The night at High Tide was thick with the scent of salt and the heavy, lingering grief of the funeral.
Aegon leaned against the stone casement of his bedchamber, his eyes tracking a small, shadow-like figure slipping through the castle gates. Aemond. Even knowing the "original" path of history, Aegon felt a cold knot of anxiety in his chest. Vhagar was not a creature of mercy; she was a relic of Old Valyria, a beast that had burned a thousand armies. If she rejected the boy, there would be no second chances—only a charred pile of bones on the dunes.
"Do not fret, brother. The threads are already woven," a soft voice spoke from the shadows.
Aegon jumped slightly. Helaena had appeared beside him, her movements as silent as a moth. "He'll be fine. We should go down to meet him soon."
"I hope you're right," Aegon sighed, rubbing his face. "Where is Daeron?"
"Asleep. Little dragons always dream best when their bellies are full," Helaena murmured, her eyes drifting toward the moon.
Over the years, Helaena's "Dragon Dreams" had shifted. The vivid images of her childhood—marrying Aegon, the dying of the dragons—had become blurred and fractured, like reflections in a broken mirror. She felt as though the future was no longer a set path but a shifting sea.
"Mother says you may choose your own bride since the Tyrells lack a girl of age," Helaena said suddenly, her voice neutral but her eyes fixed on him. "Is there someone you have in mind?"
Aegon thought of the political landscape—the board he was trying to rearrange. "Not yet. I'll wait a few years. If I find no one who strengthens our position, I'll let Mother choose."
Helaena didn't respond. She simply lowered her head, lost in the labyrinth of her own mind.
"ROAR!"
The sound was not a mere cry; it was a physical shockwave that rattled the windows of High Tide. The two siblings watched in awe as the massive silhouette of Vhagar tore into the sky, climbing at a vertical angle that defied the laws of nature.
Down on the darkened coast, Rhaenyra and Daemon—fresh from their secret tryst—stiffened.
"Something is wrong," Rhaenyra whispered, her face pale in the moonlight.
Daemon's violet eyes were grim. Vhagar's flight pattern was erratic, violent—the characteristic "testing" of a new rider. "She's been claimed," he rasped. A figure flashed in his mind: the small, intense boy with the silver hair and the desperate hunger for a mount. If it was Aegon's brother, the balance of the world had just shifted.
High above the clouds, Aemond Targaryen was living a nightmare of pure adrenaline. He hadn't even had time to buckle the heavy chains of the saddle before Vhagar had rocketed skyward.
The wind was a blade, slashing at his skin, and the world below was a dizzying blur of black water and white foam. Just as he felt his grip slipping, Vhagar crested the height and dove. Aemond's stomach lurched into his throat, but instead of terror, a wild, jagged joy erupted in his heart.
"Vhagar! Dohaerās!" he screamed over the roar of the gale.
A spark of telepathic fire ignited between them. The ancient dragon felt the boy's iron will—a hunger that matched her own. She leveled out, her massive wings beating with the rhythm of a titan's heart. Aemond steered her back toward the castle, the landing so heavy it crushed an entire row of stables into splinters.
He slid down the dragon's flank, his legs shaking but his spirit soaring. He had done it. He had the Queen of Dragons.
But his triumph was short-lived. As he entered the stone corridor of the lower keep, he found his path blocked. Joffrey Velaryon, his nose still red from the slap Aemond had dealt him earlier, stood backed by his older brothers and Rhaena.
"You stole her!" Rhaena cried, her voice cracking with fury and grief. She had expected to claim her mother's dragon. "Vhagar was mine to claim!"
Aemond, still fueled by the fire of the flight, offered a cold, jagged sneer. "Is that so? Since when does a dragon belong to someone who is too afraid to take her?"
He looked at Jacaerys and Lucerys, standing tall beside their cousin. "Who told you she was yours? These bastards? They're just a bunch of mongrels. A dragon is for a true rider, not a pack of Lord Strong's pups."
The word "bastard" hung in the air like a bared blade. The "show" Aegon had anticipated was no longer a prediction—it was a bloodbath in the making.