Aemond was terrified, his entire body trembling uncontrollably.
But when he thought of his father standing behind him, his legs felt as though they were filled with concrete, unable to move.
Instinctively, he raised his sword to block the attack.
Clang!
The curved blade struck down, sending Blackfyre flying out of his grasp.
The assassin's face twisted into a grotesque grin as he continued to slash downward.
Aemond's eyes widened in horror. He lifted his hand in a desperate attempt to defend himself as he stumbled backward.
Before his hand could fully rise, the curved blade was already right in front of his face.
Shhhk!
The tip of the blade grazed his forehead, viciously slicing through one of his eyes with frightening speed.
Aemond's body froze, his left eye gushing blood. He let out an anguished scream.
"Ahhh!!"
With a thud, he collapsed to the ground.
"My eye! My eye!"
Aemond wailed in agony, clutching his bleeding face as blood seeped between his trembling fingers.
The assassin was momentarily stunned, clearly surprised that the boy had survived the attack.
"Aemond!"
Viserys's heart shattered as he watched his son get injured while protecting him. Overcome with grief, he lunged toward him.
Aemond violently shook his head, oblivious to his father's calls. His body convulsed uncontrollably.
The pain was unbearable — searing, excruciating pain.
His left eye was completely ruined. All he could see on that side was endless darkness, as if an immense hand were tormenting every nerve in his body.
He wanted to weep, longing for his mother and sister.
The distant yet urgent sounds of clashing steel and deathly cries forced him to hold back his tears.
Faced with a life-or-death moment, a memory of his eldest brother surfaced in his mind.
He recalled hearing his brother tell a story from childhood, about surviving among wildlings on the Crab Claw Peninsula.
At first, without the protection of a dragon, he had been captured by the savage wildlings.
Feign weakness. Submit...
Wait for the right moment to strike back!
The assassin regarded Aemond with cold indifference. More attackers closed in, raising their curved blades.
The legendary Targaryens, once thought closest to gods and revered as untouchable Dragonlords, now seemed like helpless lambs awaiting slaughter.
Panting heavily, Aemond shrank in his father's arms. With his remaining right eye, he spotted a dragon-horn dagger hanging from the assassin's waist.
Blackfyre lay out of reach, kicked aside by the assassin's boot.
The curved blade abandoned its downward arc and instead thrust forward with deadly precision.
Let's see you dodge this.
"No!!"
Elric, bloodied and surrounded by multiple attackers, screamed desperately as he witnessed the scene unfold.
The curved blade glinted with deadly intent as it edged closer.
A flash of madness flickered in Aemond's eye. Moving faster than thought, he shoved his father aside and snatched the dragon-horn dagger.
"Die!"
Half crawling, half stumbling, he lunged forward and plunged the dagger toward the curved blade's path.
The hall descended into a deathly silence as blades collided.
Elric was nearly driven mad with disbelief at what he had just witnessed.
The assassins were filled with murderous desire, eager to personally slay a Targaryen.
Before anyone could react to the shifting tides of the battle, a sudden explosion shattered the moment.
Bang!
The grand doors of the hall burst open violently, sending the heavy wooden panels flying through the air.
Several assassins were struck by the debris, their heads crushed into pulp on impact.
Amid swirling clouds of dust, a deafening rumble echoed at the entrance.
A withered dragon head forced its way into the hall, its thick horns splintering the doorframe. Through the haze, a pair of brown, slit-pupil eyes gleamed with icy rage.
Fury—raw, primal, and merciless.
The next moment—
Hissss!
A torrent of muddy brown dragonfire roared into the hall.
The assassin wielding the curved blade had no time to turn around before a blast of searing dragonfire slammed into his back.
Boom!
The flames detonated like gunpowder, consuming the assassin in an instant, reducing him to ashes in mere seconds.
A heartbeat before the dragonfire arrived, the sound of a blade slicing flesh echoed sharply.
Aemond, his face drenched in blood, plunged the dragon-horn dagger deep into the assassin's groin just before the curved blade could pierce him.
Squelch!
As soon as the blow landed, the torrent of dragonfire surged toward him.
Aemond instinctively shut his eyes, flinging himself face-first to the ground like a toppled scarecrow.
Behind him, Viserys was just as swift. He flipped over, shielding his head and tightly clamping his legs together.
The dragonfire scorched everything in its path, leaving only embers that flickered past father and son.
Aemond felt an intense wave of heat wash over his entire body. His spine tingled with icy numbness before settling into a prickling ache.
When he lifted his head, his cloak and clothes had been completely burned away. Blisters formed on his pale, exposed skin from the burns.
As he moved slightly, a singed lock of hair fell onto his cheek, its smoldering ends still tinged with brown dragonfire.
"Thieves of sheep!"
Aemond Snuffs Out the Dragonfire, Overjoyed by the Turn of Events.
At this moment—
The Sheepstealer crouched outside the tower, its massive dragon head squeezed into the hall, vertical pupils glaring menacingly at a group of assassins.
"You can't escape."
Ser Erryk, elated, kicked away the leading assassin who had been attacking him and dove to the ground, covering his head.
"Hiss—Graaah!"
The Sheepstealer, enraged beyond measure, unleashed a torrent of dragonfire upon the group.
Flames scattered wildly, engulfing the assassins in chaos.
Ser Erryk was incredibly lucky—lying flat on the ground, he narrowly avoided disaster.
"Hahaha! We're saved!"
Aemond wept with joy, turning to embrace his father, the only family he had left.
But Viserys was in dire straits.
His clothes were completely burned away, embers igniting his silver-gold hair, and he had fallen unconscious.
Thankfully, his skin wasn't too severely burned—only red and blistering, though various cuts oozed pus and blood.
Aemond's eyes filled with panic, his hands frozen midair.
It was the first time he had seen his father covered in wounds, and he had no idea what to do.
"Hiss—Graaah!!"
The doors burst open as the furious roar of a dragon thundered through the hall.
Gritting his teeth, Aemond dragged his father under a table for shelter before running toward the Sheepstealer.
Just as he reached the doorway, the clashing of metal rang out.
Outside the Tower—
A group of Dornish masked men charged into the courtyard, clashing with forces led by Ser Arryk.
The masked men were numerous, quickly surrounding the patrolling guards.
Some of them, heedless of their own safety, broke off and rushed toward the Sheepstealer, aiming to slay the massive dragon whose neck was still wedged in the doorway.
Boom! Boom!
Beyond the courtyard, the situation grew even more chaotic.
Ser Criston Cole, clad in silver armor and a white cloak, led over a hundred men in a ferocious charge, his cloak stained with blood and soot.
The soldiers scattered across the battlefield, hastily engaging the enemy.
Hundreds of masked men roamed the castle, ambushing the soldiers trying to extinguish the fires.
"Hiss—Graaah!"
A bronze-scaled claw crushed a house as an enormous beast flailed its wings wildly.
Boom—
A torrent of golden dragonfire erupted, indiscriminately engulfing a street teeming with people.
Under the deep night sky, Yronwood burned.
Vermithor's vertical pupils gleamed with fury as the dragon climbed over the city walls toward the tower, spewing dragonfire without restraint.
It sensed its rider was in danger, throwing it into an uncontrollable rage.
Anyone who appeared before it—enemy or ally—was met with death.
Elsewhere—
A section of the city wall crumbled under a dragon's weight, sending the castle's defenders fleeing in terror.
From the shadows, another group of masked men emerged, unlocking the castle's main gate and allowing an army of two thousand Dornishmen to march in.
At the forefront stood two figures—
One bore the sigil of the "Black Gate on the Sand" on his chest—Olyvar Yronwood.
The other wielded a shield emblazoned with interwoven yellow and deep red flames—a towering, rotund figure, Lord Harmon Uller.
Harmon Uller had foreseen that the royal tomb at Prince's Pass and Starfall wouldn't hold against dragonfire, so he had led his troops to Yronwood ahead of time.
Though the Uller and Yronwood families were bitter enemies, he recognized Olyvar Yronwood's strategic genius.
With dragons in play, Dorne had no choice but to rely on their ancestors' guerrilla tactics.
Prince's Pass was facing the formidable Targaryen Prince Regent, a young conqueror who had already crushed the Kingdom of the Three Daughters.
Arrogant as he was, Harmon dared not underestimate this upstart warrior.
His true target was the Iron Throne's king on the Boneway—
A ruler with few troops and a weak disposition, ripe for the taking.
By luring the enemy deep into Yronwood with a feigned siege, they could spring their trap tonight and wipe them out in one fell swoop.
A manic gleam flashed in Harmon's eyes as he roared, "Charge! Bring me the heads of the king and the dragon!"
Tonight, he would become a dragon slayer.
The Dornish soldiers cheered wildly, storming the fire-lit tower, undeterred by the risk of being trampled beneath Vermithor's claws.
In the Courtyard—
"Hiss—Graaah..."
The Sheepstealer remained crouched, its wings bracing against the tower, shaking its massive head with a distressed screech.
Thirty masked men surged forward, gripping axes and spears as they launched their attack.
Clang!
An axe struck, but the thick, mud-brown dragon scales remained unscathed—only a small fragment of keratin cracked off.
"Hiss—Graaah..."
Hearing a boy's calming voice from within the hall, the Sheepstealer grew even more agitated, its brown wings flailing wildly.
Before the dragon's sheer size, the masked men were as insignificant as insects.
With a single sweep of its wings, bodies were torn apart, limbs and flesh flung in all directions.
"Kill it! Slay the dragon!"
Yet even in the face of such carnage, the masked men refused to retreat, desperately climbing onto the dragon's back, weapons raised.
Inside the hall—
Aemond, impatient and eager, tried to approach the dragon stolen by the sheep thief, but the creature bared its teeth, forcing him to retreat.
The sheep thief's dragon refused to obey its rider's commands, stubbornly insisting on breaking through the gate by itself.
"Prince, take His Majesty and leave! The Dornish forces have entered the city!"
Elyrik struggled to get up despite his injuries, staggering as he urged Aemond.
The sound of battle outside grew louder—it was clear the city gates had fallen.
"Impossible!"
Aemond turned his head and roared defiantly, "The sheep thief's dragon came to save me! I will never abandon my dragon. Together, we'll crush this rebellion!"
To him, a dragon was everything. Abandoning a dragon was unworthy of a Targaryen name.
Boom!
The courtyard gates burst open with a cloud of swirling dust as waves of Dornish soldiers poured in.
Aemond's expression stiffened, pain stabbing his left eye as he gasped sharply.
The Dornish had broken through!
"Graaaah—"
The sheep thief's dragon roared, ramming its massive head into the stone gateframe, causing the walls to tremble and loosen.
"Sheep Thief!"
Aemond, clutching his wounded left eye, grimaced with a painful smile.
Outside the tower—
Harman Uller led his troops into the courtyard, quickly surrounding Elyrik's outnumbered squad. His eyes gleamed excitedly as he fixated on the sheep thief's dragon.
A disabled dragon was a divine blessing—a perfect chance to become a dragonslayer.
"Charge! Restore the glory of our ancestors!"
Harman Uller's eyes burned with fervor as he raised his twin-bladed battle axes and led the charge.
The Uller family boasted a long-standing tradition: sharp axes could sever dragon wings, and spears could pierce dragon eyes.
How did they know?
Their ancestors had once dissected the remains of a dragon.
Amidst the shouts of dragonslaying fervor, Aemond's heart raced in chaos. Ignoring everything else, he rushed in front of the sheep thief's dragon, shoving its massive head with both hands.
"Get out! Hurry, get out!"
He didn't want to die. He didn't want his father to die. And he absolutely didn't want this ugly beast to die.
Because of this ugly dragon, he had finally earned dignity.
"Faster! You came to save me, not to die here!"
Tears welled up in Aemond's right eye as he cried out in sorrow.
Whoosh—
Suddenly, a fierce wind carrying the scent of ash swept across Ironwood City.
The night sky grew darker, as though a sinister god had swallowed the bright moon whole.
Elyrik, skewered through the shoulder by a sword, fell backward, gazing skyward in despair.
In that moment, faint light flickered in his eyes.
Amid the charcoal-black night hung two eerie green lanterns the size of bronze bells.
A silver-haired boy, standing upon the darkened sky, gazed frostily at the chaos below. His lips parted slightly:
"Dracarys."
The winds howled, clouds churned.
A colossal black dragon revealed its true form. The green lanterns became slit-pupiled eyes, while razor-sharp fangs dripped with bloodlust, and its terrifying maw curled into a merciless sneer.
"Graaaaaah!"
The roar shattered the heavens like a sudden lightning strike.
A flood of deathly green dragonfire descended, pouring upon the masses below.
Harman Uller took the brunt of it, dragonfire slamming into his shoulder.
"Ahhh!!"
Green flames rained down, and anguished cries filled the air.
(End of Chapter)