A Feast for Dragons

croak.
Frog
, he thought,
I am
turning into Frog again
. “The food,” he croaked, remembering. “Bring
the food.”
    The big man heard him. Arch wrestled one of the sheep off
the wagon by two legs, then spun and flung it into the pit.
    Rhaegal took it in the air. His head snapped round, and from
between his jaws a lance of flame erupted, a swirling storm of
orange-and-yellow fire shot through with veins of green. The sheep was burning
before it began to fall. Before the smoking carcass could strike the bricks,
the dragon’s teeth closed round it. A nimbus of flames still flickered about
the body. The air stank of burning wool and brimstone.
Dragonstink
.
    “I thought there were two,” the big man said.
    Viserion. Yes. Where is Viserion?
The prince
lowered his torch to throw some light into the gloom below. He could see the
green dragon ripping at the smoking carcass of the sheep, his long tail lashing
from side to side as he ate. A thick iron collar was visible about his neck,
with three feet of broken chain dangling from it. Shattered links were strewn
across the floor of the pit amongst the blackened bones—twists of metal, partly
melted.
Rhaegal was chained to the wall and floor the last time I was
here
, the prince recalled,
but Viserion hung from the ceiling
.
Quentyn stepped back, lifted the torch, craned his head back.
    For a moment he saw only the blackened arches of the bricks
above, scorched by dragonflame. A trickle of ash caught his eye, betraying
movement. Something pale, half-hidden, stirring.
He’s made himself a
cave
, the prince realized.
A burrow in the brick
. The
foundations of the Great Pyramid of Meereen were massive and thick to support
the weight of the huge structure overhead; even the interior walls were three
times thicker than any castle’s curtain walls. But Viserion had dug himself a
hole in them with flame and claw, a hole big enough to sleep in.
    And we’ve just woken him
. He could see what
looked like some huge white serpent uncoiling inside the wall, up where it
curved to become the ceiling. More ash went drifting downward, and a bit of
crumbling brick fell away. The serpent resolved itself into a neck and tail,
and then the dragon’s long horned head appeared, his eyes glowing in the dark
like golden coals. His wings rattled, stretching.
    All of Quentyn’s plans had fled his head. He could hear
Caggo Corpsekiller shouting to his sellswords.
The chains, he is sending
for the chains
, the Dornish prince thought. The plan had been to feed
the beasts and chain them in their torpor, just as the queen had done. One
dragon, or preferably both.
    “More meat,” Quentyn said.
Once the beasts were fed
they will become sluggish
. He had seen it work with snakes in Dorne,
but here, with these monsters … “Bring … bring …”
    Viserion launched himself from the ceiling, pale leather
wings unfolding, spreading wide. The broken chain dangling from his neck swung
wildly. His flame lit the pit, pale gold shot through with red and orange, and
the stale air exploded in a cloud of hot ash and sulfur as the white wings beat
and beat again.
    A hand seized Quentyn by the shoulder. The torch spun from
his grip to bounce across the floor, then tumbled into the pit, still burning.
He found himself face-to-face with a brass ape.
Gerris
. “Quent,
this will not work. They are too wild, they …”
    The dragon came down between the Dornishmen and the door
with a roar that would have sent a hundred lions running. His head moved side
to side as he inspected the intruders—Dornishmen, Windblown, Caggo. Last and
longest the beast stared at Pretty Meris, sniffing.
The woman
,
Quentyn realized.
He knows that she is female. He is looking for Daenerys.
He wants his mother and does not understand why she’s not here
.
    Quentyn wrenched free of Gerris’s grip. “Viserion,” he
called.
The white one is Viserion
. For half a heartbeat he was
afraid he’d gotten it wrong. “Viserion,” he called again, fumbling for the whip
hanging from his belt.
She cowed the black one with a whip. I need to do
the same
.
    The dragon knew his name. His head turned, and his gaze
lingered on the Dornish prince for three long heartbeats. Pale fires burned
behind the shining black daggers of his teeth. His eyes were lakes of molten
gold, and smoke rose from his nostrils.
    “Down,” Quentyn said. Then he coughed, and coughed again.
    The air was thick with smoke and the sulfur stench was
choking.
    Viserion