Caraxes... the Blood Wyrm...
Every beat of that red dragon's wings struck Prince Baelon's memory like a heavy hammer. And now, riding atop it was his own son, Daemon Targaryen.
"You found a new master after all..." Baelon's fingertips traced the cold stone window ledge, lingering on a mark he and Aemon had carved there years ago: a crooked dragon shape with the words "Caraxes and Vhagar, Never Fall" beside it.
Back then, Aemon always said that when he had a son, he would pass Caraxes down to the next generation, so the name of the "Blood Wyrm" would ring through the skies forever. But now, it had passed to Baelon's son instead.
Baelon's knuckles rapped against the stone of the Hall of Dragonfire, producing a dull, hollow sound.
The sulfur crystals accumulated on the window lattice shuddered and fell, dusting his deep purple velvet cloak like a handful of crushed diamonds. As a father, he naturally knew Daemon had long since claimed Caraxes—it was something he had personally nodded his approval to.
Three years ago, when a thirteen-year-old Daemon first timidly touched Caraxes's scales, Baelon had been standing in the shadows of the Dragonpit.
At that time, Aemon had been dead for two years. Caraxes huddled in the deepest part of the cave, his scales having lost their luster, his very breath carrying a whimper of grief.
This scarlet beast was not as the world claimed: a heartless monster that had rested and eaten six goats while Prince Aemon lay with a crossbow bolt through his throat.
Daemon had held a piece of fresh venison like a precious treasure, inching toward the red dragon step by step. His calves were trembling like autumn leaves in the wind, but he stiffened his neck and said, "Uncle Aemon said brave dragons like brave knights."
Baelon had almost laughed out loud, and almost cried.
He watched his son get knocked down by Caraxes's breath, only to climb up, wipe his face, and offer the meat again. He watched his son get thrown against the rock wall by the red dragon, clutching his arm and saying, "I was standing in the wrong spot."
He watched his son suddenly burst out of the Dragonpit on Caraxes one morning, sending the dragonkeepers scrambling to blow their horns, while he sat in the council chamber, pretending not to hear the dragon roar outside or the guards' shouts of alarm.
"That was Aemon's dragon, and it should be yours too," Baelon had later said, patting his son on the shoulder, feeling the prominent bones of the boy's scapula—marks left by countless falls.
The nickname "Blood Wyrm" was given by Aemon, who said that when angry, the dragon was like a venomous worm burrowing into one's veins, squeezing the breath out of you. Now, this "venomous worm" had been tamed by Daemon into obedience. Yet, chasing The Cannibal in the night sky, it revealed the same ferocity it had shown under Aemon's command.
Baelon shifted his gaze from Caraxes to the stranger riding on The Cannibal's back. Daemon Blackfyre's silver hair shone with a cold light under the moon. His posture on the black dragon was like a panther poised to strike—completely different from Daemon Targaryen's flamboyant riding style, yet radiating the same ruthless intensity.
The Cannibal was unbelievably docile.
That vicious dragon, which had bitten off the arms of three dragonkeepers and treated the bones of the pit guards as snacks, was now allowing another boy to maneuver on its back. It even deliberately slowed down when Caraxes approached—just like Vhagar had done when Baelon first rode her. She could have easily thrown him off, but instead, she had gently swept his waist with her tail, as if mocking him, yet protecting him.
And Caraxes, facing The Cannibal, put away his usual aggression. Even the arc of his dragonfire was restrained, as if he knew this black dragon was a companion, not an enemy.
Suddenly, both dragons ascended simultaneously, spreading their massive wings before the full moon. The scarlet of Caraxes and the pitch-black of The Cannibal formed a stark contrast in the moonlight, yet they were strangely harmonious, like a painting split apart and pieced back together. Baelon watched Daemon Targaryen reach out from Caraxes's back toward the other Daemon. He watched the two silver-haired boys high-five in the sky and suddenly covered his mouth—the scene was too much like him and Aemon.
That year, he had just turned eighteen. He and Aemon flew their dragons over Blackwater Bay. Aemon waved to him from Caraxes's back, silver hair plastered messily to his sweat-dampened forehead, calling him a "slowpoke Vhagar rider." Baelon laughed and urged Vhagar to speed up, flying shoulder-to-shoulder with Caraxes, their dragons' shadows intertwining on the sea surface like two entangled giant serpents.
The wind was warm then, carrying the salt of the Narrow Sea; the dragonfire was bright, illuminating their young faces.
"Aemon..." Baelon's voice choked, tears finally blurring his vision. He saw Caraxes suddenly let out a long, resonant roar. It carried a note of mourning, yet also the joy of rebirth, as if declaring to the sky: I have not forgotten my old master, but I have accepted my new rider.
In the distance, toward Driftmark, Corlys Velaryon's flagship had just dropped anchor.
The Sea Snake stood at the prow, watching the two intertwined flames in the night sky over Dragonstone. His fingers tightly gripped the pearl-handled dagger at his waist, the iridescence flickering in his eyes as if he were calculating an approaching storm.
Deep in the Dragonpit, the ancient Vhagar opened her cloudy eyes.
She had long grown accustomed to darkness and solitude, but the familiar dragon roar in the night sky startled her awake.
When the sound of Caraxes reached her, this giant dragon, who had witnessed countless rises and falls, slowly raised her head and let out a low rumble of response. Her breath stirred the ash at the bottom of the pit, revealing half a bone handle carved with a dragon crest buried underneath—it was the hilt of a dagger Aemon had dropped years ago when feeding her for Baelon.
Daemon Blackfyre lay flat on The Cannibal's back, feeling the giant dragon's heartbeat gradually synchronize with his own pulse.
The brand on his right shoulder no longer burned with pain. Instead, it felt like a warm heart, resonating with Caraxes's roar, The Cannibal's breathing, and even Vhagar's distant response.
He looked at Daemon Targaryen beside him, watched the scarlet dragonfire of Caraxes bloom in the night sky, and suddenly understood that this crossing might never have been an accident.
The two dragons soared upward again, swallowing the full moon in a web of interwoven dragonfire. The laughter of Blackfyre and Targaryen echoed in the night sky, piercing through the sulfur mist, crossing Blackwater Bay, and spreading to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms—the sky of 97 AC now had two dragons.
One scarlet as blood, inheriting the glory of the old master; one pitch-black as night, carrying the storm of the future. And their riders, two boys named Daemon, were riding the dragons of destiny, carving their own trajectories across the firmament of history.
Suddenly, both dragons climbed higher, breaking through the mist layer and spreading their wings under the full moon. The Cannibal let out a long, resonant roar—no longer a vicious scream, but a loud, declarative bellow. Baelon's fingers dug deep into the tassels of his cloak—he knew that from this night on, the sky over Dragonstone would change.
Daemon Blackfyre looked down at The Cannibal beneath him, then up at the scarlet dragon beside him. Dragonfire wove together in the night sky like two burning rivers. He knew that from this moment on, the sky of 97 AC no longer belonged only to the red dragon of House Targaryen—a black dragon from the future had broken its cage.
And in distant King's Landing, King Jaehaerys's throne still flickered in the candlelight, oblivious that a rebel from a century later had, in his era, mounted the most vicious dragon of all.
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