Chapter 101: The Blood-Stained Valley of Flowers

"Dracarys." Valar watched with satisfaction as Tessarion wavered, struggling to charge toward him. He pulled the release ring on the dragon saddle. "Brave child, I'll grant you a swift end."

Silverwing reared her head back, and a torrent of dragonfire engulfed Tessarion and the young prince on her back. The Blue Queen, only a third of Silverwing's size, let out an ear-piercing shriek as the flames seared her. Her cobalt-blue scales, impervious to arrows and bolts, could not withstand the raging fire of an elder dragon. Before their eyes, the elegant dragon's scales began to crack and blacken. Her polished copper talons and horned crest turned charred and lifeless under the ceaseless inferno. Boiling blood bubbled from the cracks, evaporating instantly in the heat.

As for Prince Daeron, Valar had ensured him a merciful death. The dragonfire incinerated the young prince almost instantaneously. A Valyrian dragonlord's famed heat resistance could not withstand Silverwing's full fury. In mere moments, the boy on the saddle was reduced to a blackened husk.

Tessarion wailed in agony as she plummeted from the sky, her cries piercing the battlefield. With uncanny precision, Silverwing darted forward and caught the smaller dragon's neck in her jaws. Her powerful teeth pierced the already-burnt scales with ease, snapping the Blue Queen's neck. Tessarion let out one final, pitiful howl before her eyes dulled and life left her.

With her prey limp in her jaws, Silverwing soared above the length of the Green army. Every man who had not yet fled turned their eyes skyward to witness the brutal scene—Tessarion's broken body dangling from Silverwing's maw. Valar guided his dragon over the valley before callously releasing Tessarion's corpse.

The Blue Queen's body crashed into the midst of the retreating Green forces. A thunderous cloud of smoke and dust replaced the crimson of blood and the sound of screams. Boiling dragon blood splashed across the field, incinerating men where they stood. Armor sizzled and warped, and soldiers were either crushed beneath the corpse or burned alive.

Ser Unwyn Peake's jaw hung open, but his instincts proved faster than his thoughts. He spurred his horse into a mad gallop, racing for the valley's exit. Around him, the entire rear guard of the Green army broke into a frenzied rout. Panic spread like wildfire as men screamed and fled, trampling one another in their desperation.

The center rank, already scattered by the combined assault of borderlander forces and House Beesbury's troops, collapsed entirely. Only the vanguard, locked in bloody combat with the Unsullied, held their ground.

"The dragon is dead." Ser Jon Roxton's voice was calm, almost resigned.

Bryndon Hightower, his chest heaving from exertion and a broken Unsullied spear protruding from his armor, looked up in despair. Overhead, Silverwing wheeled arrogantly through the sky, her scales shining like molten silver as she passed above their heads. Then, with contemptuous ease, she dropped Tessarion's smoldering corpse into their midst.

"House Hightower is finished," Bryndon murmured, eyes vacant as he stared into the chaos.

The truth was clear: Prince Daeron and the Blue Queen were dead. Sunfyre was gone. The Greens had only Vhagar and Dreamfyre left. All the black's Dragonriders would surely focus their efforts on Vhagar now. Should Vhagar fall, the Greens chances of recovery would die with her.

Jaehaerys—though silver-haired and violet-eyed—had been born with six fingers. In Westerosi eyes, this made him little better than a brown-haired Targaryen pretender. House Hightower would need a path of retreat. But would Lord Ormund Hightower and Ser Otto Hightower see the truth in time?

Bryndon shook his head, driving the thoughts from his mind. He raised his longsword and warhammer, throwing himself back into the fight. The vanguard, comprised of the Hightower's most elite men—knights and heavy infantry—fought with grim determination. Even after witnessing Tessarion's death, they pressed forward, battering against the Unsullied lines with unyielding ferocity.

Valar turned his gaze to the vanguard and smirked. "Well, well… I see the coin was well spent. A fine line of men. Little Jacaerys, the rest is yours."

His amusement faded as he tightened his grip on the dragon saddle's reins. Silverwing roared once more, sweeping low to unleash fire upon the fleeing Hightower soldiers. Flames rippled across the valley, consuming all in their path.

Vermax had now officially joined the fray. Prince Jacaerys carefully maneuvered the dragon to unleash its flames on the front lines, torching the soldiers attempting to reinforce their ranks. These "ironclad knights" may have been skilled warriors, perhaps even champions of tourneys, but against dragonfire, all were equal.

The Hightower longbowmen and crossbowmen shot futilely at the sky. Some were burned alive by the flames, others cut down by Tarly archers, or hacked to pieces by Black soldiers pressing the attack. One crossbow bolt managed to hit Prince Jacaerys on the shoulder, but his armor held firm. The bolt pierced his plate shoulder guard but failed to break the skin. Jacaerys himself was unfazed, but Vermax recoiled, startled by the near miss. Enraged, the dragon unleashed an extended torrent of fire, incinerating the crossbowmen where they stood.

Silverwing's flames were far more devastating than Vermax's. Where Vermax could only sear a soldier or two with each precise burst, Silverwing's fire could reduce entire ranks of men to ash in a single breath.

Bryndon Hightower fought on, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. He smashed an Unsullied's helm open with his warhammer, then drove his sword through the eunuch's eye socket. Somehow, with the help of dismounted knights at his side, he had carved a bloody path through the Unsullied line. The banners of the Black army came into view behind them: the purple long-bearded man of House Caron, the striding huntsman of the Tarlys, the silver dragon and laurel leaves of the Vaelarys, the Beesbury beehive, and the quartered silver chalice and black rose of House Costayne.

The light cavalry originally intended to break the Unsullied flanks were forced to scatter under Vermax's fire. Now, they were being cut down by Tarly heavy cavalry and the knights of Ser Vansen Kaon. Even Ser Jon Roxton, Bryndon's stalwart protector, was nowhere to be seen. It was Roxton's Valyrian steel sword that had helped Bryndon cut his way this far, but now Bryndon could go no further.

The knights of House Hightower, too weary to fight on, began to drop their swords and warhammers. Bryndon Hightower, drained of strength, fell to his knees. Across the field, Lord Alan Beesbury nocked his longbow and loosed an arrow. The shaft struck Bryndon clean through the throat.

"He was a warrior," said Vansen Kaon, stroking his long beard. "In Volantis, a man of his caliber would have been honored by the old Triarch himself. A pity."

"He was an enemy, Lord Vansen," Alan Beesbury replied coldly. Drawing his sword, he slit Bryndon Hightower's throat for good measure. "A warrior, yes. But an enemy all the same."

Ser Jon Roxton had not perished in the chaos. With brutal precision, he cleaved an Unsullied soldier in two before turning to face Lord Donald Tarly in single combat. Roxton's sword Orphan-Maker clashed violently with Heartsbane, the Tarlys' greatsword. Donald swung with fearsome power, nearly cleaving Roxton in half with a single blow. But age had sapped the lord's strength, and Roxton found his opening. He plunged his sword into Donald's belly, slicing through his armor.

Lord Donald fell onto his back, unwilling to accept his fate, but his son Alan Tarly seized Heartsbane before it hit the ground. Roxton had no time to react. As he pulled his sword free of Donald's gut, Alan leapt at him.

With a single strike, Alan severed Roxton's arm at the shoulder. Roxton screamed in agony, dropping Orphan-Maker to the blood-soaked earth. Alan wasted no time; his next strike sent Roxton's head flying from his shoulders.

Alan bent to retrieve Orphan-Maker before running to his father's side.

"Seven hells," Donald Tarly groaned, struggling to shove his intestines back into his stomach. Tarly soldiers and Unsullied quickly formed a protective circle around him. "Damn it all… dying on the battlefield… at least it's a worthy end."

"Hold on, Father. Prince Valar will return soon."

As if summoned by his words, Silverwing swept over their heads, unleashing another devastating torrent of fire on the front ranks before descending to the battlefield. The Hightower army had crumbled entirely, and their cavalry were now being hunted through the woods. Vermax landed beside Silverwing, flames still licking at his jaws.

"Keep your helmet on and your neck guard fastened," Valar said sharply, forcing Jacaerys' helmet back onto his head as the prince had tried to remove it for a moment's respite. Valar himself longed to do the same, but after Draezell's training—and the endless lectures from Layla and Rey—he had grown used to the weight. "My armor's Valyrian steel. I can afford to be reckless. You can't."

Seeing the gravely wounded Donald Tarly lying on the ground, Valar and Jacaerys rushed over. "Where's the maester? Maester!"

A young man in armor hurried over. He had yet to earn the approval of the Citadel to wear a maester's chain, but he had trained under Maester Visari, Zesar the Shadowbinder, and Maester Evens. Pinned to his chest was a Valyrian steel brooch, one of many Draezell had gifted the learned men.

"Lord Tarly's wounds are too severe, Your Highness," the maester said briskly, pulling out a bottle of spirits and vinegar, a small jar of milk of the poppy, scissors, sheep-gut thread, and clean bandages from his kit. "We must get him back to Horn Hill at once, or the wound will fester. Here, my lord, drink the milk of the poppy."

"No need," Donald Tarly replied, his voice faint as he felt life slipping away. He sighed, old as he was, grateful to meet his end on the battlefield—a cherished honor among the hunters of House Tarly. "We've won, haven't we?"

"There is no truer victory," Valar said with a nod. "If it weren't for my brother forbidding us to strike at will, I'd have flown straight to Ormund's head and roasted him alive. Listen to the maester, Lord Tarly—Lady Sansa will worry otherwise."

"Sansa never found a good match, but Diana did," Donald muttered wistfully. "Prince Valar, ask Draezell on my behalf to find good husbands for Sansa. And Alan—Alan's wedding must be arranged as well. Alan, you're the Lord of Horn Hill now. Serve Prince Draezell well."

He stubbornly pushed aside the milk of the poppy, shaking his head. "A hunter of Horn Hill lives to die on the battlefield. Don't rob an old man of his final honor. Jon Roxton—is he dead?"

Alan Tarly fought to keep his tears in check, raising Orphan-Maker for his father to see.

"Well done, lad. I didn't raise you for nothing," Donald chuckled hoarsely, coughing through his words. "Take care of your mother. I can see the Stranger now... Damn, who would've thought? I've outdone my father and grandfather in glory. Ha... Valar, give me an honorable end."

Valar sighed, glancing at Alan Tarly. When Alan gave a solemn nod, Valar called Silverwing over. The dragon stretched its neck lazily, watching the dying Lord Tarly with a disinterest that belied its earlier ferocity, when it had felled Tessarion, slaughtered hundreds, and broken the Hightower vanguard.

"Silverwing," Valar commanded softly, "dracarys."

Silverwing turned its gaze from Valar to Donald and Alan Tarly, then opened its maw. A torrent of blazing fire engulfed Donald Tarly, consuming him instantly.

The Rosewood battle ended in utter disaster for the Greens. Their vanguard of eight thousand men was shattered; Jon Roxton and Bryndon Hightower lay dead. Prince Daeron and his dragon had been slain by Valar and Silverwing. House Hightower lost over a hundred knights and countless heavy infantry, painstakingly raised at great cost. Only Lord Unwyn Peake managed to escape with several hundred of the rearguard.

Lord Donald Tarly fell in the battle, his son Alan Tarly taking up Heartsbane to avenge him, slaying Ser Jon Roxton in the process. It was this deed that later earned Alan the titles "Breaker of Chains" and "Protector of Orphans." But those were tales for another time.

While the battle raged in Rosewood

At Harrenhal.

Draezell stood over the unconscious body of Alys Rivers, staring at the dark, icy liquid extracted from her—a substance black as midnight, with threads of chilling cold winding through it. He fell into deep contemplation.

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