"Brother!!!"
This time the despairing roar came from Aegon.
Sunfyre was under attack from Silverwing and grievously wounded, but when Aegon turned his head and saw his brother swallowed by flame, a surge of fury erupted from the depths of his bones.
It was the fury of blood-bound brothers—when one sees his own kin devoured by fire, a rage fierce enough to burn away all cowardice.
"Sunfyre!" Aegon howled, his voice twisted with pain. "Turn back! Kill him for me!!"
The golden dragon felt it.
Sunfyre's exhausted, battered body rekindled with strength beneath Aegon's roar, and in the depths of its pupils a flame of the same blood ignited.
It no longer paid any heed to Silverwing's claw strike from the left.
At the very moment Silverwing was about to tear open the wound on its left wing for the third time, Sunfyre twisted its scarred body, beat the air with its relatively uninjured right wing, and hurled itself headlong toward Grey Ghost, who was breathing fire.
Miraxes's entire attention was fixed on Vermithor's back—fixed on the man who had slain his brother.
He longed to see Aemond turned to charcoal in the flames, and his face had even twisted with the savage delight of vengeance.
Never had he imagined that Aegon—the "coward" who had been treated as prey all along, fleeing in such miserable fashion—would suddenly erupt in such a desperate counterattack.
"What?! Miraxes! Watch out!" Saera cried out in alarm when she glimpsed it from Silverwing's back—but it was already too late.
Sunfyre's impact landed squarely.
With its relatively intact right shoulder, it slammed violently into Grey Ghost's comparatively vulnerable chest.
Grey Ghost let out a sharp, agonized shriek, and the flames it had been spewing toward Vermithor came to an abrupt halt.
The blow sent it tumbling three full turns through the air. Miraxes on its back was caught completely off guard and was flung from the saddle. Only by clutching the dragon's neck with both hands did he avoid falling, the savage joy of vengeance on his face instantly replaced by shock at the sudden attack.
The Sheepstealer and Lothorne were still locked in combat high above.
Lothorne noticed that his master Aemond had been struck by dragonfire and let out a sharp dragon's cry, plunging straight downward, no longer paying any heed to the Sheepstealer.
The flames dispersed…
Vermithor's back was charred black, the bronze scales sizzling and giving off blue smoke.
Yet in the center of that scorched blackness, a figure slowly stood up again.
Aemond.
The clothing on his upper body had already turned to ash in the dragonfire, revealing a lean but bleeding torso.
His skin was smeared with dragon's blood, yet strangely bore no severe burn marks—only large patches of skin had turned a terrifying crimson, as though just taken from a furnace, with faint heat steaming from his body.
His silver hair whipped wildly in the scorching currents of air, with scattered sparks flickering at the tips.
The Blackfyre sword was still clenched in his hand, its blade faintly humming under the intense heat.
He stood there, upon the charred and smoking dragon's back, and in his uninjured violet eye the flames burned with even greater savagery.
Morning light shone from behind him, outlining him with a ring of blood-red radiance, while the heat steaming from his skin distorted the air.
"This is impossible!" Miraxes was stunned.
But hatred quickly overwhelmed his shock.
"Kill him! Grey Ghost! Use your claws! Use your teeth! Tear him to pieces!"
Grey Ghost spread its claws and pounced.
Aemond held the sword with both hands, watching the grey dragon drawing ever closer.
"Sunfyre!!" Aegon's roar sounded again.
Sunfyre used the last of its strength and crashed into Grey Ghost for the second time.
This time it was not a collision, but a grapple.
At the very instant Grey Ghost was about to reach Vermithor's back, Sunfyre clamped its hind legs tightly around the grey dragon's waist.
The two young dragons tangled together in the sky, claws hooking into one another, fangs tearing at each other, wings beating wildly as they rolled away from the path of the pounce.
"Grey Ghost, burn him to death!" Miraxes roared.
"Breathe fire, Sunfyre! Burn him to death!!" Aegon howled.
Sunfyre opened its jaws.
Grey Ghost opened its mouth at the same moment.
The two dragons were locked together at extremely close range.
Almost face to face, they spewed dragonfire at the same time.
Two streams of dragonfire collided between the two dragons, erupting in a blinding flash and a thunderous roar.
The flames were compressed within the narrow gap, scales melting, flesh charring.
Both dragons let out agonized roars, yet neither released its grip, neither ceased spewing fire.
Aemond gripped the reins that controlled Vermithor, watching everything unfold.
Vhagar was locked in a brutal struggle.
Silverwing cut in from the rear flank, biting toward the ancient dragon's neck—one of its most vulnerable places.
Clang!
Dragon fangs struck dragon scales with a deafening metallic crash.
Silverwing's teeth scraped across the scales along Vhagar's neck, scattering sparks, yet left only several shallow white marks upon the grey-black armor of scales, not even fully piercing the outermost layer of keratin.
Two hundred years of age had made every scale of Vhagar undergo countless cycles of shedding and regrowth, their hardness and thickness far surpassing those of younger dragons.
That bite only caused several scales to lift slightly, a single bead of blood seeping out—something that did not even count as a light wound to Vhagar.
Vhagar's amber slit-pupil instantly narrowed into a dangerous line, and within it a cold fury ignited.
She turned her head, no longer even paying heed to Vermithor struggling beneath her claws. Her massive head swung toward Silverwing, her jaws opening.
Not to bite—but to roar in fury.
That draconic might, mixed with scorching breath reeking of sulfur, burst forth and nearly blew Silverwing away outright.
The silver she-dragon tumbled through the air. Saera screamed and clung desperately to the saddle, the twisting pain in her abdomen nearly causing her to faint.
But it was not over.
The Sheepstealer joined the fray.
Diving down from even higher in the sky, the Sheepstealer opened its massive jaws and unleashed a stream of fire, aiming at the already wounded base of the old dragon's left wing.
Dark red flames poured over the base of Vhagar's left wing.
This time, it worked.
The scales at the base of the old dragon's wing had already been cracked by Vermithor's tail strike; now, under the burning flames of the Sheepstealer, the shattered scales peeled away further, exposing fresh, crimson flesh beneath.
The searing heat turned the exposed flesh into something like charred coal. The unbearable pain made Vhagar unleash a thunder-shaking roar of agony, and for the first time true anger appeared in that sound.
Not the ferocity of battle—but the fury of being attacked by her own offspring.
Silverwing. Vermithor. Sheepstealer.
Three dragons, all her progeny.
Yet now all were her enemies.
Vhagar went completely mad.
She abandoned all tactics, abandoned all skill, venting her rage with the most primitive of flames.
The old dragon beat her wings with full force, blasting Vermithor away just as he was about to pounce again. Then she twisted her massive body and aimed her jaws at Silverwing, who had only just steadied herself, and the Sheepstealer, who was still diving.
She breathed fire.
Ink-green liquid flame poured toward Silverwing and the Sheepstealer.
Saera saw it.
The instinct of a mother overrode everything—not for herself, but for the child in her womb.
She did not want to continue any longer. This battle might well end with everyone perishing together.
With the last of her strength she yanked at the dragon reins and began screaming, "Climb! Silverwing! Climb at full speed!!!"
The silver she-dragon also sensed the mortal danger.
She tilted her head upward without hesitation, beating her wings wildly and surging skyward at an almost vertical angle.
The flames swept past her belly, the heat scorching her scales and leaving blackened marks, but she managed to avoid the fatal blow.
The Sheepstealer was not so fortunate.
His diving momentum was too great, and the rider on his back had no control over him. The ink-green flames struck his softer chest and belly squarely.
"Roar!!!"
The Sheepstealer let out a shriek more miserable than any before.
The flames clung to the scales of his chest and belly, burning continuously, the temperature so high that even steel could melt.
The rider was thrown about by the violent rolling, clinging desperately to the saddle. She cried out in tears, "Sheepstealer! Save me!"
Sheepstealer heard her.
Perhaps the cry of the girl on his back awakened him, or perhaps the searing agony in his chest and belly made him realize that he had to escape.
The Sheepstealer no longer tried to fight. Beating his wings with all his strength, he fled toward the eastern sea, climbing higher and higher until he finally vanished beyond the distant horizon, leaving only a trail of black smoke across the sky.
Silverwing had escaped disaster. She let out a howl toward Vermithor, who was still battling Vhagar, trying to rouse the bronze giant from his frenzy.
Vermithor and Silverwing shared a deep bond.
Saera on Silverwing's back had gone deathly pale, a twisting pain surging through her abdomen.
Her lips were bitten bloody, both hands clutching the saddle as she urged Silverwing upward, trying to pull away from the battlefield and fly eastward toward Tyrosh.
She no longer wished to take part in the fight. Otherwise, the child might not survive.
As for Vermithor, he had witnessed beloved Silverwing attacked and the Sheepstealer wounded and fleeing.
The hesitation in the bronze dragon's eyes vanished completely.
He was no longer driven by pain, nor was he fighting because of a rider's command.
Now Vermithor was roused by Silverwing's anguished cry calling to him—a call that awakened the purest ferocity of a predator within him.
He released a thunder-shaking roar.
There was no longer pain in the sound, only fury.
With his foreclaws—massive talons sheathed in the thickest bronze scales—he slashed violently toward Vhagar's belly.
This time, it broke through.
The scales along Vhagar's belly were comparatively thin, one of the dragonkind's weaknesses. Vermithor seized the opportunity.
The bronze claws pierced the grey scales and drove deep into the flesh of the ancient dragon's belly.
"ROAR!!!"
Vhagar's cry of agony shook the heavens.
Blood poured from the old dragon's belly as she thrashed wildly, her wings beating up gale-force winds while her tail lashed toward Vermithor.
But Vermithor would not release his grip.
He braced his hind legs against Vhagar's chest ribs, forcing the ancient dragon downward with his weight, while his other foreclaw dug into the wound in Vhagar's shoulder.
Locked together, the two dragons tumbled and spiraled downward toward the volcanic crater at the center of Dragonstone.
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