High above, Daemon Targaryen rode astride Caraxes, narrowing his eyes as he watched the movement below.
He watched as the massive Vhagar began preparing to take flight.
His Blood Wyrm, Caraxes, was something of an aberration among dragons—growing at astonishing speed, yet possessing only one-third of Vhagar's size.
Caraxes's entire body was crimson as blood, the veins within his wing membranes clearly defined. As he circled in the air, his posture carried the distinctive aggression of a predator.
Savage, combative, cunning. Such was this dragon's temperament—much like that of his rider.
Daemon wore no armor, only a simple black-and-red leather outfit. His long silver hair whipped wildly in the wind.
"They're coming?" The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
Sensing his rider's mood, Caraxes let out a short, sharp hiss, adjusted the angle of his wings, and began to descend slowly, maintaining a delicate distance.
Close enough to observe, far enough to respond to any sudden change.
Daemon understood Vhagar well. The old she-dragon was violent and unpredictable.
She had once belonged to his wife, Laena.
Now, she was being ridden by a twelve-year-old madman.
"Madman…" Daemon murmured under his breath, unsure whether he was speaking of Aemond or of his former self.
He had once been the most dangerous prince in the realm, crossing the Narrow Sea to become a sellsword, simply to savor the feeling of killing.
In the streets of King's Landing, he had rebuilt a force of Gold Cloaks loyal only to him, executing those he deemed criminals.
That night in King's Landing alone, several thousand people were executed by him without trial—beheaded, or having their hands, arms, or legs cut off—an open provocation against the laws of the realm.
Some said he had murdered his first wife of the Vale simply because he did not like her.
He had also ridden his dragon to aid the Velaryons in seizing the Stepstones, personally killing the powerful pirate nicknamed the "Crab," who had been backed by the Kingdom of the Three Daughters.
Afterward, Daemon crowned himself, styling himself the "King of the Narrow Sea," thereby angering his brother Viserys.
At that time, the young Daemon did not conceal his desire for his brother's Iron Throne.
He believed that Viserys had no male heir, only an eldest daughter, Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra should have been married to him, and he himself should have become the king of the Seven Kingdoms.
He had even entertained the mad notion of murdering his brother and seizing the throne, but in the end, his brother Viserys's good-natured temperament, as well as the bond of brotherhood between them, kept him from ever carrying it out.
Now, he was no longer young. He understood that madness that burned within Targaryen blood—that reckless urge to prove something, to seize something, to destroy something.
Aemond's performance in the hall last night, those crazed eyes, and the blade finally pressed against his own eye socket…
It truly was alike.
Caraxes hovered in the air, his wings beating steadily.
Daemon kept his gaze fixed. If Vhagar were to lose control, if that boy tried to do anything—if he were to spew dragonfire over the skies above Driftmark—then he would have to act.
Vhagar—when the morning light first fully fell upon her—revealed her true immensity.
When she spread her wings, her shadow covered half the island.
The passage of years had left her somewhat ponderous, her movements no longer as swift as those of younger dragons. Yet that sense of mass—of every step making the earth tremble—was something no young dragon could ever match.
She beat her wings.
The first beat sent a violent gale surging forth, trees below whipping and swaying violently.
The second beat lifted her immense body from the ground.
The third beat carried her skyward.
Aemond clutched tightly to the scales, his entire body roiling as the sudden lift took hold.
The wind roared in his ears, no longer the chaotic shrieking of last night's storm.
High Tide shrank rapidly beneath his feet—its towers, walls, and the ships in the harbor all reduced to toys.
Then he saw Daemon.
The blood-red Caraxes was roughly two hundred and seventy meters to the northeast, holding a parallel course with him.
Daemon's figure was little more than a black speck amid the high-altitude winds, yet Aemond could feel that gaze—measuring, watchful.
Aemond turned his head. Across the raging wind and the distance between them, he locked eyes with his uncle.
In that instant, the morning light fell between the two dragons, casting two long shadows upon the sea as the ocean wind howled past.
Daemon smiled at Aemond.
Aemond did not respond.
He leaned forward, pressing himself against Vhagar's faintly warm scales, and issued a command in Valyrian.
Vhagar answered with a deafening roar, a sound that drowned out the wind and overwhelmed the crashing waves.
At that moment, everyone on Driftmark lifted their heads, staring at the colossal being—Vhagar…
She suddenly banked to the side, her wings beating hard as she accelerated toward the harbor.
Vhagar's movement at this moment was unexpectedly swift, wholly unlike that of a dragon so advanced in age, leaving a rolling wake of disturbed air behind her.
Caraxes paused for a brief instant in midair, then adjusted his course and followed at an unhurried pace.
Daemon watched the tiny figure upon Vhagar's back, his gaze complicated.
The boy truly had mastered her—at least for now.
But riding a dragon was never merely a matter of technique; it was a contest of will. A dragon could scent a rider's fear, hesitation, and weakness.
Within the castle, Rhaenyra stood by the window of her eldest son's chamber.
She watched Vhagar rise into the sky, watched that immense black shadow sweep across the harbor, watched Daemon's red dragon follow in the air, and finally watched Aemond, astride the oldest great dragon, fly in the direction of the king's fleet.
She felt a cold wariness toward Aemond. If she understood her uncle Daemon, then she understood this younger brother Aemond as well—both equally mad and dangerous, and uncontrollable…
"He has claimed her," she murmured, her voice dry.
"Who?" came a hoarse voice behind her, rough with the rasp of a hangover.
Rhaenyra did not turn around. She knew who it was—her husband, Laenor Velaryon, finally returned from some dockside tavern or some sailor's bed.
Laenor stepped up behind her.
He was still as handsome as ever, silver-haired and violet-eyed, with a straight, noble nose.
Only the disordered state of his clothes and the reek of wine upon him betrayed last night's indulgence.
He stood there with his collar open, his body still carrying the mingled scent of sea wind and perfume.
He followed her gaze toward the window, but there was nothing left to see—only an empty stretch of sky and the sea below, gradually brightening with dawn.
"Vhagar," Rhaenyra said. "Aemond rode her away—just now."
Laenor fell silent at her words for a moment, then let out a sigh.
He walked to the bedside and looked at Jacaerys, lying there with his left eye wrapped in thick bandages, still unconscious under the effects of milk of the poppy.
Half the boy's face was badly swollen. His exposed right eye was shut tight, his lashes trembling now and then, as if trapped in a nightmare.
"Seven save us," Laenor murmured, his voice filled with genuine pain.
He reached out, intending to touch the forehead of the son who was his in name, but stopped midway. He did not wish to wake the poor boy.
"I last night…" he began with difficulty. "I was at the harbor. By the time I heard the news… it was already too late. Rhaenyra, I—"
"Where you were no longer matters," Rhaenyra cut him off, finally turning around.
There were no tears left on her face now, only exhaustion.
"What matters is that little Jace has lost one eye."
"But I also made them pay a price."
Laenor looked at her—his wife, or rather, more like his younger sister.
The princess he had known since youth, who later became his partner through a political marriage.
She was breathtakingly beautiful, worthy of the name she bore—the Light of the Realm.
Even amid anger and grief, that sharp, unmistakable Targaryen beauty of Rhaenyra's remained dazzling.
But he had never felt desire for Rhaenyra.
"I am not a good husband," Laenor said.
"Nor am I a good father. I… I cannot give you what you need."
Rhaenyra stared at him, her expression holding anger, sorrow, disappointment—and relief.
"I tried as well, Laenor," she said.
"When we were first married, I also wanted to be a good wife."
"To bear true heirs for Driftmark, to continue the bloodlines of Targaryen and Velaryon."
Her voice began to tremble, but she forced herself to go on.
"But every time, you avoided me."
"You would rather drink with your captains, crowd into taverns with sailors, or…"
She paused, leaving the words unspoken, though both of them understood all too well.
Hearing this, Laenor's face went pale.
He wanted to argue, to apologize, but every word felt powerless at that moment.
"It was I who failed you," he said at last.
"No." Rhaenyra shook her head. A single tear finally slipped free, but she quickly wiped it away.
"You could not love me, and I could not endure loneliness and neglect."
She walked to the window, turning her back to him, looking out at Driftmark as the sun slowly rose.
"I do not regret it, Laenor."
"Even if the people of the Seven Kingdoms curse me as a whore, even if those rumors spread throughout the realm, saying my sons are bastards… I do not regret it."
"Because at the very least, I lived. I chose. I chose what I wanted."
Laenor stood there, as if all strength had been drained from him.
Should he be angry?
As a husband, his wife had been unfaithful, and none of the three sons were of his blood.
Yet he could not summon anger—only a deep sense of guilt.
Rhaenyra had given him chances. It was only that instinct of the body that made him incapable of responding.
"You and Daemon…" he said with difficulty, forcing out the name.
This marriage had been a torment to him.
He had even imagined divorcing her, as the nobles of the eastern continent did.
But under the influence of the Faith of the Seven in Westeros, there was no such option as divorce.
Rhaenyra's gaze flickered; for a brief instant there was panic, but it was quickly replaced by resolve.
"That is a matter for later," she said, regaining her composure.
"For now, we have more pressing concerns."
"Little Jace's eye, and the betrothal between Jace and Helaena."
She did not finish the sentence, but Laenor understood.
Laenor drew a deep breath and walked to the door.
Before leaving, he turned back to look at Rhaenyra one last time.
"I will do what I must," he said. "As the father of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey—before the public."
He paused for a moment.
"I am sorry—for everything I could not be."
He pushed the door open and left, his footsteps gradually fading along the stone corridor.
Rhaenyra stood alone by the window, the morning light gilding her long silver hair with gold.
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