That night in Slaver's Bay, Meereen, a drizzling rain gave way to a torrential storm, lashing the sea and drenching the entire bay. The Free Cities, still in the midst of their reconstruction, lay hidden beneath a thick blanket of impenetrable clouds. Pyramids and arenas, large and small, glowed like bonfires of oppression.
"Roar~~"
Golden flames flickered among the ruins, and a restless dragon's roar echoed through the night. Sunfyre lay on a mound of bones—both enemies and goats—with its wings draped down. Its once-gorgeous scales had turned black, and its wet wing membranes were beginning to heal.
Crackling—
A bolt of lightning struck, splitting the sky with silver light.
“Roar!”
Sunfyre suddenly lifted its head, struggling to rise from the mud mixed with bones and ash. Its golden eyes fixed on the direction of Westeros.
...
Inside the Great Pyramid.
"Prince.""…"
The dimly lit corridor flickered with candlelight as Daemon paced in a loose robe, ignoring the servant's greeting.
“Roar…”
A piercing dragon roar suddenly echoed through the air, carrying a warning more powerful than it seemed. Daemon's eyebrows furrowed as he walked to a window, his expression darkening. Outside, the dark clouds blended with the city, leaving only the cold curtain of rain in the darkness.
“Roar! Roar!”
A golden dragon, twisting and flailing in pain, soared unsteadily into the sky, its wings flapping desperately. Daemon's eyes narrowed, and he whispered, “The dragon is frightened.”
With that, he turned back to his room to retrieve his sword. He had a premonition that the sky over Slaver's Bay would soon grow even darker.
...
After a fierce battle and agonizing screams, the black iron gate was violently shattered.
“Hurry in!”
Grey Worm, covered in blood, had a crack in his pitch-black helmet.
“Roar!”
Caraxes’ eyes gleamed with ferocity as scarlet Dragonfire gathered deep in its throat.
“Quiet!” Grey Worm shouted, his voice trembling with fear. He raised his spear and round shield in a gesture of peace, swallowing nervously. “No Dragonfire!”
He had come to rescue, not to die.
Caraxes hesitated at the familiar Valyrian commands, slowly closing its maw.
“Phew!” Grey Worm exhaled in relief, thankful for the daily dragon-feeding duties that had earned him the beast’s slight trust.
“Stop! Open the gate!”
Just as relief washed over him, chaotic shouts erupted from outside. A deep, magnetic voice immediately captured the attention of both Grey Worm and the Blood Wyrm.
“Make way! Watch out for the Dragonfire!”
Daemon appeared, grim-faced, clad in leather armor with a long sword at his side. He pushed the Unsullied out of his path.
“Roar...”
Caraxes’ pupils dilated slightly at the sight of its rider, releasing a low, threatening growl.
Daemon strode up to the dragon, demanding, ‘The lights are on in Meereen. What’s going on?!’
“Prince, I just received word myself,” Grey Worm replied, wiping the blood from his face with a solemn expression. “The craftsmen, scholars, women, and children of the three slave cities have been relocated. The Good Masters, along with the holy women and priest who stayed behind, incited the restless slaves to launch this long-planned rebellion.”
Daemon’s face darkened. He wanted to berate Grey Worm for failing to guard the Free Cities, but with trouble looming, such words were useless.
“Do you still control the docks?”
Daemon’s strategic mind immediately seized on the key detail.
Grey Worm nodded vigorously. “A hundred-man unit is holding the banks of the Skahazadhan River.”
“Gather your forces and retreat with your men,” Daemon ordered coldly, then mounted the dragon that had been prepared in advance.
“What about the Free Cities?” Grey Worm hesitated, his voice uncertain. “And you…”
He struggled to find the words. The failed expedition to the Smoking Sea and the prince’s return to Meereen with his dragon had fueled countless rumors across Slaver’s Bay. Some claimed no one could survive the Smoking Sea and that the Blood Wyrm was doomed. Others whispered that the prince had fled back to Meereen in fear, his dragon bleeding and broken.
When Daemon and Caraxes had landed in the city, the scarlet dragon had indeed staggered, spilling its blood across the ground.
Daemon placed one foot on the ladder and said indifferently, “Take care of yourselves. Slaver’s Bay is no longer of value.”
“Roar...”
Caraxes and its rider moved as one. Its massive wings braced against the ground, and its serpentine body coiled in the air, disappearing into the dark rain curtain before the Unsullied army.
“Abandon the Free Cities,” Grey Worm muttered to himself, his mind replaying the moment Caraxes had risen into the sky. He had seen the truth: the dragon’s serpentine belly bore a three-foot-long serrated wound, and with every movement, fresh dragon blood seeped out.
As the commander of the Meereen garrison, Grey Worm knew all too well that the rumors were true. The Blood Wyrm was gravely injured. Otherwise, the Good Masters and the slaves would never have dared to rebel so openly.
Grey Worm’s eyes flashed with determination as he recalled the king’s final words before departing. He turned and shouted, “On my command, leave the city!”
...
Three days later.
Sothoryos, the Green Hell.
Roar!
The Cannibal’s maw dripped with blood as it circled the valley, dragging the corpses of two Wyverns in its claws.
Plop!
It glided through the ruins of the forest, dropping the broken bodies with careless indifference, as if discarding a heap of trash.
Roar!
The lush forest quaked violently as a massive green beast emerged, its body scarred and covered in weeds and fallen leaves. A nest of dead branches was tangled in the middle of its enormous dragon horns.
The beast lumbered forward, slowly gnawing on the pulp of a corpse, indifferent to the predator that had brought it down.
“Steady, Uragax!” Rhaegar commanded, sitting cross-legged on the dragon's back, focused on carving a semi-finished stone.
“Roar…”
Uragax, still feasting, let out a growl, deliberately shaking its body to make the wounds on its chest and belly tear and bleed.
Rhaegar was deep in his task when he heard a ‘pop,’ and a puff of black smoke rose from the stone in his hand. His face instantly darkened, like charcoal.
“Uragax, I’m protecting you,” Rhaegar muttered, his eyelids twitching. He pulled out his dragon-taming whip and struck the dragon’s broad back. If it weren’t for the fact that Uragax was a rare ancient Wyvern, he would’ve abandoned this godforsaken wilderness long ago.
“Roar…”
Uragax swallowed the Wyvern’s remains in two gulps, its vertical pupils glancing at the silver-haired figure on its back before retreating into the forest, the scent of the Dragoneater still clinging to its scales. It reminded the beast of the “unproductive” rider it once had.
“Forget it. Do as you please,” Rhaegar sighed, rolling his eyes, too weary to argue with the lazy old dragon.
Uragax grunted in protest but returned to its original spot, lying down lazily. Experience had taught it that when wounded, it was best to lie still; the pain would eventually fade, and the wound would become just another scar among many.
“I’m leaving, old man,” Rhaegar said with a sigh, reluctant to part from the dragon’s rough scales.
Uragax glanced back at him, then continued to lie motionless.
Rhaegar’s expression remained unchanged, but inwardly he was pleased by the dragon’s small gesture. The numbness in those cloudy eyes was gone, replaced by a strong sense of disgust mixed with a hint of relief. Though the emotional response was subtle, it was a sign of life—better to have emotions than none at all.
A three-hundred-year-old dragon was worth the effort it took to restore even a flicker of vitality.
...
It was midday.
“Roar!”
The Cannibal crashed to the ground, several Wyverns piled in front of it, swarming with flies and insects.
“Uragax, recover well,” Rhaegar said, looking up as he held a dark red dragon egg encased in stone.
“Roar…”
Uragax lowered its head slowly, its eyes narrowing at the two silver-haired figures before it. Daeron, clutching a black dragon egg, hid behind his brother, his gaze fixed on the massive beast that had clearly produced the egg in his arms.
Rhaegar stepped forward, shielding his younger brother, and raised his voice. “I'll take the egg and help you hatch it.”
“Roar!”
Uragax growled, Dragonfire gathering in its throat.
“In return, I'll give you this egg!” Rhaegar calmly tossed the fossilized red egg forward, his expression unreadable, though the action carried a weighty curse.
“Roar…”
Uragax's pupils narrowed further as it reluctantly swallowed the red dragon egg. Despite the dragon’s saliva splashing, the egg vanished without a sound. After a moment's hesitation, the old dragon retreated to its original spot, twisting its neck to tuck its head beneath its wings.
A low, mournful wail soon echoed through the forest.
“Brother, what's going on?” Daeron asked, stunned.
“Roar…”
Tessarion, the pale blue dragon, peeked out from behind its rider, cautiously observing.
Rhaegar sighed, his voice tinged with sadness. “That was his brother.”
The pale dragon had laid three eggs in total—one hatched into Uragax, while the other two were left behind. One had broken into fragments after failing to hatch, and the other had fossilized. Feeding the fossilized egg to Uragax was a way to strengthen their bond.
“Let's go. We need to return to the Stepstones by tomorrow night,” Rhaegar said, not looking back as he climbed onto his dragon's back. Uragax, too injured to fly, was safer in the Green Hell, the place it had called home for two centuries, than anywhere else.
“Roar!”
The Cannibal let out a long cry, scooping up two relatively intact Wyverns before soaring into the sky. Daeron fastened the black egg to his chest and rode Tessarion in pursuit. The two dragons, one black and one blue, flew together, disappearing into the thick white clouds above Uragax.
Uragax watched them go, raising its broken left wing as it silently gnawed on the piles of Wyvern carcasses. Everything seemed as usual, time passing in its slow, familiar way.
Or so it seemed.
Roar…
After an unknown length of time, a hollow, mournful cry echoed through the forest. A burst of orange and green Dragonfire erupted, igniting the dense canopy of trees, blocking the view.
...
The next day. The weather was clear, with white clouds drifting lazily across the sky.
“Roar!”
The black dragon soared over the Summer Sea, the scattered islands of the Stepstones coming into view below. Rhaegar leaned back, his black robe draped over his face as he basked in the sun.
“Roar! Roar!”
The peaceful flight was abruptly interrupted by a series of roars. Startled, Rhaegar quickly tossed aside the robe and sat up with a jolt.
“Roar!”
A golden dragon appeared, flying low and unsteadily, dragging itself just above the ground. Its broken wing oozed dragon blood, leaving a trail of red droplets that hissed as they fell into the sea, emitting white smoke.
“Sunfyre!?”
Rhaegar’s eyes widened, his expression shifting to one of surprise and confusion.
“Roar! Roar!”
Sunfyre let out a pitiful cry as it landed on a small, green-covered island. Struggling to its feet, the dragon flapped its wings and began to hop forward, determined not to give up.
Rhaegar was dumbfounded, muttering to himself, “It hopped all the way here?”
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