As night fell, smoke billowed across the sea.
Bang!
Baelon leapt off the back of his dragon and rushed to help his limp Good Uncle to his feet, his expression tense with concern. "How's Sunfyre?"
"You should be asking how I am," Aegon muttered helplessly.
"You seem fine." Baelon glanced back at Sunfyre, who was writhing in pain, and added, stabbing Aegon with his words, "What a beautiful dragon, always getting hurt protecting its rider."
The once pale pink, magnificent wing membrane was now riddled with holes, both large and small. There were burns and punctures from stray arrows.
It's better not to mention it, Baelon thought. But at the mention of Sunfyre's injuries, Aegon howled in anguish. "Damn Greyjoy bastard! My Sunfyre!"
He threw himself at the dragon's bloody wound, tears streaming down his face.
Who would have thought the Iron Islands fleet would suddenly attack the Stepstones? Baelon reflected. Their fleet was of such high quality that it rivaled House Velaryon's. It was even better suited for raids than the relentless offensive they were known for.
"Don't be sad, Uncle," Baelon said, stroking the scar on his side. "Once I gather the Riverlands lords, we'll launch a crusade against the Iron Islands."He had a dragon now. It was time to gather his vassals and fulfill his promise.
...
Stormlands, Stonehelm.
It was a dark night, the waves crashing violently against the towering cliffs. From here, you could just make out the bright fire burning on the Stepstones in the distance.
"Roar!"
An ugly, mud-caked dragon slowly crawled out from the shadows, its sharp muzzle clamped around a goat, chewing on the grisly mixture of blood and mud.
Atop its back, Aemond's single eye gleamed coldly as he stared in the direction of the distant fire.
"Roar..."
Having finished its meal, Sheepstealer shook its scrawny body and raised its wings, preparing to take flight.
"Wait, you idiot," Aemond commanded grimly, halting the Mud Dragon in its tracks.
Sheepstealer froze for a moment, then lazily collapsed onto the ground, letting out a loud burp.
"We'll leave later. Got it?"
Aemond absently rubbed the one-eyed dagger at his hip, a cruel gleam flickering in his gaze. Aegon was insufferable—completely forgetting the pride of being a Targaryen. He had even pretended to be deaf when asked to aid his sister and nephew.
It’s time to make him fall... and in a way he’ll never forget.
...
On the other side, by the banks of the Greenblood River...
Boom!
A pale dragon shadow landed on the empty riverbank, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air, searching for scents.
"Roar!"
At last, it found a large piece of flesh, slick with dark green scales, half-buried in the mud. A shrill roar echoed in all directions as it began devouring the meat. The sound of crunching and chewing filled the air, while drops of cooling dragon blood dripped onto the ground.
A gust of wind swept away the dark clouds, revealing the bright moon. Its pale light illuminated the flat river’s surface, reflecting the terrifying image of the creature.
Its body was as pale as ash, covered in dull, lifeless scales. Its eyes glowed a menacing scarlet, while long, twisted horns jutted backward like gnarled tree branches. Its mouth was full of sharp, saliva-dripping teeth.
"Roar..."
The pale dragon licked the remaining scraps of dragon meat, a satisfied groan escaping as it raised its head. If anyone had been there, they would have seen its true form more clearly—a pale, monstrous beast with a neck as long and thin as a twisted, dried vine, and a body as sickly and withered as a dying tree.
Just one glance at it would fill you with dread—it radiated malevolence, as though it had been born to embody evil.
After licking the last trace of blood from its body, the pale wild dragon shifted its stiff neck, spread its ragged wings full of holes, and soared into the sky. Its withered body swayed as it flew, snakelike, disappearing into the night.
It was gone. Completely.
...
The next day,
Golden Fields, Dagger Lake.
It was still dark, and not a single tent had opened its curtains.
Rhaegar lay alone on his bed, his eyes closed but his sleep uneasy. His face was pale, beads of cold sweat dotted his forehead, and his fingers twitched unconsciously on his abdomen. Was he dreaming? Or trapped in a nightmare?
Crash!
The tent’s curtain was yanked open, and a figure barged in.
Daemon, full of impatience, sneered in a mocking tone. "Get up, Your Grace."
With a startled gasp, Rhaegar shot up from the bed, breathing heavily.
"Hoo... hoo... hoo..." His chest heaved as he muttered, "A green dragon, a green dragon..."
"What green dragon?" Daemon frowned.
"A green dragon... it fell into the water," Rhaegar stammered, pressing his cold palm to his forehead. The memory was slipping away—a confused nightmare of a green dragon flying over the sea. Then, nothing.
"Hiss..." Rhaegar drew in a sharp breath, biting his tongue to shake off the lingering fog of sleep.
Seeing his nephew in such a state, Daemon's eyes narrowed. He interrupted, "We don't have enough supplies."
"Then find some," Rhaegar replied absently, rubbing his temples.
"The ships from Volantis are slow," Daemon continued, his voice lowering. "Someone’s discovered our trail. It seems they've mobilized an army to catch us."
He laughed darkly to himself. "An army arresting dragonriders? Maybe they're heading straight for the poorly defended Qohor."
Rhaegar wasn’t listening. His thoughts had drifted to something else. "Rhaenyra wrote to me... Baela has snuck out of King's Landing." His tone grew more serious. "She might be crossing the Narrow Sea."
"What?" Daemon's expression tightened.
...
Pentos, the Valyrian roads.
A black Dragonstone road, a relic of the Freehold Empire, stretched ahead—its ancient stones once connecting Norvos to Qohor and a now half-ruined path leading toward Volantis.
Clop, clop, clop...
A band of mercenaries rode along the avenue, their war elephants lumbering forward, heading for Qohor. The army numbered over 2,000 men, with 500 cavalry. Towering war elephants, more than ten in total, marched at the front, their enormous bodies clad in bronze armor.
This was one of the most formidable mercenary groups on the continent of Essos, hired by a trusted adviser to the Prince of Pentos.
The army moved slowly, and soon the sun rose high overhead. By noon, the scorching heat beat down relentlessly, warming the Dragonstone road to the point where it burned beneath the soldiers' feet. Sweat dripped from their bodies, only to evaporate instantly in the sweltering heat.
Hoo... hoo... hoo...
Above, the sound of flapping wings cut through the air.
"Roar!"
A young dragon with dark green scales streaked in gray spread its wings and soared.
"Quiet, Moondancer," Baela commanded from atop the dragon, her voice calm but firm. Clad in black leather armor, she glanced down at the column of sellswords below. The troublemakers were within sight.
"Enemies?" Baela's eyes lit up with fierce determination. Tugging on the saddle rope, she smirked. "Our chance has come, Moondancer!"
"Roar!"
Moondancer snorted, flapping her delicate, butterfly-like wings before diving downward, her narrow vertical pupils gleaming with murderous intent.
Baela and her dragon had left King's Landing in broad daylight. They should have gone to Lys or Tyrosh, leaving the Gullet behind them and heading straight for Pentos across the Narrow Sea.
If you want to prove yourself, you can’t hide in the rear, Baela thought as she tightened her grip. If you’re going to go, go to the main battlefield—and speak with the dragon under your command.
...
Miles away, along the ancient Valyrian roads...
"Roar!"
A magnificent dragon with cobalt blue scales and copper-colored jaws, belly, and talons soared lazily through the sky. Its serene flight was interrupted by the distant roar of another dragon, causing its casual demeanor to shift.
On the dragon’s back, Daeron was pouring water from his flask when he heard the sound. He paused, wiping his lips, and muttered, "Go after it, Tessarion."
"Roar!"
Tessarion snorted, flapping its mighty wings in response.
They were on an escort mission. At the request of Rhaenyra and Rhaena, they had been specially assigned to follow and guard the rebellious Baela.
The wind whipped against Daeron’s face, distorting his handsome features, but it couldn't mask the bitterness in his heart.
No one could refuse a command like this, he reflected grimly. You just had to do as you were told.
...
A few days later,
King's Landing, the Red Keep.
“Get in quietly,” Aemon muttered to himself as he sneaked into the closed king's chambers. He glanced around, eyes landing on the wall where several Valyrian weapons hung silently above the fireplace.
"Hehe," Aemon chuckled, his gaze fixed on Truefyre—the whip adorned with a ruby at the handle. His father had forbidden anyone to touch these treasures, but Aemon couldn’t resist.
He carefully unhooked the whip and swung it around the room, grinning. “Baelon will thank me when he returns... if he succeeds in taming the dragon.”
Truefyre was no ordinary weapon; it was a Dragon Taming Whip, far more valuable than even a Valyrian steel sword. With a little luck, Aemon thought, he could deliver it to Dragonstone to help his brother in taming a dragon.
“Unfortunately, Father took the Dragon Horn with him,” he muttered, growing bored of his swordplay and searching for water. The horn, after all, was too important for their father to part with. Still, Truefyre was impressive enough, much more so than the Dragon Claw whip Baelon owned.
Creaaak—the door swung open, startling him.
Rhaenyra leaned against the frame, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. "Thirsty? Why aren’t you drinking?"
"Mother!" Aemon froze, sweating as he hastily put down Truefyre. He’d been caught red-handed, and he could already feel the sting of his impending punishment.
“Hmph. Who gave you this idle nature?” Rhaenyra snorted. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the missing Dragon Taming Whip—or that someone sneaked into the king's chambers?”
She had assumed Truefyre was meant for her eldest son and had been waiting for Aemon to confess. But instead, he kept making foolish mistakes, like a thief in a flea market.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Aemon mumbled, his head hanging low. He knew all too well that in the streets of Tyrosh, where he had spent time, admitting fault was better than getting beaten.
Rhaenyra sighed, running a hand through her hair in frustration. "I really can’t teach you anything, Aemon. Go to the Mud Gate and see off Irina from Slaver’s Bay for me.”
She had no choice but to let his father deal with him upon his return. For now, there were more important matters at hand.
“See her off?” Aemon blinked, confused. Irina was from Slaver’s Bay and had introduced herself as a Dragonlord—descended from Daeryon family. After poring over his father’s ancient books, Aemon had discovered that there had once been a Dragonlord family in Valyria by that name. But, given the circumstances, letting her leave King’s Landing seemed unwise.
Better to kill an innocent than let a guilty one go free... Aemon thought.
“Don’t look at me like that. This is your father’s decision,” Rhaenyra said, rolling her eyes. “Irina’s old-fashioned, from another century. But she’s rarely aggressive.”
“So... Father wants to send her back to stabilize Slaver’s Bay?” Aemon finished the thought, a flicker of realization crossing his face.
Rhaenyra nodded. “Exactly. With the Four Cities Alliance and the remnants of the Triarchy in turmoil, declaring war on Slaver’s Bay would be foolish right now. Better to send back a female Dragonlord without a dragon and buy some peace.”
Killing Irina wouldn’t serve anyone. Long-term peace with Slaver's Bay was worth more than her life.
“I understand,” Aemon said, finally blinking away his confusion. He carefully sidled out of the bedchamber.
Rhaenyra didn’t stop him, only sighing softly to herself as she watched him leave, muttering, “My own son...”
...
King's Landing, Mud Gate.
A large ship flying the Daeryon family flag sailed swiftly out of Blackwater Bay, as though fleeing the city.
"Roar!"
A young dragon, covered in green scales and boasting a powerful, majestic form, stood on the city wall like a towering sculpture. Its long tail curved behind it like a scorpion's sting.
“I said, why didn’t anyone notify me?” Aemon muttered, turning his back on the two figures standing nearby.
Tormund, the Master of Whisperers, shrugged with a sly smile. “The Queen wanted to investigate you, Prince. How could we stop her?”
“Ever since that Lady met Silverwing, the Dragonpit’s been on high alert,” Maynard, the Maester of the Dragonpit, added quietly. “I’ve barely had time for anything, let alone lessons.”
“You’re not being very loyal,” Aemon replied, frowning as he crossed his arms. Friends and teachers alike—they weren’t helping him at all, only making things worse.
“Prince,” Tormund leaned in with a grin, clearly enjoying himself. “I did hear some interesting news. Pentos hired a Dothraki cavalry, but word has it that they clashed with dragons. The Khal took his payment and ran before things got ugly.”
“Haha,” Aemon chuckled dryly, though he didn’t find it funny in the least. A cold feeling crept over him as he gazed out at the vast expanse of Blackwater Bay. His restless heart began to settle.
He couldn’t help but think of Baela. His fiancée had left without a word, sneaking off to Essos and leaving him behind. She had no fear of the dangers that lay ahead.
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