A Feast for Dragons

wild Drogon had grown larger still. His wings
stretched twenty feet from tip to tip, black as jet. He flapped them once as he
swept back above the sands, and the sound was like a clap of thunder. The boar
raised his head, snorting … and flame engulfed him, black fire shot
with red. Dany felt the wash of heat thirty feet away. The beast’s dying scream
sounded almost human. Drogon landed on the carcass and sank his claws into the
smoking flesh. As he began to feed, he made no distinction between Barsena and
the boar.
    “Oh, gods,” moaned Reznak, “he’s
eating her!”
The seneschal covered his mouth. Strong Belwas was retching noisily. A queer
look passed across Hizdahr zo Loraq’s long, pale face—part fear, part lust,
part rapture. He licked his lips. Dany could see the Pahls streaming up the
steps, clutching their
tokar
s and tripping over the fringes in
their haste to be away. Others followed. Some ran, shoving at one another. More
stayed in their seats.
    One man took it on himself to be a hero.
    He was one of the spearmen sent out to drive the boar back to
his pen. Perhaps he was drunk, or mad. Perhaps he had loved Barsena Blackhair
from afar or had heard some whisper of the girl Hazzea. Perhaps he was just
some common man who wanted bards to sing of him. He darted forward, his boar
spear in his hands. Red sand kicked up beneath his heels, and shouts rang out
from the seats. Drogon raised his head, blood dripping from his teeth. The hero
leapt onto his back and drove the iron spearpoint down at the base of the
dragon’s long scaled neck.
    Dany and Drogon screamed as one.
    The hero leaned into his spear, using his weight to twist
the point in deeper. Drogon arched upward with a hiss of pain. His tail lashed
sideways. She watched his head crane around at the end of that long serpentine
neck, saw his black wings unfold. The dragonslayer lost his footing and went
tumbling to the sand. He was trying to struggle back to his feet when the
dragon’s teeth closed hard around his forearm. “No” was all the man had time to
shout. Drogon wrenched his arm from his shoulder and tossed it aside as a dog
might toss a rodent in a rat pit.
    “Kill it,” Hizdahr zo Loraq shouted to the other spearmen.
“Kill
the beast!”
    Ser Barristan held her tightly. “Look away, Your Grace.”
    “Let me go!” Dany twisted from his grasp. The world seemed
to slow as she cleared the parapet. When she landed in the pit she lost a
sandal. Running, she could feel the sand between her toes, hot and rough. Ser
Barristan was calling after her. Strong Belwas was still vomiting. She ran
faster.
    The spearmen were running too. Some were rushing toward the
dragon, spears in hand. Others were rushing away, throwing down their weapons
as they fled. The hero was jerking on the sand, the bright blood pouring from
the ragged stump of his shoulder. His spear remained in Drogon’s back, wobbling
as the dragon beat his wings. Smoke rose from the wound. As the other spears
closed in, the dragon spat fire, bathing two men in black flame. His tail
lashed sideways and caught the pitmaster creeping up behind him, breaking him
in two. Another attacker stabbed at his eyes until the dragon caught him in his
jaws and tore his belly out. The Meereenese were screaming, cursing, howling.
Dany could hear someone pounding after her. “Drogon,” she screamed.
“Drogon.”
    His head turned. Smoke rose between his teeth. His blood was
smoking too, where it dripped upon the ground. He beat his wings again, sending
up a choking storm of scarlet sand. Dany stumbled into the hot red cloud,
coughing. He snapped.
    “No” was all that she had time to say.
No, not me,
don’t you know me?
The black teeth closed inches from her face.
He
meant to tear my head off
. The sand was in her eyes. She stumbled over
the pitmaster’s corpse and fell on her backside.
    Drogon roared. The sound filled the pit. A furnace wind
engulfed her. The dragon’s long scaled neck stretched toward her. When his
mouth opened, she could see bits of broken bone and charred flesh between his
black teeth. His eyes were molten.
I am looking into hell, but I dare
not look away
. She had never been so certain of anything.
If I
run from him, he will burn me and devour me
. In Westeros the septons
spoke of seven hells and seven heavens, but the Seven Kingdoms and their gods
were far away. If she died here, Dany wondered, would the horse god of the
Dothraki part the grass and claim her for his