RHAENYS
Fly. Just fly.
Meleys labored beneath her—every wingbeat agony, every moment a gift from gods who'd stopped listening.
The castle was lost. The battle was lost.
But I can still warn Rhaenyra. Still fight another day.
The bronze dragon pursued—the madman's beast, flame building in its jaws.
Then silver appeared.
Another dragon, smaller than the others, cutting across her escape route.
The White. The bastard dragonrider.
She'd heard stories. The man who'd killed Daemon's assassins. The man who'd walked through fire to claim Silverwing.
Now he blocked her path to the sea.
ULF
Meleys was dying.
I could see it in her flight—ragged, desperate, failing. The wing damage was catastrophic. Every moment she stayed airborne was borrowed time.
I could have killed her. One dive, one command, and Silverwing's fire would end the Red Queen forever.
Should I?
Rhaenys looked at me across the space between dragons. Old. Proud. Beaten.
She's defending what she believes is right. She's protecting her family. Just like I am.
"Jikagon," I murmured. Descend. "Kelītīs." Halt.
Silverwing obeyed. Hovered between Meleys and the pursuing Vermithor.
Not attacking. Blocking.
HUGH HAMMER
"What are you doing?!"
The bastard had stopped. Was just hovering there while the target fled.
Hugh pushed Vermithor forward—around, over, through the silver dragon if necessary.
But the White moved with him. Kept blocking. Kept preventing clean pursuit.
"She's escaping! Kill her!"
"Back off, Hugh."
"What?"
"She's beaten. Let her go."
"Let her—" Hugh's voice cracked with fury. "She's the enemy! She killed our soldiers!"
"And she'll die from those wounds before she reaches Dragonstone." The bastard's voice carried something Hugh didn't understand. Calculation. "A dead Rhaenys becomes a martyr. A wounded one is a burden on Black resources."
"That's the stupidest—"
"Back. Off."
Something in those words. A threat beneath the calm.
Hugh pulled Vermithor back. Watched the Red Queen limp toward the horizon.
I'll remember this, bastard. I'll remember you let her go.
RHAENYS
The coast appeared below.
Meleys's wings faltered. One. Two. She couldn't maintain altitude much longer.
But the pursuers had stopped. The silver dragon hovered in the distance, blocking the bronze, letting her flee.
Why? Why would he spare me?
She looked back one final time.
The White sat still on his dragon. Watching her go.
I'll remember your face. Remember your mercy. Whatever it means.
Meleys crashed into the waves rather than the shore—a controlled fall that became an uncontrolled tumble. Water rushed. Salt burned wounds.
But they surfaced. Both of them. Alive.
The red dragon began to swim. Dragonstone was far. The wounds were mortal.
But Rhaenys had survived.
For now.
ULF
Hugh landed his dragon with a crash that spoke of rage.
"You let her escape."
I dismounted. Faced him across the scorched earth.
"I made a tactical decision."
"You made a traitor's decision. She'll heal. She'll come back. She'll kill more of our people."
"She won't heal. Those wounds are mortal." I kept my voice level. "And even if she survives, a limping Red Queen diverts Black resources—healers, food, attention that should go to their war effort."
"That's horseshit."
"That's strategy. You wouldn't understand."
Hugh stepped forward. Fists clenched.
Aemond's voice cut between them.
"Enough."
The prince landed Vhagar with considerably more grace. His single eye swept the battlefield—the burning castle, the scattered corpses, the victory bought in blood.
"The battle is won. Rook's Rest falls. Rhaenys fled."
"Because he let her—"
"I said enough." Aemond turned to me. "Explain."
"Dead enemies become martyrs. Wounded enemies consume resources." I met his gaze. "She was beaten. Letting her limp home serves our cause better than a killing blow."
Silence.
Then, slowly, Aemond nodded.
"Cold logic. I can respect that." His eye moved to Hugh. "Learn to think before you rage. We need weapons that can be aimed, not wildfire."
Hugh spat and stalked toward Vermithor.
Aemond watched him go.
"You've made an enemy there."
"I've had worse."
"Perhaps." Something in Aemond's expression—evaluation, curiosity. "You're not like the other dragonseeds. Not like Hugh. Not like anyone."
"Is that a problem?"
"That depends on where your loyalties lie."
"With Helaena. With her children. That's never changed."
"And if I ordered you to attack something Helaena loves?"
"Then we'd have a problem."
Aemond smiled. It didn't reach his eye.
"Honest. I can respect that too." He turned toward the castle. "Come. We have a surrender to accept."
THAT EVENING
The fires still burned.
Rook's Rest had fallen. Lord Staunton was dead—captured, then executed for treason against the crown. His garrison surrendered or slaughtered, depending on how quickly they'd thrown down arms.
I sat alone on a broken wall, watching the flames consume what remained.
How many died today? Hundreds? Thousands?
The bodies were everywhere. Green soldiers burned by Meleys. Black defenders killed in the assault. Smallfolk caught between armies that didn't care about their lives.
This is war. This is what I signed up for.
Silverwing appeared from the darkness. Settled beside the wall. Her massive head rested near my feet.
"Hard day?"
A rumble. Agreement.
"It'll get harder." I touched her scales. Drew comfort from her warmth. "This was just the first battle. There'll be more. Bigger ones. Worse ones."
Another rumble. Something like resignation.
"But we'll survive. Both of us. We have to." I thought of Helaena, of the children, of everything waiting in King's Landing. "I promised I'd come back."
Silverwing exhaled warm breath across me. Trust. Understanding.
Tomorrow, the march home. Tomorrow, Helaena's arms. Tomorrow, pretending this horror was worth it.
Tonight, I sat with my dragon and watched the world burn.
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