cut through the noise like a blade. "The High Sparrow grows bolder each day. Perhaps he seeks to remove those who might oppose his... reforms."
Silence fell like a shroud. Even the crackling of the braziers seemed muted. The suggestion hung in the air, dangerous and unthinkable. To accuse the Faith of murder was to court disaster—but the seed of doubt, once planted, would grow.
"The Faith serves the Seven," Mace said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "Surely they would not—"
A sharp rap at the door interrupted him. A young knight in Tyrell colors entered, his face pale beneath his helm. "My lord," he said, dropping to one knee. "Urgent news from the Sept of Baelor."
Mace's stomach clenched. "Speak."
"Lady Alla, my lord. She has fallen gravely ill while in the Faith's custody. The septons say it came upon her suddenly—fever, convulsions. They fear for her life."
The solar exploded into chaos. Ser Leo shot to his feet, his chair clattering backward. "By the Seven! They poison my daughter while we sit here debating!"
"Murder!" Ser Horas snarled, his hand on his blade. "First Kevan and Pycelle, now they move against us directly!"
"We should storm the Sept," Leo continued, his voice rising to a shout. "Cut down every sparrow we find! Show them what happens when they threaten House Tyrell!"
Agreement roared from a dozen throats. Steel sang as swords cleared sheaths. The smell of violence filled the air—hot metal, leather, and the musk of angry men. Mace felt the moment slipping away, saw the careful balance he'd tried to maintain crumbling like sand.
"Enough!" His voice boomed across the chamber, surprising even himself with its authority. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to him. He rose slowly, his considerable frame casting a long shadow. "We will not act like common brigands."
"But my lord—" Leo began.
"I said enough." Mace's tone brooked no argument. "Lady Alla is my cousin, my blood. Do you think I feel her peril any less keenly than you?" He let his gaze sweep the room, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "But we serve a king who supports the Faith. To attack them openly is to attack the Crown itself."
"Then what would you have us do?" Tarly asked, his scarred face skeptical. "Sit idle while they murder our family?"
"We act with wisdom, not rage." Mace moved to the window, staring out at the sprawling city below. Smoke rose from countless chimneys, and somewhere in that maze of stone and timber, his cousin lay dying. "I will demand that our own maesters examine Lady Alla. If poison is suspected, we will have proof. If the Faith refuses..." He let the threat hang unspoken.
"And if she dies while we wait for proof?" Leo's voice cracked with emotion.
Mace turned back to face them, and for a moment, something of the rose's steel showed through. "Then the Faith will learn that House Tyrell remembers its debts. But we will not be goaded into folly by grief or anger. We are not Cersei Lannister."
The tension in the room remained thick as honey, but the immediate threat of violence had passed. Mace could see it in their faces—disappointment, frustration, but also grudging respect. Leadership, he realized, was often about knowing when not to act.
"Send ravens to Highgarden," he commanded. "My lady mother must know of these developments. And dispatch our fastest ship to Dragonstone—Horas, I need to know Loras's condition. If we're under attack, I need all my family accounted for."
"What of King Tommen?" Garlan asked quietly.
Mace considered the question carefully. The boy king was a pawn in this game, but a pawn with a crown remained dangerous. "We maintain our loyalty to the Crown. For now. But we watch. We wait. And we prepare."
As the lords began to file out, their voices low with urgent planning, Mace remained by the window. The sun climbed higher, but shadows still clung to the corners of the solar. Somewhere in the city, enemies moved in darkness, striking at the very heart of his house.
He thought of Olenna, of her sharp wit and sharper tongue. What would she do? The answer came easily—she would turn this crisis into opportunity, find a way to make their enemies' strength into weakness.
But Mace was not his mother. He was a rose trying to learn the art of war, and the lesson was written in blood.
Meereen, Esos
The salt-stained deck of the Iron Victory groaned beneath Victarion's boots as he paced the length of his cabin. Through the narrow windows, Meereen's great pyramid loomed against the dying light, its bronze harpy glinting like a taunt. The dragon queen's city sprawled before him—so close he could smell the spices and sweat on the wind, yet she remained beyond his reach.
Three days. Three days since he'd broken the Yunkai'i blockade and still no sign of Daenerys Targaryen. The council of freedmen spoke in riddles, claiming she'd vanished into the Dothraki Sea. Victarion's jaw clenched. He hadn't sailed halfway across the world to chase shadows.
The dragonhorn sat on his table like a coiled serpent, its black surface drinking the lamplight. Valyrian glyphs spiraled along its length, promising mastery over the children of fire. Moqorro had bound it to his blood with ritual and pain, the red priest's chants still echoing in his skull. The horn was his now—or so the red man claimed.
But doubt gnawed at him like a cancer. Words were wind, and Euron's gifts always came with hidden teeth. His brother had given him this horn with that mocking smile, speaking of dragons and queens as if they were trinkets to be claimed. What if it was another of Euron's jests? What if the horn brought only death?
A knock at his cabin door interrupted his brooding. Wulfe entered, followed by a Meereenese man with oiled hair and a silk tokar edged with golden fringe. The stranger's eyes darted nervously around the cabin.
"Found him skulking near the ship, Captain," Wulfe said. "Says he speaks for the Sons of the Harpy."
Victarion studied the man. The Sons of the Harpy—masked killers who preyed on Daenerys's freedmen and soldiers. Enemies of the dragon queen, then. Potential allies.
"Speak," Victarion commanded.
The man bowed stiffly. "My masters wish to know your intentions in our city," he said in accented Common Tongue. "You break the blockade, yet you do not join the Yunkai'i. You claim to serve the queen, yet you remain in the harbor while she is gone."
"My intentions are my own," Victarion growled. "But I could ask the same of your masters. They hide behind masks and strike from shadows. What kind of men fear to show their faces?"
The emissary stiffened. "Men who would reclaim their city from the foreign whore and her abominations."
"Your city?" Victarion laughed, a sound like rocks grinding together. "You will never take this city."
"And what would an ironborn reaver know of taking a city?" the man spat.
Victarion moved with surprising speed for a man his size, lifting the emissary by his throat with his good hand. "I know that I could crush your windpipe and feed you to the eels," he said.
The emissary clawed at Victarion's iron grip, face purpling. Victarion released him, letting him crumple to the floor.
"But perhaps we can help each other," Victarion continued as the man gasped for breath. "I have no love for the dragon queen or her mongrel army."
The emissary looked up, suspicion warring with interest in his eyes. "What do you propose?"
"Tonight, I plan to claim what the queen left behind. My men will set fires throughout the city—a distraction. When you see the flames, strike. Kill the Unsullied, kill the freedmen, sow chaos in every quarter."
"And if we refuse?"
Victarion's scarred hand began to smoke, wisps of vapor curling from the blackened flesh. The emissary recoiled.
"Then I give the queen's council a list of every house that shelters your kind. Every name my spies have gathered. They'll hang your nobles from the gates and your children from the walls. My men have eyes in this city."
The emissary's face paled. He was silent for a long moment before nodding. "We will be ready. When the fires rise, the Sons of the Harpy will strike."
"Good." Victarion dismissed him with a wave. "Now get off my ship and run back to your masters."
After the man had gone, Wulfe approached cautiously. "Can we trust them, Captain?"
"Trust?" Victarion snorted. "They're cowards who hide behind masks. But cowards are predictable. They'll do as I say to save their own skins."
A commotion on deck drew his attention. Shouts and the thunder of running feet. Victarion strode to the window, his scarred hand—black and smoking since Moqorro's healing—gripping the frame.
Dragons.
Two of them circled the great pyramid like vultures over carrion. The green one—Rhaegal, the freedmen called it—perched atop the apex, wings spread wide. Its roar split the evening air, a sound that made his bones ache. The cream and gold dragon—Viserion—settled on a lower tier, head weaving as it surveyed the city below.
Victarion's pulse quickened. Here was his chance. The queen might be gone, but her children remained. If the horn truly worked...
He snatched the dragonhorn from the table, its weight familiar in his hands. The Valyrian steel felt warm, almost alive. Through the cabin walls, he could hear his crew muttering prayers to the Drowned God. Cowards. They feared the dragons, but Victarion Greyjoy feared nothing that drew breath.
"Wulfe!" he bellowed. "Ready the boats!"
His first mate's scarred face appeared in the doorway. "Captain?"
"We're going ashore. And bring torches—as many as you can carry."
Wulfe's eyes widened as they fell on the horn. "The dragons, Captain. They'll burn us to ash."
"Not if I bind them first." Victarion pushed past him onto the deck. The crew scattered like gulls before a storm, their faces pale in the gathering dusk. Above, the dragons' cries echoed off the pyramid's bronze-sheathed walls.
"Listen well," Victarion called, his voice cutting through their fear. "We'll land at the harbor and make for the great pyramid. I want fires lit—braziers, torches, anything that burns. The bigger the blaze, the better."
"A distraction?" Wulfe asked.
"Aye. While the city watches the flames, I'll climb to where the dragons roost." He hefted the horn, its surface gleaming dully. "And then we'll see what songs these beasts know."
The crew exchanged glances, doubt written plain on their weathered faces. Victarion's scarred hand began to smoke, wisps of vapor curling from the blackened flesh. The sight sent them scrambling for the boats.
Twenty men rowed him to shore, their oars cutting through water that reflected the pyramid's lights like scattered stars. The harbor stank of fish and tar, foreign spices and human waste. Meereenese guards watched from the docks, hands resting on sword hilts, but none moved to stop them. The Ironborn had earned their passage with blood and steel.
Victarion leaped onto the stone quay, seawater dripping from his mail. The horn's weight pulled at his shoulder where he'd slung it across his back. Above, the dragons had gone silent, but he could see their shapes moving against the pyramid's face.
"Spread out," he commanded. "Light your fires in the market squares, near the temples. Make them think the city burns."
His men melted into the twisting streets like smoke. Soon, orange flames began to bloom across Meereen's lower tiers. Shouts rose from the darkness as citizens rushed to fight the blazes. In the distance, he heard the telltale clash of steel and screams—the Sons of the Harpy had joined the fray, attacking from the shadows as promised. Perfect.
Victarion turned toward the great pyramid, its bronze-clad bulk rising like a mountain before him. The climb would be treacherous, but he'd scaled the cliffs of Pyke in winter storms. This was just stone and metal.
He found a servants' entrance, the guards long since fled to fight the fires. The pyramid's interior was a maze of corridors and chambers, but Victarion followed the upward slope, his boots echoing in the darkness. Slave-made luxury surrounded him—silk tapestries, golden braziers, marble floors worn smooth by countless feet. The dragon queen lived well while her people starved.
The climb seemed endless. His legs burned, his breath came short, but still he pressed on. The horn's weight grew heavier with each step, as if it sensed what was coming. Through narrow windows, he glimpsed the fires spreading below, orange tongues licking at the night. And amid the flames, the golden masks of the Sons of the Harpy gleamed as they cut down Unsullied in the streets.
Finally, he reached a door marked with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Beyond lay a chamber open to the sky, its walls carved with scenes of conquest and glory. And there, perched on the pyramid's edge like gargoyles from the Seven Hells, were the dragons.
Rhaegal turned first, bronze eyes fixing on the intruder. Steam rose from its nostrils, and the air shimmered with heat. Viserion followed, cream-colored head swiveling on a serpentine neck. Both beasts were smaller than the tales claimed, but still massive enough to swallow a man whole.
Victarion's hand went to the horn, fingers tracing the Valyrian glyphs. The metal burned against his palm, eager as a whore. He could hear Moqorro's words echoing in his memory: The horn will bind them to your will, but the price...
The price didn't matter. Nothing mattered but claiming what was his.
He turned to the three thralls he'd brought—men whose tongues he'd cut out himself after they'd tried to desert at Volantis. Perfect for this task. No screams to alert the city, no pleas for mercy. Just meat to feed the horn's hunger.
"You." He grabbed the first by the throat, shoving the dragonhorn against his chest. The man's eyes went wide, understanding dawning even through his terror. "Blow."
The thrall shook his head frantically, stumbling backward. Victarion's blackened hand closed around his windpipe, lifting him off his feet. The smell of charred flesh filled the air.
"Blow, or I feed you to them piecemeal."
The dragons watched, heads tilted like curious cats. Steam curled from their nostrils, the heat making the air shimmer.
Victarion thrust the horn at the thrall's mouth. The man took it with trembling hands, the metal cold against his lips. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the thrall blew.