"Aemond! I can't hold on any longer!" Aegon roared in despair. "Sunfyre can't stay aloft anymore! His right wing is injured! We… we're going to fall!"
Aemond looked back.
Sunfyre was indeed descending slowly.
Every beat of the golden dragon's wings looked labored, and the mist of blood spilling from him was growing denser. His molten-gold body was covered in claw marks and scorched black burns.
Aegon was slumped over the saddle, his face as pale as paper.
At most, he could hold on for a few more minutes.
A few minutes later, under this kind of assault, Sunfyre would lose altitude and crash onto the black-rock coast, or be torn apart completely by Silverwing and Grey Ghost.
And on his side...
The struggle between Vhagar and Vermithor had entered a battle of attrition. Both dragons were wounded, both were bleeding, both were fighting through pain.
But Vhagar was more experienced. She was dealing the greatest damage at the smallest cost, while Vermithor was relying entirely on brute force and fury to keep going. Yet the wound at the side of his neck was bleeding without stop, and his movements were already beginning to slow.
If they kept fighting like this, Vhagar would win.
But it would take time.
Sunfyre could not wait that long.
Aegon could not wait that long.
Aemond was drenched in dragon blood, and the heat rising from it made his own blood begin to boil.
Everything before his eyes became sharply clear, as though time itself had slowed.
Vhagar was in the middle of a savage collision with Vermithor. The two dragons were bracing against each other with their forelimbs, their jaws tearing at one another from point-blank range, their wings beating madly to maintain altitude.
This was the most primitive kind of contest, a pure struggle of strength.
Aemond shouted in Valyrian, in the ancient High Valyrian that dragons could understand.
"Close in! Now! I'm going to kill him! Go kill those two dragons!"
After a vicious bite, the old dragon did not fall back. Instead, she locked her foreclaws tightly onto Vermithor's shoulders—not to attack, but to pin him in place.
The old dragon's strength kept the bronze giant from breaking free at once, and the two dragons fell into a brief deadlock in the sky.
Their wings beat wildly, and dragon blood mixed with scalding breath as it sprayed through the air.
The dragons' heads were less than six meters apart. Amber and crimson slit pupils met, mother dragon and son dragon locked in the most primitive contest of strength.
The distance closed to six meters.
Four and a half meters.
Three meters.
Aemond leapt from the saddle.
Time seemed to stretch in that instant.
Valos saw that silver-haired youth leap from Vhagar's back, cutting an arc through the air in a forward-slanting jump.
The first thought in his mind was not fear, but absurdity.
Boarding?
Hundreds of meters in the air? Between two gigantic dragons locked in a mad struggle, liable to roll over and plummet at any moment?
He was insane!
A complete and utter madman!
But that sense of absurdity lasted only for an instant.
Because Aemond really had jumped over.
In a single leap, he crossed the gap, gripping Blackfyre in both hands and driving it viciously down into a gap between the dragon's scales!
The blade pierced dragonflesh, and Aemond used Blackfyre to steady himself.
Vermithor let out a furious roar. There was a bug on his back, and it had bitten him painfully.
The bronze giant rolled sideways with all his strength, trying to throw Aemond off.
His entire body rolled downward, and even Valos could no longer control Vermithor. Fortunately, he was tied down by iron chains, or he would have fallen off.
With one hand, Aemond clutched the hilt of Blackfyre, still buried in flesh. With the other, he gripped an upturned scale.
His five fingers were embedded in the gap between the scales like iron hooks. His fingernails split and bled at once, yet he did not let go, his whole body hanging in the air.
Vermithor could not keep diving backward like that for long, or he really would fall from the sky, so he quickly rolled back upright.
Seizing that chance, Aemond yanked out Blackfyre, and dragon blood sprayed out. The scorching dragon blood splashed all over him.
Then he drew on the strength of his waist and abdomen and charged forward wildly!
Vermithor gave an even more furious roar.
Now, only a few steps separated him from Valos.
Vermithor spun again in fury, and Aemond had no choice but to cling to the scales and grit his teeth through it, feeling only unbearable pain in both hands.
Valos looked at that madman drenched in dragon blood, his whole body trembling.
This lunatic... was fighting a boarding battle atop two dragons that were rolling, diving, and climbing in mad frenzy?!
Valos began to release one hand from the saddle ring and, trembling, reached for his waist. It was not an ordinary safety strap, but an iron chain as thick as a wrist, wrapped around him three times and firmly locked to the base of the saddle.
But at this moment, that protection had become a deadly restraint.
Vermithor returned to a normal flying posture, and Aemond slowly rose to his feet, Blackfyre hanging at his side, and stood firm.
There was a smile on Aemond's dragon-blood-smeared face.
"You are going to die."
"Bastard."
He stepped forward.
Panicked, Valos could not undo the iron chain binding him in time. Aemond gave him no chance and tore off his helmet with one yank.
Rip—!
Valos's face was exposed—twisted with fear. In his thirties, his silver hair was soaked with sweat and stuck to his forehead. His violet eyes were wide open, his face filled with despair.
"Wait—!" Valos shrieked.
Blackfyre thrust forward.
It was a straight thrust.
Simple. Direct.
The sword was driven straight toward his head.
The tip pierced into Valos's open mouth.
It drove into the cranial cavity, punched through the back of his skull with such brutality that half the blade of Blackfyre protruded from the rear of his head.
Thud.
The sound was dull.
Valos's body suddenly stiffened. His eyes widened further, and the light in them quickly faded.
Aemond twisted his wrist, turning the blade half a circle inside the skull.
Then he pulled the sword out.
Blood and brain matter gushed from the front and rear wounds. Valos's body went limp, but because of the iron chains binding him, he only collapsed onto the saddle. His head drooped weakly, and blood bubbled steadily from the hole at the back of his neck.
The corpse twitched a few times, then stopped moving.
Aemond did not even look at it.
With his left hand, he seized the edge of the saddle. With his right, he swung his sword toward the iron chain.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Three strikes.
Valyrian steel cut through the iron chain like dry grass.
Valos's corpse slid off and fell from the saddle, tumbling toward the black coast below.
The body smashed apart upon the rocks, bursting into a small cloud of blood before the sea swallowed it.
Aemond did not take Vermithor's saddle.
He knew it was impossible. Vermithor was a fully grown dragon; having lost his rider, he would only become more ferocious and uncontrollable.
But at that very instant—
"Brother!!!"
A shrill scream came from the sky to the right.
Miraxes had witnessed the entire process.
The bastard had still been clumsily pursuing Sunfyre on Grey Ghost. Now, seeing his elder brother killed, nothing remained in his mind but pure hatred.
His entire face twisted with extreme fury.
"Kill him! Grey Ghost! Burn him to death!" Miraxes screamed hoarsely in Valyrian, completely forgetting fear as both hands yanked madly at the dragon's reins.
Grey Ghost felt his rider's violent emotions.
The gray dragon turned and let out a sharp shriek, its wings beating hard as it carved a tight arc through the air and lunged toward that silver-haired figure on Vermithor's back.
When the distance closed to thirty meters, Grey Ghost opened his jaws. Deep in his throat, an orange-red glow ignited.
Dragonfire burst forth.
It was the typical orange-red flame of a young dragon, pouring down like a waterfall over Vermithor's back and completely swallowing Aemond.
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