Hugh Hammer had served Aegon for five years; he knew the temperament of dragons better than most men knew their wives.
Sheepstealer was no hatchling. A massive, muddy-brown beast, he was a contemporary of Silverwing and Meleys—a true veteran of the second or third generation. Normally, the wild dragon was far too cautious and far too large for The Cannibal to hunt for sport.
But today was not about sport. It was about a grudge.
At dawn, the coal-black Cannibal had been mid-theft, his jaws around a silver dragon's egg in the smoking vents of Dragonmont, when Sheepstealer had meandered past with a fresh mutton carcass. The "Mud Dragon" had let out a shrill, unnecessary cry of alarm. That cry had woken the Silver Queen and alerted a very irritable Bronze Fury—Vermithor.
The Cannibal had been chased halfway to the Wall by Vermithor before finally shaking the larger dragon. Bruised in ego and empty of stomach, the black beast had returned with one singular thought: Find the Mud Dragon. Kill the Mud Dragon.
He had caught Sheepstealer resting on a cliffside. The ambush was messy, fueled by a thousand miles of resentment. Now, over the Narrow Sea, the two dragons were a tangled knot of scales and fury. The Cannibal's pale green eyes gleamed with a sadistic light as he locked his jaws onto Sheepstealer's throat, ignoring the desperate claws that raked deep, bloody furrows across his own chest.
Below, on the blood-slicked deck of the Harpy, Hugh watched the two monsters spiral just dozens of meters above the waves. He could smell the ozone and the scorched-meat scent of dragon blood.
"Kressting! Take the men and secure the hold!" Hugh roared, his mind working with the cold precision of a blacksmith.
He sprinted back to his own warship, the Iron Hammer. "Ballistae! To the deck! Aim for the black one!"
Hugh didn't care for wild dragons, but he cared very much for the Cannibal's habit of ambushing Aegon's family. He personally stepped behind the heavy iron crank of the ship's primary ballista.
"Think you're the only one who likes a sneak attack, you overgrown crow?"
Hugh pulled the lever. Thrum-whoosh! A meter-long steel bolt hissed through the air.
Pfft—
The bolt buried a third of its length into the junction where the Cannibal's neck met his massive shoulder.
The black dragon let out a shriek that rattled the teeth of every sailor in the fleet. He instantly released the mangled, dying Sheepstealer and wheeled in the air, his green eyes fixing on the Iron Hammer.
"Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena send their regards!" Hugh grinned, already cranking the second ballista.
The Cannibal dove, a shadow of pure malice. He dodged Hugh's second shot, but the other two warships in the squadron had found their range. Two more bolts whistled past; one grazed the Cannibal's wing, the other thudded into his flank.
The dragon came to his senses. This wasn't a lone mud dragon; this was a hornet's nest of stinging steel. With a final, spiteful burst of dark green flame, he incinerated the Iron Hammer just as Hugh leaped into the churning sea.
The Cannibal didn't stay to finish the fight. He banked hard, loosed one last plume of fire at the floating, writhing body of Sheepstealer, and disappeared into the clouds.
Minutes later, Hugh popped his head above the water, gasping for air. His heavy plate armor was gone—cast off in the depths to save his life—and he looked back at the smoldering wreckage of his ship with a grimace.
"If only I'd hit his eye," he muttered, treading water.
Back on the Harpy, the mercenaries were gone, and the slaves were kneeling in terrified rows.
"Commander! You won't believe it!" a lean young scout shouted as Hugh climbed back aboard, dripping and half-naked.
"Gold? Silks? Tell me we didn't lose the ship for nothing," Hugh grunted.
"Better! We found a crate in the master's cabin. Valyrian steel, Commander! A full suit of plate and a pair of matched greatswords!"
Hugh froze. "Valyrian steel armor? Are you certain?"
"The guard's fingers told me everything before I lopped them off," the boy grinned. "It's the ancient gear of a Dragon Lord. It's weightless and harder than diamond."
"Good," Hugh exhaled, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. "The Prince will be untouchable in that. A suit of gods-flesh for a True Dragon."
Before he could celebrate, a fat sailor scurried over, pointing a shaky finger toward the sea. "Captain! Look! The Mud Dragon... he's still moving."
Hugh walked to the railing. Sheepstealer hadn't sunk. He was bobbing in the swells, his wings shredded and his neck a ruin of red meat, but his chest was still heaving.
"He's still got life in him," the fat man whispered, making a throat-slitting gesture. "A dragon's heart, his scales, his bones... we could sell the pieces to the King for enough gold to buy a city."
Hugh looked at the dying beast. He thought of Aegon's desperate need for riders. He thought of the empty saddles in the dragonpit back in King's Landing.
"Or perhaps..." Hugh murmured, his eyes narrowing as he watched the dragon struggle to keep its head above the salt water. "Perhaps he's worth more alive."
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