The mont Roman saw Harren the Black's burning ghost, an indescribable heat surged through his body.
"Blood and fire are one."
The words rose unbidden in his mind.
"Ha. I got too used to peace. Almost forgot I'm a dragon too."
The sun had just slipped below the horizon. Only the clouds still glowed orange where they caught the last light. Everything else was dark.
Looking at the infamous ghosts, Roman felt nothing but contempt. He had already seen Harren's cruelty in the mories he absorbed.
Hatred for the man, combined with his own growing power, sent battle lust roaring through him. He drew the warhamr and pointed it at the burning shades.
"Aegon the Conqueror roasted you alive. I can smash you into nothing, you animals."
Harren's ghost stared at him, then let out a furious roar.
"Dragon! Aegon! I'll flay the skin from your bones!!"
Roman frowned. Did Balerion's fire fry this bastard's brains?
He didn't bother answering. He simply charged, warhamr raised.
Harren's sons moved first—the burning ghosts who had died with their father.
Roman dragged the hamrhead along the ground, then swung in a wide arc the instant he closed the distance.
The goose-egg-sized head blurred through the air and slamd into one ghost like a cannonball. The burning figure flew backward like a rag doll.
Another ghost tried to tackle him from the side. Roman kicked it away.
The kick worked, but his boot caught fire. No matter how hard he slapped at it, the flas refused to die.
"Dragonfire?"
He understood instantly.
"Tch. Looks like I'll have to be careful."
The remaining ghosts rushed him together.
Harren himself drew a warped, twisted longsword made of black mist—exactly like the half-lted steel Roman had seen in old mories.
"Ha! Harren, I know you hate Aegon. So why the hell are you still carrying the weapon he reforged for you?"
The taunt worked. Harren bellowed and charged, knocking one of his own sons aside in his rage.
Roman smashed the nearest ghost aside and t Harren head-on.
Their weapons collided. Harren had no chance against Roman's raw strength. One heavy blow sent the burning king flying.
Before Roman could press the advantage, the ghost he had just knocked down rose again and lunged from the flank.
Roman's peripheral vision caught the movent. He twisted aside, then drove the hamr upward into the ghost's jaw.
The impact shattered half the creature's head.
The dragonfire clinging to it didn't weaken. Roman guessed the thing wasn't fully dead yet.
He had thinned their numbers fast, but Harren and his sons kept reviving. It was starting to wear him down.
He broke away and sprinted toward a ruined section of the castle.
As expected, Harren and his sons followed.
Roman planned to funnel them into the narrow passages and pick them off one by one.
Through the maze of broken stone, Harren scread curses while Roman ran and occasionally spun to smash another ghost.
They reached a stone staircase Roman had chosen in advance.
He grinned, then spun and counterattacked without warning.
The lead ghost was slamd into the ground and swept down the stairs like garbage.
In seconds Roman had cleared the rest, leaving only Harren the Black standing before him.
He couldn't resist one last jab.
"Look at you. You ground the Riverlands into dust trying to build the greatest fortress in the Seven Kingdoms… and the mont it was finished, Aegon burned you alive."
"Stone doesn't burn. But you and your sons? You were never as tough as stone."
The words finally broke Harren's last shred of control. His misty face twisted with pure hatred. He raised the lted-steel sword and charged.
Roman was faster.
One sweeping strike smashed the sword against the wall. Harren stumbled, off-balance, his weapon dissolving back into mist.
Roman stepped in, drew the hamr back, and poured every ounce of strength into a single crushing blow.
The warhamr whistled through the air in a perfect arc and struck with a thunderous crack.
Harren the Black collapsed into a thick puddle of black sludge.
Roman wasn't taking chances. He raised the hamr again and again, pounding the remains like he was driving fence posts.
Harren's sons had already recovered and were clawing their way up the stairs to save their father.
Roman readied himself for another round.
Then several arrows whistled past him.
He turned.
Old Jesse and a squad of guards had arrived.
"Get down here, boy! Now!" Old Jesse shouted, loosing another arrow at the ghosts.
The n were clearly terrified, but they still attacked.
Their arrows passed straight through the burning shades and clattered uselessly against stone.
"What the—?"
The ghosts noticed too. They looked from Roman to the helpless soldiers below.
Fighting the monster was suicide. The easy prey was right there.
They turned as one and rushed the guards.
Arrows kept flying. Every single one went through the ghosts without effect.
Panic spread fast. So n were already praying to the Seven. Even Old Jesse's face had gone pale.
While everyone froze, steel short spears flew from Roman's hand and pinned several ghosts to the ground. They thrashed and howled but couldn't move.
Old Jesse recognized the weapons he had given Roman.
"Run! Warn Lady Shella and everyone else—run! Don't let them touch you!"
Roman's heart was pounding. He rembered the old stories—anyone touched by Harren's ghosts burned alive.
Now he understood why. His dragon blood must be the reason he could actually hurt them.
Old Jesse snapped out of it and started herding the guards away.
In that split second of distraction, the puddle of black sludge that had been Harren suddenly surged upward and slamd into Roman.
Black mist covered his face.
Instantly he couldn't breathe. Then ca the searing agony of dragonfire and the choking stench of sulfur.
mories flashed through his mind—Harren's arrogant pride, his sneering refusal to bend the knee to Aegon, his smug satisfaction hiding in the pyre tower… and the unbearable pain when Balerion's flas finally consud him.
Dragonfire was magic. No ordinary fire could compare.
Roman felt his mind and body ignite together.
His skin split open. The blood that poured out only fed the flas.
Through the agony he fell down the stone stairs and crashed to the floor below.
His first thought wasn't to put the fire out.
It was pure rage.
"Goddamn it, Balerion! Why didn't your fire turn Harren to ash? Why leave him here to tornt now?"
In the fury and the vision, he saw himself fully transford.
Still human in shape, but every inch of him changed—white flas and crackling lightning wreathing his body.
"Flas?!"
Everything clicked.
That was why he had felt that restless burn the mont he saw Harren and his sons. It wasn't the ghosts affecting him.
It was Balerion's fire calling to sothing inside him.
Roman stopped fighting the flas.
He let Balerion's dragonfire pour into his veins.
As his mind cald, a strange clarity washed over him—like soone had opened a window into a new world.
Suddenly pale white fire erupted from his body.
Balerion's flas beca fuel for this new, searing light.
The remaining ghosts of Harren and his sons touched the white fire and scread in agony. In seconds they were burned away completely—nothing left, not even ash.
Roman opened his eyes.
The great hall around him was ablaze with white fire. Following pure instinct, he pulled the power back.
The flas vanished from the stone, leaving only faint white flickers dancing across his skin.
He raised his right hand. At his silent command, the pale fire blood again in his palm.
"So that's it. Dragonfire is magic. It feeds on magic."
Before he could think further, Lady Shella's horrified cry echoed through the hall.
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