At this moment, in the Riverlands, at Riverrun.
Morning sunlight streamed in through the eastern window, casting a wash of gold across the bedchamber in the main keep.
Lord Grover Tully lay propped against his sickbed, his face pale and bloodless.
His eyes were half-closed. His chest rose and fell slowly, and with each breath, a faint rattling sound came from his throat.
The bastard, Raylon, stood at the old lord's bedside, watching him uneasily.
The young man was the bastard son of Lord Bracken. Nineteen this year.
Two weeks ago, he had arrived at Riverrun with his father's two young sons—his half-brothers—seeking the protection of Lord Tully.
His father, Humfrey Bracken, was already dead.
The old Lord Bracken had chosen the Greens in the struggle between the Greens and the Blacks.
But he had done one clever thing.
Raylon lowered his head, looking at the old man on the bed.
"My lord," he said softly, "your condition…"
Grover looked at him as well.
His eyes were clouded, yet there was still a glint of light deep within them.
Suddenly, the old lord smiled.
"They're all waiting for me to die," he said, his voice hoarse and low.
"Those traitorous vassals—and my own kin."
"Fools… all of them…"
He paused, coughing a few times.
"But those fools have forgotten…"
"We are contending with dragons."
Raylon froze.
"With dragons?"
"You still think this is merely a civil war within House Targaryen?" Grover looked at him, a sharpness flashing through his murky gaze.
"No, boy."
Raylon opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Grover went on, "Lord Bracken was clever."
"He died with dignity—and made preparations on both sides."
"No matter who wins in the future, no one will settle accounts with his sons afterward."
"But I am different…"
He closed his eyes helplessly.
"We are different…"
Raylon asked cautiously, "Then… is there no way out?"
Grover opened his eyes again.
"There is one possibility," he said.
"That both sides exhaust themselves."
Raylon listened intently.
"That in this war, neither side truly wins."
"Neither can swallow the other, and in the end, the Seven Kingdoms return to peace."
Grover's voice was very soft, as if he were speaking more to himself than to anyone else.
"But that possibility will never come to pass."
"Both the Greens and the Blacks of House Targaryen have dragons. To them, so-called castles are no more than stoves."
"A touch—and they burn."
"The result is that whoever wins, the loser will be ruthlessly purged."
"Stripped of lands… stripped of titles… stripped of their very name…"
He paused, coughing up a mouthful of blood. Raylon stepped forward instinctively, but Grover waved him off.
"I once thought to remain ambiguous," he said, a bitter smile curling at his lips.
"I wanted to claim neutrality."
"But we Tullys lack the strength. We cannot stand apart like House Baratheon."
The old Lord Grover Tully raised his head with difficulty, gazing out at the sunlight beyond the window, murmuring: "We are fish. How can fish dare to fight dragons?"
Raylon fell silent.
After a moment, Grover withdrew his gaze and looked at him.
"Raylon," he said, "do as your father instructed."
"Take your two brothers and go over to the Greens."
Raylon hesitated. "But I've heard… Prince Aemond despises bastards."
Grover smiled faintly.
"The prince despises the Strongs," he said, a trace of mockery in his voice.
"Those who would use bastard blood to lay claim to the Iron Throne."
He looked at Raylon.
"You are not the same."
Raylon bowed his head respectfully.
"That is why your father, Lord Humfrey, chose to give his life to secure a future for you and for his trueborn son, Amos Bracken."
"You will take those two young Brackens to the Greens. They will not treat you poorly."
He paused.
"Besides, I have heard that Prince Aemond values men of humble birth."
Raylon nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
The old lord waved his hand. "Go. Before long, House Tully may well declare for the Blacks…"
Raylon turned, preparing to leave with his two younger brothers.
But suddenly, the door burst open.
Elmo Tully walked in.
Lord Tully's heir—a middling, unremarkable man, as ordinary as his father, just as forgettable.
He held a stack of letters in his hand. Seeing Raylon, he froze for a moment.
Raylon quickly ushered his brothers out of the room.
Elmo stepped up to his father's bedside, lifting the letters slightly.
"Father," Elmo said, unable to hide the excitement in his voice.
"Perhaps we need to reconsider."
Grover glanced at him.
"Speak."
"The lords of the Riverlands have reached out to us," Elmo said in a lowered voice. "The House Blackwood, the House Piper, the House Vance, and others…"
"If we Tullys make a declaration…"
"Be quiet."
Elmo froze.
Grover looked at him. The clouded eyes were suddenly filled with exhaustion, and at last, he let out a helpless sigh.
"Do as you wish."
"Seven above… have mercy on House Tully…"
He said nothing more, closing his eyes.
Elmo stood where he was, at a loss, staring at his father—who had once firmly supported the Greens—now seeming no longer intent on stopping him.
Then—
The sunlight outside the window was suddenly blotted out.
A vast shadow.
Elmo turned and rushed to the window. He lifted his head and saw the enormous creature in the sky, flying east.
Blood-red scales. Black wing membranes. A long, sinuous neck. And those burning eyes.
The Blood Wyrm—Caraxes.
The dragon of Daemon Targaryen.
The dragon deliberately swept low over Riverrun. So close that Elmo could even make out the veins in its wing membranes.
Each beat of its massive wings stirred a violent gale, snapping the banners along the battlements into a frenzy.
Then, the dark figure upon its back turned his head.
Daemon Targaryen.
He had done it on purpose.
Elmo stood at the window, his whole body rigid. He watched as the dragon flew farther and farther away, gradually vanishing into the eastern horizon.
"Was he reminding us?"
Grover opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling.
"Reminding us… that time is running out."
...
King's Landing. The Dragonpit.
Aegon stood before the massive iron gates, clad in a full suit of white dragonrider armor.
The pauldrons were forged in the shape of dragons, and upon the breastplate was engraved the three-headed dragon sigil of House Targaryen.
Sunlight struck the armor, reflecting a blinding glare.
Not far away, Sunfyre lay sprawled, flicking his tail in irritation.
The golden dragon's scales gleamed like molten gold.
He was much improved compared to a few months ago. Most of his wounds had healed.
At this moment, Sunfyre was once again a proud dragon.
He held his head high, golden eyes narrowed as he watched his rider.
Aegon walked over and patted his neck.
"Hey, brother," he said. "Let's get some air."
Sunfyre closed his eyes in pleasure, a satisfied rumble rolling from his throat.
"Your Grace!"
Queen Alyn hurried over.
She wore a pale blue gown, her hair styled in an elegant coif, her face filled with worry.
She ran up to Aegon, rose on her toes, and gently kissed his forehead.
"May the Seven watch over you, Your Grace."
Sunfyre turned his head, glaring unhappily at the silver-haired woman's closeness with his rider.
He let out a low, threatening hiss, startling Queen Alyn into stepping back in confusion.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Aegon quickly soothed him. "She's my wife—do you understand?"
Sunfyre shook his head angrily, looking every bit like he didn't understand and had no desire to.
Sunfyre only knew one thing—Aegon could belong to him alone. Anyone who dared grow close to Aegon would be met with force!
Aegon gave a helpless smile.
Dowager Queen Alicent stood not far away, watching the scene, her face somewhat pale.
She stepped forward.
"Aegon."
Aegon turned.
"Mother."
Alicent looked at him.
"Why must you go?" she asked, her voice kept low.
"Could you not leave all this to your brother, Aemond?"
"Besides, he never asked you to come."
"The front lines are dangerous…"
Aegon shook his head.
"Taking part in this war was my own decision," he said, the usual flippancy gone from his voice.
"It has nothing to do with Aemond."
He met his mother's eyes.
"I will let everyone know that I am no coward."
He paused.
"And I will make everyone understand that I am the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."
Alicent opened her mouth, wanting to speak—but found she could not say a word.
At the side, Norren stepped forward, offering comfort.
"Your Grace, you may rest assured."
"Prince Aemond commands two dragons, and with His Grace and Sunfyre—"
Alicent turned her head and shot the newly arrived Grand Maester a sharp glare.
Of course you're not worried. Aegon is my son!
Norren lowered his head, retreating awkwardly.
At that moment, Helaena stepped forward.
She wore a pale blue gown, her slightly swollen belly visible.
She walked up to her brother, lifted her head, and looked at him.
"Brother."
"I can feel it… danger."
"Please… do not go."
Aegon looked at Helaena and clicked his tongue.
His sister—this strange girl, Aemond's wife.
Always saying things that made no sense. Always doing things no one could understand.
But now, there was something in her eyes he had never seen before.
Fear.
Still, she was worried for him. It would not be right to mock her. He let out a sigh.
"Helaena,"
"My sister."
"You must trust me."
"I am Aegon. Aegon the Second."
"I will not fear any enemy."
Then he turned to face everyone.
"In this battle, I will lead the campaign myself."
Helaena saw that his resolve was set and did not try to persuade him further.
She did not know what would happen—but her instincts told her that Aegon would be in grave danger…
Aegon turned, preparing to walk toward Sunfyre.
Behind him, Queen Alyn smiled and said, "May you win a swift victory, Your Grace."
Aegon glanced back and smiled at his wife.
He admitted it—he had fallen for Alyn.
He liked the way she looked at him. The encouragement in her eyes.
He liked being looked at with that kind of admiration.
He patted her hand, then swung himself up onto Sunfyre's back.
"Let's go, mate."
Sunfyre spread his massive wings and gave a few beats.
A violent gust surged outward, forcing those nearby to stagger back. Then the great dragon leapt into the air and shot toward the sky.
King's Landing shrank below them.
Sunfyre's scales shimmered under the sunlight, gleaming like moving gold.
...
On the eastern cliffs of Dragonstone, Meleys unfurled her crimson wings and let out a long cry to the heavens.
It was a dragon's roar—deep and drawn-out.
The sound rolled across the sea, startling flocks of seabirds into flight.
Waves crashed against the rocks below the cliffs with a thunderous roar.
Rhaenys Targaryen stood beside the dragon, gently stroking her warm neck.
"Old girl," she said softly, "fight one more battle with me."
At this moment, the "Red Queen," Meleys, fixed her molten-gold eyes on her rider.
She lowered her head, nuzzling against her mistress's face.
That massive head rested lightly against Rhaenys's shoulder, her warm breath washing over her neck.
Rhaenys closed her eyes, feeling that familiar warmth.
She thought back to many years ago.
The first night she had secretly climbed onto Meleys's back.
That night, she had gone alone to the Dragonpit, found Meleys, been accepted by her—and flown.
She had flown the entire night.
Back then, she had told herself she did not need the Iron Throne. With Meleys, it was enough.
How many years had it been?
She opened her eyes.
So many years had passed.
She had never worn a crown, never sat the Iron Throne, never issued commands in the Small Council.
She had watched her cousin Viserys ascend the throne, watched him take one queen after another, watched his children be born—and die.
But she had Meleys.
She had Corlys.
She had Laena and Laenor.
Laena had been so much like her—loving fiercely, hating fiercely, and in the end, like a moth to flame, falling for Daemon Targaryen.
And Laenor?
Rhaenys gave a faint smile.
She knew Laenor was still alive. After his feigned death, she knew he was living happily—and that was enough.
She would not disturb him.
Enough.
Let him be.
She thought.
As long as he lives, it is enough.
As for the little ones…
Rhaenys closed her eyes.
Those two children—grandsons not of her blood. Yet she had watched them grow.
He never lived to see that day.
Lady Rhaenys murmured, "I will avenge you."
She spoke softly, not knowing to whom the words were meant.
The wind rose from the sea, lifting her greying hair.
She raised her head, looking into the distance.
She had those she had loved—and who had loved her.
That was enough.
"Let's go."
She said.
"I'm going to kill him."
"Let him learn what a true Targaryen is."
Meleys beat her wings.
The wind howled.
The crimson dragon surged into the air, flying west.
...
At Antlers.
Beside Lothorne, Aemond Targaryen opened his violet eyes.
Lothorne sensed his rider's awakening. The dragon turned its head, its blood-red gaze settling on Aemond.
Lothorne could feel it—the thing emanating from Aemond. Something like a will, pressing against him.
At this moment, Lothorne was excited. Violent. Hungry.
Lothorne stared fixedly at Aemond.
Aemond reached out, touching the black scales. They were cold, hard, carrying that rough texture unique to dragons.
He could feel the muscles beneath the scales trembling faintly. He could feel the blood surging through the veins.
Lothorne turned his head, staring at him with those blood-red eyes.
Aemond met that gaze.
Within those eyes was something—violence, excitement, desire, ambition.
How much it resembled a man.
So you were always there…
He understood.
He could feel Lothorne's heartbeat.
It pulsed in rhythm with his own.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Like a call.
He looked at him.
"Aemond…"
"We share one heart," Aemond said softly.
His voice was quiet, as though he were speaking to himself—or to Lothorne.
"Our heartbeats resonate."
Lothorne gave a low growl, exhaling a blast of hot air that reeked faintly of sulfur.
"You are my true soul," Aemond continued.
His hand moved along the scales of Lothorne's neck.
"Selfish. Narcissistic. Deranged."
He smiled.
"Pleasure runs in our blood…"
"We are made for each other."
He lifted his head, meeting Lothorne's gaze.
Those blood-red dragon eyes stared back at him.
"You are me. And I am you."
His hand pressed against his own chest.
"I—love—myself…"
"What do you say?"
Lothorne let out a low roar.
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