AEGON II
The wine burned going down.
Good. Liquid courage.
Aegon stood in the Dragonpit's yard, surrounded by sycophants and servants, dressed in armor that gleamed gold in the morning light. His crown sat heavy on his head—always too heavy, that fucking crown.
Sunfyre waited nearby. His golden dragon. His weapon. His proof that he was more than a drunk playing king.
"Your Grace!" Lord Darklyn bowed low. "You look magnificent. The very image of a warrior king."
"I look like a fool wrapped in metal." But he smiled anyway. Took another drink. "Let's get this over with."
His mother appeared from the crowd. Alicent's face was drawn tight with worry.
"Aegon. Please. You don't have to do this."
"I do, actually." He handed his wine cup to a servant. "I'm the king. Kings fight."
"Kings command. They don't throw themselves into dragon battles."
"Grandfather commands. Aemond commands. I sit in my cups and sign papers." He gripped her shoulders. "For once in my miserable life, I want to do something that matters."
"You could die."
"I could die crossing the street. I could die in my sleep. I could choke on a grape." He kissed her forehead. "At least this way there'd be songs about it."
He walked away before she could argue further.
Sunfyre lowered himself as Aegon approached. The golden dragon's eyes held something—concern? Recognition of his rider's state?
Don't judge me, beast. You haven't had to live my life.
He mounted. Settled into the saddle. Drew a deep breath.
"Sōvēs."
Sunfyre launched into the sky.
ULF
Four dragons flew east.
Vhagar led—massive, ancient, Aemond riding with cold confidence. Vermithor followed, Hugh Hammer laughing at something only he found funny. Sunfyre gleamed golden in the sunlight, Aegon clinging to his saddle with white-knuckled desperation.
I brought up the rear on Silverwing, watching the formation with growing unease.
This is wrong. Something's wrong.
The intelligence had been too specific. The timing too convenient. A Black force moving to retake Rook's Rest, exposed and vulnerable—it read like an invitation.
A trap. It has to be a trap.
I maneuvered Silverwing closer to Vhagar. Shouted over the wind.
"Aemond! Something's not right!"
The prince looked back. That single eye evaluated my concern and dismissed it.
"Cold feet, bastard?"
"Tactical instinct. This feels like a setup."
"Then we'll spring it and kill whatever's waiting." He turned forward. "Follow or fall behind. Either way, the battle happens."
I dropped back. Watched Aegon struggling to maintain his seat on Sunfyre.
He's never been in combat. Never seen what dragons do to each other. Never felt the heat of battle.
And he was drunk. I could see it in how he swayed, how his commands came slurred even through the wind.
If this is a trap, he'll be the first to die.
BEFORE DEPARTURE
Aemond had cornered me in the armory.
"Aegon will fly with us." A statement, not a question.
"He's untrained. Drunk. He'll get himself killed."
"Perhaps." Aemond buckled his sword belt. "That would be unfortunate."
"Would it?"
Those cold eyes fixed on me.
"My brother is a terrible king. Drunk. Cruel. Negligent. The realm suffers under him." He paused. "If he happened to die heroically in battle, the realm might benefit from more... competent leadership."
He's telling me he won't save Aegon. He might even let him die.
"And if I save him instead?"
"Then you'd be a hero. Beloved. Trusted." Aemond smiled thinly. "But you'd also be choosing sides. Choosing him over me. I'd remember that."
"I'll remember this conversation too."
"I'm counting on it."
He walked away, leaving me with a choice that had no right answer.
Save the king, earn Aemond's enmity. Let him die, become complicit in murder.
Neither option led anywhere good.
THE DRAGONPIT - DEPARTURE
Helaena wasn't there.
I'd looked for her—wanted one last moment, one last touch—but her tower window was dark. Maybe she was with the children. Maybe she couldn't bear to watch me leave again.
Or maybe she knows something. Sees something.
Her dreams had been troubled lately. Fire and falling. Dragons screaming. Blood on golden scales.
I'd asked what it meant. She'd just shaken her head.
"Some things I can't say. Some things have to happen."
Cryptic. Frustrating. Terrifying.
I mounted Silverwing without ceremony. Checked my gear—knife at belt, weighted bracers secure, riding straps tight.
"Naejot," I murmured. "Let's go hunting."
She launched with powerful beats. The city fell away.
I didn't look back.
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