Beneath the dusk.
At this moment, within King's Landing, the Dragonpit upon Rhaenys's Hill had never been so crowded, nor so perilous.
Daemon and his Black faction had withdrawn to this place. When they mounted their dragons and turned toward the exit, the last slanting rays of the dying sun pierced within, lighting the drifting dust—
—and revealing the vast shadow that blocked the mouth of the pit, its hide cloaked in grey-green scales.
Vhagar.
The oldest and greatest mother-dragon in Westeros lay stretched across the only way out.
Her head rested upon her foreclaws. Molten-gold eyes stood open, and with each long breath she drew, searing currents of air stirred and white smoke reeking of brimstone spilled from her jaws.
And upon the thick rise at the root of her neck sat Aemond.
The youth's figure seemed gaunt beneath the bulk of the ancient dragon, yet he held himself rigid and straight.
Silver hair whipped in the crosswind. He wore black and crimson armor, the dragon sigils upon it glinting in the sunset.
One hand rested lightly upon Vhagar's scales, rough as stone. His violet gaze lowered as he watched the Black faction before him with a faint smile.
Beside him, the young black dragon Lothorne shifted uneasily.
He was but eight meters long, his scales dark and lustrous. Now he spread his wings and loosed a sharp, defiant hiss, staring fixedly at the larger dragons across from him.
Daemon reined in Caraxes.
The red-and-black dragon beneath him, its long neck sinuous as a serpent's, gave a displeased rumble and came to a halt.
"Daemon." Rhaenyra's voice carried from Syrax's back, trembling as she gazed upon Vhagar.
Her three sons—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey—had already mounted their own young dragons.
Vermax. Arrax. Tyraxes.
All three were still small. The largest measured but some fifteen meters in length; the smallest was scarcely larger than a warhorse.
Daemon gave no answer. His gaze swept upward.
More than a hundred Hightower soldiers stood upon the stone platforms flanking the Dragonpit's exit, bows in hand.
Their faces were tight with strain. The hands that gripped their weapons were drawn hard, fear plain to see—yet none stepped back. Arrowheads and spearpoints dipped slightly downward, trained upon them.
Deep within the Dragonpit, the dragonkeepers had already fled to the shadows and the shelter of the pillars.
"Bastard little whelp," Daemon muttered under his breath.
He weighed it in his mind. The Dragonpit offered space enough, yet there was but a single exit, now sealed by Vhagar.
To fight here would mean dragonfire setting all ablaze. Falling stone might bury every dragon present—including Sunfyre, Tessarion, and Dreamfyre still in their lairs deeper within on the Greens' side.
Mutual destruction?
Perhaps. But Rhaenyra and the children would die first.
Caraxes sensed his rider's tension; from the scales along his neck seeped white smoke tinged with the scent of scorching.
He stepped forward. This belligerent male had never known fear. Even faced with Vhagar's age and vastness, it only stirred his savagery to greater heights.
Syrax gave a clear yet wary hiss.
The three young dragons uttered sounds that wavered between threat and fear.
Vhagar answered.
From deep within her throat rolled a low rumble, as though it rose from the bowels of the earth.
The sound made the air tremble; dust sifted down from the dome above.
Beside her, Lothorne's shriek grew sharper and more urgent.
The reek of brimstone, the coppery scent peculiar to dragons, and the dust mingled together, stifling in their heat.
At last Aemond moved.
He raised a hand and lightly patted Vhagar's neck—no more than a simple gesture.
Vhagar's molten-gold eyes lifted; her slit pupils narrowed to cruel lines, her gaze locking upon the belligerent Caraxes.
Caraxes roared, fangs bared, the white smoke thickening.
"Silence!" Daemon barked.
His Blood Wyrm shook his head in displeasure, but the roar subsided, though those blood-red eyes still fixed upon the old mother-dragon.
Daemon lifted his head, his gaze crossing a hundred paces of gloom to the Aemond who looked down upon them.
Aemond spoke first.
"His Grace lies insensible," he said.
"Yet he has matters left unfinished. Uncle, sister—why be in such haste to depart?"
Daemon bared his teeth in a grin.
"If we do not leave now, I fear not even our bones will remain once you are done gnawing them."
"What has happened here today—this was your doing, was it not, boy?"
Aemond was silent for a moment.
Otto's rash move in the throne room—the coup that began with a flourish and ended in nothing—
"You may think as you please," he said at last, without the least trace of feeling. He did not care to explain.
"Stand aside," Daemon said, the warmth draining from his voice.
"Else we shall settle it here."
"Consider well—how many dragons' fury can this great stone hall endure?"
"Sunfyre, Tessarion, Dreamfyre… they are still within."
"Brother!"
"Brother!"
The cries of Aegon and Daeron came from behind, clear with alarm.
Aemond shook his head. "If you dare bring this place down, I swear none of you shall fly out."
"With Vhagar guarding this ground—at this distance, on this terrain… uncle, you know well who holds the advantage."
He spoke the truth.
Caraxes might harry Vhagar beneath the open sky, but here, at this narrow exit with no room to maneuver, to meet Vhagar head-on—her massive bulk and dreadful strength—
There was no hope of victory.
Moreover, Rhaenyra's Syrax, like her rider, was prolific—but had no experience in battle.
And those three young dragons were an even greater burden.
As matters stood, Daemon's only chance would be to kill the rider and seize the moment of Vhagar's confusion.
But Aemond was plainly no fool who had come unprepared. What was more, there was a second young dragon at his side.
Daemon looked toward Rhaenyra.
Though her face was pale, in her eyes—beyond fear—there lay a near-despairing resolve.
If driven to the brink, she would choose mutual destruction.
At that moment, Aemond spoke again: "His Grace has given a command."
All were taken aback.
Aemond's gaze swept across the Black faction and at last came to rest upon Rhaenyra's face.
"You may leave."
Then his hand rose, and he pointed steadily at the three brothers—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey.
"But those three—Jacaerys Velaryon, Lucerys Velaryon, Joffrey Velaryon—are now heirs to Driftmark."
"Their dragons must remain."
"This was the command His Grace gave me before he fell insensible."
Dead silence.
Then Jacaerys's voice exploded: "What did you say?!"
"You would take our dragons?!"
Vermax felt his rider's fury and reared, loosing a sharp roar—but within the vast pit, it sounded pitifully weak.
Aemond spoke again, calm as before.
"I merely convey the King's command."
"The King's command?" Rhaenyra trembled with rage.
"Father lies insensible!"
"Aemond—by whose authority do you speak?!"
Aemond's face did not change. "If the Princess and uncle doubt it, you may return with me to the Red Keep and ask His Grace in person."
Daemon almost laughed at Aemond's shamelessness.
But suddenly, from behind—
"ROAR!!!"
"SKREEEE!!!"
Heavy footfalls and dragon-cries rolled from deep within the Dragonpit.
Daemon and Rhaenyra turned.
In the gloom of the cavern, two vast shapes were being guided forward by the dragonkeepers, slowly pressing nearer.
On the left was Prince Aegon's Sunfyre, his body gleaming gold.
On the right was Prince Daeron's Tessarion, her scales sky-blue.
Both dragons growled uneasily, their eyes glinting in the dark.
"Sunfyre! Here!" Aegon shouted.
"Tessarion!" Daeron's voice rang out as well.
Hearing their riders' calls, the two dragons grew more agitated and tried to press forward—but the Black faction's dragons blocked their path.
Aemond let out a soft breath.
It seemed that some of the dragonkeepers still obeyed them.
Two adult dragons now sealed their way of retreat inward.
Sunfyre and Tessarion might not equal Vhagar, yet they were both full-grown dragons capable of spewing flame.
With Lothorne added… the balance became four against five.
But those three young dragons—did they possess any true strength for battle…?
Daemon's heart sank, as though plunging into an icy abyss.
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