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༉˚*ೃ ᵒ⁴. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄! E L A E V E N Y A
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐘 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐋 in with flames. It was bursting with it—fire from high above, splitting the clouds with terror and heat; raining down in burning embers. Somewhere amongst the vast sky there were wild cries, like the screams of dragons. They raged on an on, with each spurt of flame that lit up the clouds from above. They glowed like godly vessels, the cloud themselves, as if they were holy.
Red-hot flames like molten lava melted stone. It lit up the cracks between the rock—a hot orange—slowly turned it into slow-moving sludge that dripped down and down the foundation, onto the streets. It looked like forged iron; like liquid Valyrian steel. That was the heat of dragonfire. A dragon screamed overhead, unintelligible as a cry of victory or a cry of defeat. The flame that burst from its magnificent golden jaws lit up the sky like a red comet. Like an asteroid come from the heavens. Ash scattered like rain drifting upwards. The dragons warred above in the heavens. The air was filled with tragedy. It sang upon the wind, hovered in the air in the scent of blood, carried in the flames of a dragon. Tragedy, it called, tragedy. The flames, they were too hot to bear. They burned through everything. They turned the sky to ash. To ash. To ash. The world will know this tragedy today, said the wind; said the screams of bleeding dragons; the whisper of flame. It shall know sorrow. The world was alight. It was magnificent, it was terrible. It was like the world had been plunged into the fiery depths of hell or the doom of the ancient Valyria. Sorrow. Sorrow.
A dragon fell from the sky and crashed through a stone tower. The clouds had parted where it had plummeted, its wings had given way like silk or chiffon in the wind. The stone crumbled and along with the screams of the smallfolk, the tower came shattering to the ground. The scream of a dying dragon was something to behold. Something so terrible, so saddening, wrapped up in horror and desperation and something ancient and primordial, that it could never leave the minds of those who had heard it. The wing of the dragon tore like paper and it seized in its death throes. There was blood on its mighty sharp teeth, onyx eyes rolling and lame and tail thrashing across the stone debris. It had no rider. The roar made its way out of its throat—returning to a beast of fear and desperation—and its great head fell back and its teeth bared and it died.
Sorrow, murmured the screaming of children. Tragedy, as dragonfire rippled through the air and burned all in its path. There were crows dead amongst the smallfolk, their feathers torn from their bodies and their flesh burned. Soldiers in their gold and iron suits melted. Their blood was slashed upon the walls. And the dragons... the dragons were screaming somewhere. They were screaming somewhere above the clouds; somewhere above the flames; somewhere above the tides of war. That is what filled the air. The dying of the dragons.
