Dragonstone, the deepest part of the Dragonpit.
Prince Daemon Targaryen stood before the Cannibal; Dark Sister hung at his belt. Steam rising from the geothermal heat beneath his feet moistened his silver hair. Daemon extended his palm upward toward the wild dragon.
"I know you understand me," Daemon's voice echoed through the cave. "You and I are the same."
The Cannibal did not move. Those emerald-green dragon eyes stared coldly at him. The hot breath from its nostrils carried a strong smell of sulfur, making Daemon's hair blow back.
"I need your help to fight against Vhagar."
A deep rumble came from the Cannibal's throat, shaking the entire cave.
Daemon took a step forward.
Suddenly, the Cannibal's tail lashed out sharply, shattering a pile of stones before it. Rocks flew like shrapnel, cutting Daemon's cheek. Daemon did not retreat, nor did he even blink.
"You are afraid of being bound by obligations," he continued. "I understand you. I am not here to oblige you; I am here to ask you."
He took a third step forward.
The Cannibal's head rose from its lair and approached Daemon, enveloped in a suffocating aura. Its nostrils nearly touched his face; each breath felt like a blast of hot air. Daemon could see every line on its black scales and the dried blood at the corner of its mouth.
"Either let me ride on your back," Daemon continued, "or burn me alive. Either way, it's better than standing here."
The Cannibal opened its mouth. The flame deep in its throat suddenly flared, and a wave of heat washed over him, making Daemon's brow furrow slightly from the intense heat. But he did not stop. He reached out his hand—calloused, looking so fragile amidst the flames and sharp teeth.
The Cannibal stared at him. The anger reflected in those golden vertical pupils gradually faded. Then it closed its mouth. The flame died out, and a wisp of white smoke emerged from its nostrils. It slowly turned its head to the side, staring into the eternal darkness at the back of the cave.
It had refused.
Not with fire and claws, but with indifference.
Daemon's hand froze in the air. He stood there, arm outstretched like a beggar asking for alms. Ridiculous. Pitiful. Pathetic.
Finally, a dejected Daemon slowly withdrew his hand. His hand trembled. Not from fear, not from anger, but from a pure, naked feeling of defeat.
Why could Aemond control two dragons? But I cannot do it myself?
He turned and walked toward the exit.
---
Near the Dragonpit, Rhaenyra held her newborn daughter, Visenya—a name she had given her in memory of her aunt. At that moment, the sea breeze ruffled her silver hair. Her face was still pale after childbirth; her lips were nearly bloodless.
Daemon, having failed to tame the dragon, approached her.
"You didn't succeed?" Rhaenyra asked, holding little Visenya in her arms.
Daemon sighed silently, then spoke. "That wild dragon prefers to spend its days alone."
Rhaenyra laid her head on his shoulder.
"If I had acted sooner..." Daemon's voice emerged through clenched teeth. "Before that monster rode Vhagar. When he was twelve. After High Tide..."
"Daemon, there aren't so many 'ifs'..." Rhaenyra interrupted him softly.
Daemon gritted his teeth, his jaw tensed. "I knew he had changed even then. That look, that calmness. Such a calmness unnatural for a child. I should have killed him."
Rhaenyra looked up at his profile. "It's not your fault... Daemon..."
Daemon closed his eyes.
"Now Tyrosh is under Hugh's control," he said quietly. "Baela, Rhaena, and Lucerys are in his hands. At the battle of Gods Eye Lake, the Westerlands suffered heavy losses; the North and the Riverlands were completely shattered. Jason Lannister is dead, Elmo Tully is dead, and Cregan Stark is missing."
Daemon turned to her, placing his hands on his wife Rhaenyra's shoulders.
"We have only Caraxes and Syrax left... Now the Greens have more dragons than we do. Tell me, Rhaenyra. What else do we have?"
Rhaenyra looked at him. Tears glistened in the moonlight.
"We still have each other," she said.
Daemon was silent for a moment.
"We are still together," she repeated; tears streamed down her face. "We still have our children; we still have dragon's blood."
Daemon looked at her; his violet eyes seemed unusually deep in the moonlight. He suddenly laughed. This smile was so warm, so unlike his usual demeanor. It was neither mocking nor arrogant, but rather a reflection of that same Daemon Targaryen who, many years ago, had stood fearlessly before his brother Viserys.
He reached out and gently wiped away Rhaenyra's tears. His fingers were rough, covered in calluses and scars on his knuckles.
"We were born of fire," Daemon said quietly. "You and I are destined to burn together. Whatever the future brings, I will do everything in my power to give you and our children a chance."
Rhaenyra nodded, tears in her eyes.
Suddenly, a dragon's roar came from the sky. It was neither Caraxes's neigh nor Syrax's sharp cry. They both looked up.
In the moonlight, a huge black shadow soared. It had a long neck, an arrowhead-shaped head, and silver-grey scales that glinted metallically in the moonlight.
Seasmoke.
---
King's Landing, the Red Keep. Beside Aegon the Second's sickbed.
His right leg was lame. His face was still pale, his cheeks sunken, his cheekbones high, his eyes deep-set. But at this moment, Aegon the Second's eyes were unusually clear.
Queen Aelinor sat by the bed, feeding King Aegon the Second spoonfuls of milk with a silver spoon. Queen Alicent stood on the other side of the bed; her hair over the past few months had turned nearly white, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes were deep as if carved by a knife.
Aemond stood at the foot of the bed, watching everything.
"Keep doing what needs to be done; don't worry about me, Aemond," Aegon finally said from the bed, his voice hoarse and weak.
Aemond was silent for a moment. "Take care of your injury."
Aegon smiled wryly and looked at his lame right leg. "A lame king and a one-eyed dragon—quite a pair!"
"Sunfyre will recover; dragons have much stronger self-healing abilities than humans."
"That's good," relief in Aegon's voice. "At least Sunfyre can still fly. I probably can't anymore."
Aemond looked at the despondent Aegon the Second with a complex expression, then turned to leave.
Queen Mother Alicent caught her son Aemond's arm as he was about to leave. "Rhaenyra wants to talk to me."
Aemond turned his head and looked at his mother. "You've been in contact with her?"
Alicent nodded. "A messenger was sent a few days ago. She expressed willingness to talk."
Aemond was silent for a long time.
"Unless you surrender unconditionally," his voice was icy. "Hand over their dragons. Then I will house them in Dragonstone's castle. A Great Council will be convened, and Rhaenyra will acknowledge the usurpation. I will spare their lives."
"She just wanted to keep Dragonstone..."
"Impossible," Aemond interrupted. "That would only be a truce. In a few years, the war will begin again."
"She is your elder sister..."
"She is my enemy." Aemond stared at Alicent. "Mother, what are you thinking? Do you think if I make some concessions, perhaps the war could end? You are wrong. She lost two sons; all she has left is hatred. If you give her a finger now, she will demand a whole foot. In the end, she will take our lives."
Queen Alicent, her eyes reddened, had been Rhaenyra's best friend growing up, and also Rhaenyra's stepmother... She did not want Rhaenyra to die, and she had promised... Viserys... to prevent siblings from killing each other...
Alicent wept, looked at Aemond, and spoke. "What will you become? Aemond, what will you become?"
Aemond did not answer.
The squire Alyn Waters quietly entered and whispered a few words in his ear. Aemond's expression grew even colder as he looked at his mother.
"I accept nothing but unconditional surrender."
He turned and left.
---
The Iron Throne room.
Aemond stood before the Iron Throne, casually examining the envoys below, but none who saw him could imagine he could be dealt with so easily. His silver hair glinted coldly in the candlelight, his violet eyes half-closed.
Below stood Ulf, accompanied by several servants. Since he and Hugh had left Dragonstone, they had never bowed their heads to the nobility again. But at this moment, under the gaze of Aemond's violet eyes, he involuntarily bent his back.
Aemond unfolded Hugh's letter, read it, and let out a cold laugh. The laughter echoed through the hall. Hugh wanted his belonging to House Targaryen legitimized before the nobles of all Seven Kingdoms, with the Iron Throne elevating him. He would be recognized as Prince of Tyrosh... In exchange, he would side with the Greens and join them in fighting against the Blacks. At the same time, he would hand over the traitors—Lucerys and Daemon's two daughters.
But Aemond sneered, saying this was a matter for House Targaryen, and these bastards had no right to interfere or take advantage of the situation for their own gain...
Then Aemond gradually descended from the Iron Throne. In the silence, the sound of his footsteps on the steps was clearly audible.
He stopped before Ulf.
"Do you know this?" Aemond asked, his voice not loud but clear, strong, and irresistible. "You bastards are by nature capricious and treacherous. Steeped in the blood of betrayal and self-indulgence."
Hearing this, Ulf's face went pale. He could endure insults, but there was no insult in Aemond's tone, no contempt, no emotion at all. As if he were simply stating a fact. This calm, emotionless contempt was more unbearable than any insult.
"What does the Regent mean?" Ulf's voice trembled slightly. "Do you look down on us?"
"It's not that I look down on you," Aemond took another step forward. "It's that you are not qualified."
Aemond suddenly reached out and grabbed Ulf's head. The force was so great that Ulf's skull creaked, as if it could be crushed at any moment. A burning force emanated from that hand and penetrated his skull.
"Mercy... mercy..." Ulf's voice changed sharply, trembling with sobs.
Aemond looked at him for a long time. In those violet eyes was reflected Ulf's distorted, frightened face.
He let go.
Ulf staggered back, nearly falling. His face was red; five deep purple fingerprints appeared on his forehead.
"Get out of here and tell Hugh that stealing Targaryen dragons will not end well."
Ulf fled the hall; his attendants followed in confusion, like mice frightened by a cat.
Silence fell over the hall again.
Alyn stood in the corner, his palms sweaty. He was also a bastard. On High Tide, everyone had ignored him, considered him a disgrace, a bastard who had never even seen his father's face.
Aemond noticed and patted the young man on the shoulder.
"I hate arrogant bastards, but that does not apply to you."
Hearing this, Alyn looked up; tears came to his eyes. Gratefully, he spoke. "Thank you, Regent."
---
The door suddenly burst open.
A woman in a long silk dress entered, stumbling. It was Shirley from Harrenhal, a specialist in caring for royal mothers during childbirth. Her face was flushed, her hair disheveled; she nearly tripped over the hem of her dress.
"Your Grace!" Her voice was excited, almost hysterical. "Princess Helaena is about to give birth!"
Aemond's expression changed instantly.