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There were 19 skulls.

The oldest was more than 3,000 years old, the youngest, a mere century and a half.

The most recent were also the smallest, a matched pair no bigger than

mastiff's skulls, and utterly misshapen, all that remained the last two hatchlings born on

dragonstone. They were the last of the Targaryen dragons, perhaps the last dragons anywhere,

and they had not lived very long. From there, the skulls ranged upward in size to the

three great monsters of song and story, the dragons that Egan Targary and his sisters had unleashed

on the seven kingdoms of old. The singers had given them the names of gods, Balarian, Maraxes, Vagar.

Tyrion had stood between their gaping jaws, wordless and awed. You could have ridden a horse

down Vagar's gullet, although you would not have ridden it out again. Maraxes was even bigger,

and the greatest of them. Belerian, the black dread, could have swallowed an

orrocks hole, or even one of the hairy mammoths said to roam the cold wastes beyond the

port of Ibn. Tyrion stood in that dank cellar for a long time, staring at Belerian's huge,

empty-eyed skull until his torch burned low, trying to grasp the size of the

living animal to imagine how it must have looked when it spread its great black wings and swept

...