Before dawn, Dragonstone was black as coal.
Yet on the docks of the western coast, flames soared into the sky—the royal fleet had landed at daybreak.
The air was thick with the smell of the sea and sulfur.
More than three thousand soldiers were lowering gangplanks from the sides of their ships. Iron boots struck the pier, producing dull, heavy thuds.
"Too quiet…"
Elwyn, Master of Ships, stared at the pier and the burned houses nearby. In his heart, he had already prepared for the worst.
The garrison of Dragonstone had clearly destroyed everything in the harbor, preparing to withdraw and make their final stand in the castle.
He looked toward the savage fortress at the center of the island. The jagged stairway leading up to it resembled a road descending into hell. In this battle, no one knew how many men would die.
At that moment, everyone heard it.
They looked up.
In the dim sky, the clouds were torn apart.
Vhagar, with a wingspan of three hundred meters, ripped through the clouds. Her movement did not resemble flight so much as a moving mountain grinding across the heavens, blotting out everything.
Night dew had condensed within the seams of her scales. As she flew, the rushing wind tore it into white trails of mist.
Aemond Targaryen knelt on one knee upon the dragon saddle, his silver hair streaming wildly in the gale, his violet eyes fixed on the gradually sharpening outline of Dragonstone below.
"Aegon," he barked toward the right.
The clouds parted, and Sunfyre emerged.
The golden dragon's scales flowed with molten brilliance along the edge of the rising sun, the reflected light so dazzling it forced the eyes to squint. Aegon gripped the saddle tightly, his face pale.
Aemond turned his head back, his violet eyes sweeping the sky once more.
His instincts were screaming.
Silence.
Far too quiet.
Across all of Dragonstone, there was not a single sound.
Then, in that very instant—
The clouds directly above exploded apart.
Vermithor descended from the sky, breathing fire.
The bronze giant plunged downward, wrapped in shattered fragments of cloud. His body stretched more than one hundred and thirty meters in length—second only to Vhagar among the living dragons—and he stood at the peak of draconic power. Every scale gleamed with a bronze luster, his wingspan exceeding two hundred meters.
But the most terrifying thing was his speed.
From the clouds to his attack position had taken only a single instant.
"Climb! Full speed!" Aemond roared.
Vhagar rolled sideways.
The old dragon's century of battle instincts had already made her react the moment she sensed the disturbance in the clouds.
Yet the immense power of her massive body now turned into fatal sluggishness.
The bronze dragonfire swept past the trailing edge of her left wing.
The flames were not the usual orange-red, but a dark golden hue like molten bronze deep within a furnace.
Boom!!!
The dragonfire finally smashed into the sea less than three hundred feet from the harbor.
The moment the seawater touched the flames, it vaporized instantly and began to boil violently. A pillar of steam spread outward, and scalding salt mist splashed over the docks like a tidal wave.
Several unfortunate soldiers were struck head-on. Their leather armor was instantly seared through, their skin blistering and rotting as they screamed and rolled on the ground.
On the sea's surface remained a terrifying depression thirty feet in diameter, deep enough to reveal the reef below. The surrounding seawater rushed back in wildly. Some fish were cooked by the heat, their pale bellies floating to the surface.
"Vermithor?!" Aegon screamed in disbelief. "There's someone on its back!"
Aemond did not answer.
He raised his head, his violet eyes locking firmly onto the figure on the bronze dragon's back—a man clad in black armor, with short silver hair. From within the helmet, those eyes stared at him with the ruthless ferocity of a desperate outlaw.
Aemond laughed in anger.
The blood of the dragonseeds.
The Blacks had indeed used that move—letting bastards tame dragons.
Rage surged within him, but he forced himself to remain calm.
"Not just one," Aemond said, his violet eyes narrowing sharply as he looked toward Dragonstone below.
From the dragonpit, one dragon, two dragons, three dragons were taking flight.
They had been ambushed.
"Where is your Lothorne?!" Despair rang in Aegon's voice.
That young black dragon should have been guarding the flank, yet now there was no sign of it.
Aemond knew that Lothorne was clever. The moment the bronze fury launched its attack, it had already slipped into the clouds.
At that moment, to the right, a gray shadow emerged like a phantom.
A wingspan of fifty feet was small among dragons, yet its speed made up for everything.
Its path through the torn clouds was almost impossible to follow with the naked eye. Each beat of its wings left a faint afterimage, as though the sky itself had been sliced open with wounds that slowly healed. Its gray scales were pale—almost silver-white—making it nearly invisible within the morning mist.
Higher above, deep within the clouds, another dragon shadow circled.
Sheepstealer.
Four dragons.
Four riders.
A classic ambush formation.
Vermithor entangled Vhagar head-on. Silverwing harassed Sunfyre from the flank. The gray shadow carried out hit-and-run attacks, relying on speed for advantage. And high above, Sheepstealer imposed pressure from the sky, sowing chaos.
Aemond's mind raced.
"Aegon, listen carefully," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Leave Vermithor to me. You hold off the other three dragons."
"Don't clash head-on. Hold them off. If we survive, that's victory."
"But they have four dragons! We'll be torn apart!" Aegon screamed. The three dragons were clearly targeting him. "Sunfyre can't fight three dragons! We retreat! Retreat now!"
"Do it!" Aemond cut him off sharply.
"If we turn and run now, they'll chase us down and tear us to pieces. They'll catch us, surround us, and rip us from the sky!"
He paused, a savage edge entering his voice.
"We are Targaryens. What is there to fear?"
"If we die, I'll make them die with us."
Aegon finally nodded.
He might have had a chance to escape, but Aemond's Vhagar was too old. She would be caught.
No matter how powerful Vhagar was, she could not face the siege of four great dragons at once—especially with the Bronze Fury, Vermithor.
Aemond leaned forward, pressing his palm against the rough scales along Vhagar's neck.
"Vhagar," he said softly, his voice audible only to him and the dragon. "Come."
Vhagar turned her head.
Her enormous amber slit-pupil fixed on Vermithor, Silverwing, and Sheepstealer.
These dragons had once all been her children.
Do dragons have feelings?
Men had argued about it for centuries.
Aemond did not know.
He only knew that, at this moment, Vhagar's mood was complicated.
"Today," he continued, his palm slowly rubbing along her scales, "they must remember who the true master of the sky is."
Vhagar raised her head.
She did not roar.
She simply drew in a deep breath.
The sound of it was like a thousand bellows pulling at once. The air around her formed visible vortices, rushing toward her vast jaws.
Vermithor's charge slowed slightly.
A flicker of struggle passed through the bronze dragon's eyes.
No matter how strong and ferocious it was, before the mother who had given it life, an indelible reverence still lingered in its heart.
Its gaping jaws began to close slightly. The instinct to unleash dragonfire was suppressed. The dark golden glow deep within its throat dimmed. The beat of its wings faltered for half a moment, and the massive body hovered briefly in the air.
But the rider did not share that instinct.
"Forward!" Valos roared wildly, sprawled over the dragon saddle. "Vermithor!"
The last trace of hesitation in Vermithor's eyes was replaced by the command.
It opened its vast jaws again. The dark golden glow deep in its throat flared once more—brighter, fiercer, more violent than before.
A second blast of bronze dragonfire erupted forth.
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