Night fell.
Dragonstone, Stone Drum Tower.
In the banquet hall, Rhaegar and Rhaenyra dined with Laenor and the twin girls.
Laenor looked slightly haggard, forcing himself to stay spirited as he tended to their two daughters.
She wore a loose gown, her belly swollen at seven months, making movement increasingly difficult.
"Roar..."
"Roar..."
Midway through the meal, deep dragon cries echoed across the seas of Dragonstone, filled with sorrow and loneliness.
Rhaegar set down his knife and fork, listening intently.
One of the twins, Rhaena, spoke up: "That's Vhagar."
"It sounds so sad." Rhaegar was a little taken aback.
Outside, the dragon's roar was almost a wail, carrying the mournful weight of age and hardship.
Rhaenyra stopped chewing, sighing: "Vhagar hasn't sounded like this in a long time."
Rhaegar glanced at Laenor, who looked drained and distracted.
His understanding of Vhagar was mostly theoretical—he had little personal experience with the ancient dragon.
To understand its emotions, he had to ask its rider.
Noticing his gaze, Laenor sighed helplessly and said: "Vhagar is too old. The long years of solitude have made her sorrowful."
As one of the original Targaryen dragons, Vhagar was already 170 years old.
At this age, a dragon was well past its prime, slipping into the twilight of its life.
Over the years, she had bonded with three riders:
Queen Visenya, Prince Baelon the Brave, and now Laenor.
The first watched over her as she grew from a young adult into a mighty war dragon. The second fought alongside her as she transitioned from her prime into old age.
Both were fearless warriors who rode Vhagar into battle, achieving countless victories.
But time passed. Both riders had been dead for years.
Even her fellow great dragons—Balerion the Black Dread and Meraxes—had long since fallen.
Vhagar had lived too long.
Long enough to watch everyone she knew perish, surrounded only by strangers, an ancient beast left alone in the world.
Deep in thought, Rhaegar put down his utensils, losing his appetite.
The other twin, Baela, murmured: "Vhagar hasn't been like this in a long time. Since Meleys and Seasmoke left, she's felt lonely."
"She probably wants to go to war."
Rhaena added.
Rhaegar remained silent. He had no response.
For a dragon that had helped the Targaryens conquer a kingdom, war was as natural as eating or drinking.
Vhagar's very name belonged to the Valyrian god of war.
Perhaps because of that name, she was the only one of the original three dragons still fighting for House Targaryen.
She was alive, but only as a weapon of war.
Laenor lowered her gaze, gently stroking her swollen belly, guilt flickering in her eyes. "I can feel Vhagar's emotions. She doesn't want to be left behind on Dragonstone."
She had sensed it ever since she first bonded with Vhagar at thirteen.
When the Narrow Sea War broke out, the dragon's emotions surged again, constantly weighing on her mind.
Rhaenyra, understanding the struggles of pregnancy, lowered her head in sympathy and tugged on Rhaegar's sleeve.
Rhaegar blinked, then joked: "Don't blame yourself. You'll give birth soon, and then you can ride Vhagar into battle to help Daemon defend the city."
He saw Lys and Tyrosh as already within his grasp. Before his family, he had to exude confidence—there was no need for them to worry.
"How is Daemon?" Laenor smiled weakly, shifting the topic.
Rhaegar chuckled. "He's doing fine."
Laenor's eyes flickered. "I know him. 'Fine' means trouble. He must be giving you a headache."
She and her mother had long suspected what Daemon and the Sea Snake were plotting.
Even without the wild dragon incident, those two would have found another excuse to ignite war, dragging all of Westeros into their invasion of the Three Daughters.
"Since the day I was born, he's been giving me trouble."
Rhaegar smirked, then grew serious. "War is inevitable. Daemon is giving his all. Father will not mistreat his only brother."
Laenor forced a smile, exhaustion creasing her brows as her hand instinctively pressed against her belly.
—
Late at Night, Lord's Chambers
Rhaegar lay shirtless near the fireplace, eyes closed in slumber.
Outside, Vhagar's cries had faded, leaving only silence.
Inside the hearth, fragrant wood smoldered, casting flickering embers.
Unknowingly, Rhaegar slipped into a dream.
A dark bay, biting sea winds, towering orange flames...
Hundreds of warships clashed, catapults and scorpion bolts launching wildly. Faceless figures fought in brutal melee.
Beneath the silent night sky, blood and fire composed a terrible song.
In the waking world, Rhaegar's brow furrowed. His fingers twitched against his firm stomach.
—
At the Same Time, Three Sisters Islands, Bloody Gallows Port
A gang of ragged criminals huddled in a corner, shivering from the cold, gripping their curved blades.
Life in this lawless place was never easy.
"Have you heard? A Targaryen landed on Sisterton, riding a dragon made of gold."
A scarred brute wiped his nose—then wiped it on his companion—before gossiping.
His companion, a scrawny man with yellowed teeth, flinched away in disgust. "No shit. A dragonrider lands, and the whole island hears about it."
The scarred man sighed enviously. "The first thing that kid did after landing was run to a brothel. More impatient than me after a month at sea."
"That brothel's full of old women, and it's expensive as hell."
"What do you know? Maybe he likes them old."
"I heard Targaryens are all pretty. Wonder if that kid's got weird tastes..."
In the freezing wind, the gangsters' crude jokes carried a tinge of jealousy.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
In the middle of the night, a gust of sea wind, thick with the stench of blood and salt, howled through the port, chilling everyone to the bone.
Yellow-Toothed Monkey hugged himself tightly, shivering as he darted his eyes around. Suddenly, he froze, staring blankly toward the waters beyond Biter's Bay.
On the dimly lit sea, clusters of faint flickering lights swayed like ghostly flames, creeping toward the harbor.
"Look! There's a ship out there!"
Startled, Yellow-Toothed Monkey frantically shook his drowsy companion awake.
Scarface snapped his eyes open in irritation, following the other man's dirt-covered finger. His jaw instantly dropped in shock.
Illuminated by the eerie glow, the outlines of several warships became visible, their sails adorned with strange and unfamiliar symbols.
"Merc... mercenary fleet!"
Scarface gasped, leaping to his feet and drawing his curved blade.
The upper half of the Narrow Sea's trade routes had been sealed off—where had this foreign fleet come from?
Before he could finish his thought, the leading warship suddenly flared with firelight. A catapult launched a burning wooden beam straight toward the port.
Boom—
The flaming log crashed into the docks, landing directly among a group of gang members.
There wasn't even time for a scream before flesh and blood were blasted in all directions.
Ooooh—
A chilling war horn sounded, and countless torches ignited across the sea, illuminating a fleet of at least fifty well-equipped warships.
"Attack! Destroy the port!"
At the bow of the leading ship, the First Sword of Braavos raised his blade and shouted the order. The battle erupted in an instant.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Catapults hurled massive stones and flaming logs, bombarding the port without pause, reducing the already filthy harbor to a heap of ruin.
The Three Sisters Islands were rife with chaos—gangs and smugglers held immense power—but they were no match for mercenaries trained for war.
More than a dozen warships landed, and two thousand well-armed mercenaries stormed ashore, pillaging and slaughtering without hesitation.
"The rest of you, follow me! We march on Gulltown!"
The First Sword gave his command with a grim expression.
He was none other than Pylmon, the lean swordsman who served as the personal guard of the Sealord of Braavos.
Under orders from the Sealord, Pylmon had led the mercenary fleet through the Narrow Sea, breaking the blockade in secret and launching a surprise attack on several Westerosi ports under the cover of darkness.
The war in the Narrow Sea was worsening by the day—Myr had already fallen.
Many factions on the Essos continent had sensed the growing danger, their old fear of the dragon reborn in their hearts.
The Sealord of Braavos could no longer sit idly by. In secret, he had hired mercenaries to intervene in the conflict.
Their first target: White Harbor, the other major port on Biter's Bay.
Taking advantage of the night, they had launched a successful assault on White Harbor before turning their attention to the weaker Three Sisters Islands.
Ooooh—
The war horn blared again. A large portion of the fleet adjusted course, sailing swiftly toward Gulltown in the center of the Narrow Sea.
According to the Moon-Singer priests, the winds would be blowing south for the next few nights, allowing the warships to move at great speed.
Inside a damp, musty bedchamber, Aegon lay sprawled on a large, moldy bed, snoring drunkenly beside a sultry, mature woman. The stench of alcohol clung to him.
Boom!
An explosion suddenly erupted at the end of the alley, sending shards of wood flying and rattling the entire building.
"Mmm… gang fight again?"
Aegon groggily opened his eyes, still bleary from drink.
He assumed it was yet another brawl between the gangs and smugglers—nothing out of the ordinary. Forcing himself to stay awake, he prepared to watch the show.
"Kill them all! Loot the town!"
"...?"
Abruptly, the shouts of battle rang out from outside the brothel.
Aegon froze for a second. Then, in a panic, he scrambled out of bed.
The voices outside weren't speaking the Common Tongue.
They were shouting in High Valyrian—a language every Targaryen was required to learn. And the accent… it sounded strangely familiar.
"Foreign scum! They're even robbing the whores!"
Aegon's heart pounded wildly as he fumbled to dress himself.
He moved with the speed of someone who had clearly done this before.
Bang!
As soon as he flung open the rickety door, he crashed straight into a mercenary clad in brown leather armor.
Aegon's eyes widened in horror. Acting purely on instinct, he thrust his knee upward—
Right between the man's legs.
"AAARGH!!"
The mercenary collapsed instantly, clutching his crotch and howling in agony. A faint, gut-wrenching cracking sound could be heard.
Aegon winced at the noise before slamming the door shut behind him. As he ran, he muttered to himself, "Daemon's moves are actually useful!"
Screeech!
A piercing shriek echoed through the sky.
A massive golden dragon soared against the night sky.
Aegon wasn't stupid—he had never let his dragon stray too far, even when visiting a brothel.
He had deliberately chosen an isolated establishment, leaving Sunfyre waiting for him on the beach.
Hearing the familiar call, Aegon's face lit up with joy. He shoved aside the startled middle-aged madam, flung open the window, and shouted, "Sunfyre! Come here!"
Screeech!
Sunfyre circled overhead, its golden eyes gleaming with ferocity. Then, with a mighty breath, it unleashed a torrent of dragonfire upon the chaotic streets below.
"AAAAHHH!!"
"MONSTER!!"
The golden flames roared like a blazing pillar, consuming everything in its path—mercenaries and civilians alike.
"Alert! There's a dragon on the island!"
"Prepare the ballistae! Aim for its eyes!"
The sudden appearance of a dragon threw the invading mercenaries into disarray. Many scrambled into the shadows, fearing they would be incinerated.
Aegon anxiously watched Sunfyre from the window.
Then, he looked down.
Three stories high.
It was a long drop.
He hesitantly swung one leg over the window frame—then thought better of it and pulled it back in.
Screeech!
Sunfyre shrieked in excitement, its dragonfire engulfing the nearby wooden buildings.
It wove between the flames, gliding gracefully through the inferno.
It was like a dance.
Amid Aegon's impatient gaze, the dragon flapped its wings and slowly descended, its talons crushing the burning wooden house across from the brothel.
As the dragon arrived, the mercenaries scattered in a panic, leaving behind only the terrified screams of the brothel's women.
Aegon's eyes were nearly filled with tears. He bolted down the stairs, scrambling up onto the dragon's back with both hands and feet.
"Hiss… Gah…"
Sunfyre stretched its neck and spewed dragonfire at the fleeing mercenaries, engulfing a wide area of buildings in flames.
"Sunfyre, let's get out of here!"
Aegon, overwhelmed by panic, urged his dragon to take flight.
The mercenary attack on the Three Sisters Islands was likely orchestrated by Braavos.
He had to escape—now!
Sunfyre unleashed dragonfire for a while longer before flapping its wings and soaring into the night sky.
Whoosh—
From the shadows, a barrage of finely crafted steel crossbow bolts shot forth, densely targeting the golden-scaled dragon.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Bolts struck Sunfyre's chest and belly, sparking against his scales before bouncing off, leaving only shallow dents.
However, many of the bolts aimed for the dragon's shimmering pale pink wing membranes.
Thwack!
The bolts pierced through the delicate wing membrane, leaving tiny holes that oozed thin streaks of blood.
"Hiss… Gah!"
Sunfyre let out a pained screech, instinctively raising his wings higher, causing his flight to falter momentarily.
"Fire!"
The hidden mercenaries reloaded their crossbows, aiming once again at the dragon's wings.
Arrows rained down like droplets, and Sunfyre's golden eyes flared with fury. He ascended sharply, sweeping his wings in an attempt to swat the projectiles away.
Most of the bolts were deflected, but a few still pierced the wing membranes, leaving a scattering of holes.
Rip!
Suddenly, a bolt penetrated a small gap in Sunfyre's wing scales, embedding itself deep into the flesh and striking bone.
"GAHH!!"
Sunfyre let out a harrowing screech, his massive body trembling violently, nearly plummeting from the sky.
Aegon's face paled in horror. "Sunfyre, hold on! We have to get away!"
"Rrraaahh…"
Sunfyre let out a low, guttural growl, wisps of dragonfire seeping from his maw. He struggled to maintain balance, then swiftly climbed higher, breaking free from the range of the crossbows.
The mercenaries watched with frustration as the golden dragon disappeared into the thick clouds, vanishing into the darkness of the night.
…
Crab Isle, Sweetwater Keep.
In a luxurious bedroom, Helena, her silver-gold curls cascading over the pillow, clutched her blanket tightly as she slept on her side.
The young girl lay peacefully, the room filled with a faint, delicate fragrance.
Suddenly, Helena shuddered violently, her eyes snapping open as she gasped—
"Fire…"