Chapter 149

Near dawn, Dragonstone was bitter cold. Harsh winds whipped the banners—the dragonhead with horse’s body—so that they cracked and snapped.

Drogo, clad in heavy steel, sweated cold beneath. It was nerves.

He knew well the tales—that shadowbinders’ arts faltered in daylight. He waited for the red sun to rise above the eastern sea, to banish the night’s peril.