ULF
Silverwing was not the dragon I'd trained with.
The gentle giant who'd accepted sheep offerings and tolerated my clumsy commands had vanished. In her place flew something older. Something deadly.
She anticipated my weight shifts before I made them. Banked when I thought about banking. Dove when I spotted an opening.
Partnership. True partnership.
Syrax climbed for altitude—Rhaenyra's golden dragon bleeding from a dozen wounds, trying to escape. I tracked her trajectory.
"Naejot. Sōvēs!"
Silverwing surged upward. Faster than I expected. Faster than Syrax expected.
We came in from the sun—old trick, ancient trick, something Silverwing remembered from wars before my birth.
I kicked.
Rankyaku.
The air blade caught Syrax's damaged wing at the joint. Membrane tore further. Muscle severed.
Syrax screamed. Faltered. Began to spiral.
Rhaenyra fought for control—I could see her hauling on the reins, shouting commands. Her dragon responded sluggishly, damaged but not finished.
I could kill her. One more dive. One more strike.
But Silverwing was already turning away.
"What—"
Then I understood.
Below, Sunfyre lay in a crater of golden scales. Aegon's body visible beside the wreckage. Not moving.
The king.
Silverwing had made a choice. Not pursuit—protection.
She remembers. Kings die when no one watches. She won't let that happen again.
"Land. Jikagon."
We descended toward the fallen king.
AEMOND
Vhagar crushed Meleys with casual brutality.
The Red Queen's death throes shook the earth. Her flame guttered. Her screams faded to wet gurgles as ancient jaws tore through her throat.
Rhaenys died beneath her dragon.
Aemond felt... nothing. The Queen Who Never Was had been an obstacle. Now she wasn't.
He scanned the sky. Syrax fleeing northwest, trailing blood. Moondancer gone—fled or fallen, he didn't care which. Vermithor circling, Hugh Hammer shouting victory.
And on the ground—
Golden scales. A crater.
"Jikagon."
Vhagar descended.
THE CRATER
Sunfyre still breathed.
The golden dragon's wings were shattered. His body broken. But that massive chest rose and fell with labored rhythm.
Aegon lay beside him.
Ulf had already dismounted. Knelt beside the king. Checking for pulse, for breath, for any sign of life.
"Is he alive?"
"Barely." The White bastard didn't look up. "Legs shattered. Ribs broken. Burns across half his body. He needs a maester. Now."
Aemond studied his brother.
Pathetic. Even his dragon couldn't save him.
Criston Cole arrived at a run—he'd been commanding ground forces, watching the aerial battle from below.
"Gods. The king—"
"Lives. For now." Aemond made his voice carry command. "We need to transport him back to King's Landing. Grand Maester Orwyle must be summoned."
"Can Sunfyre fly?"
"Sunfyre can barely breathe." The bastard stood. His face was unreadable. "But I can strap the king's body to his saddle. Dragons don't forget their riders. He'll make it if we go slow."
Practical. Useful.
"Do it."
The bastard moved immediately. Efficient. Organized.
Aemond watched him work.
He let Aegon fall. Chose to support me instead. Tactical decision, he'll say. But convenient regardless.
"Lord Commander." Aemond turned to Cole. "The king may not survive his injuries."
"I pray he does, my prince."
"As do I. But if he doesn't—or if he's incapacitated—"
"Then we need a regent."
"Yes." Aemond let the word hang. "We do."
Cole's expression shifted. Understanding. Acceptance.
"You're the logical choice, my prince. The king's brother. A dragonrider. A proven warrior."
"I'm glad you agree."
Too easy. Cole is loyal to the crown, not the person wearing it. As long as I represent the crown, he'll serve.
"I want this battle's outcome clear to everyone. Rhaenys dead. Three Black dragons driven off or destroyed. The Greens victorious."
"That's... accurate, my prince."
"Good. Then spread that story. Make sure King's Landing celebrates when we return." Aemond looked at his brother's ruined body. "They can mourn later. If mourning is needed."
THE FLIGHT HOME
Sunfyre shouldn't have flown.
The golden dragon's wings were shredded. His body broken in a dozen places. Every wingbeat was agony—I could hear the whimpers, the strained breathing.
But he flew.
Aegon's body strapped across the saddle. The king unconscious, maybe dying, but his dragon refused to abandon him.
Loyalty. Even from a beast.
I flew Silverwing beside them. Close enough to catch Aegon if Sunfyre finally collapsed. Close enough to guide them home.
Vhagar led the formation. Vermithor brought up the rear, Hugh still laughing at nothing.
Below, Cole's army marched. They'd won the ground battle—what was left of it after dragons had finished with the sky.
How many dead today? Hundreds? Thousands?
I'd stopped counting.
King's Landing appeared on the horizon. The city that had become home. The place where Helaena waited.
What do I tell her? That I let her husband fall? That I chose victory over saving him?
The truth. Always the truth with her.
She'd understand. Or she wouldn't. Either way, she deserved honesty.
Sunfyre began his descent. Struggled. Faltered.
I guided Silverwing closer. Let our wing brush his, offering support.
The golden dragon looked at me with pain-filled eyes.
Thank you, they seemed to say. Thank you for bringing him home.
We landed in the Dragonpit together.
Aegon was still breathing.
For now.
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