CRISTON COLE
Dawn broke over Rook's Rest.
The castle rose from morning mist—stone walls, wooden gates, the banner of House Staunton flying defiant.
Behind those walls: enemies. Lord Staunton and his garrison, perhaps two hundred men. Enough to hold against conventional siege.
Not against dragons.
But the dragons weren't supposed to attack the castle. They had a different target.
"Sound the advance," Cole ordered.
Horns blared. Ten thousand men began to move.
Come out, princess. Come save your allies.
The plan was Otto's originally—use ground forces to draw Rhaenys into the open, then spring the trap. Cole had refined the tactics, positioned the reserves, chosen the ground.
Now he watched the sky and waited for death to descend.
RHAENYS
She heard the horns from the battlements.
Green banners. Thousands of men. An army come to crush a castle that had dared declare for the true queen.
Fools. Did they forget about Meleys?
"My lady." Lord Staunton appeared beside her, face pale. "The dragons—"
"One dragon. Mine." She touched his shoulder. "Hold the walls. I'll deal with their army."
"But if they have dragons too—"
"Then I'll deal with those as well."
She descended to the courtyard where Meleys waited. The Red Queen's scales caught the morning light—crimson and pink and ancient fire.
"One more battle, old girl." Rhaenys stroked her snout. "One more fight for the true queen."
Meleys rumbled agreement.
Rhaenys mounted. Secured her harness. Drew her riding whip.
"Sōvēs!"
The Red Queen launched into the sky.
ULF
I watched from the tree line.
Meleys rose like a crimson sunrise—beautiful and terrible. Princess Rhaenys sat proud on her back, silver hair streaming, the last vestige of the old Targaryen glory.
"There she is," Aemond murmured. "Wait for her to engage."
Below, Cole's army surged toward the castle. Arrows flew. Siege engines crept forward.
Then Meleys dove.
Fire erupted across the Green lines. Men screamed, burned, died. A siege tower collapsed in flames. A cavalry unit scattered as their horses panicked.
Dragonfire warfare. I'd seen the results. Never the act itself.
Those are people. They're dying. Dozens every second.
"Now." Aemond's command was ice.
Vhagar launched. The earth shook.
The largest dragon in the world rose to meet the Red Queen.
AEMOND
Finally.
Vhagar climbed fast despite her size—muscle memory from a thousand battles, instincts older than houses and kingdoms.
Rhaenys saw them coming. Pulled Meleys out of her strafing run.
Too late.
Vhagar slammed into Meleys like a falling mountain. Claws locked. Teeth found scale.
Both dragons screamed.
"Dracarys!"
Blue-white fire. The hottest flame of any living dragon.
Meleys answered with red fury. Both beasts wrapped in each other's flames, spiraling downward.
Rhaenys shouted commands. Her dragon twisted, fought, tried to break free.
Vhagar held fast.
You're not escaping, grandmother. Not this time.
ULF
Hugh charged without waiting.
"For glory!" His voice cracked with bloodlust.
Vermithor dove into the melee—bronze scales, bronze fire, joining the chaos of tangled dragons.
Idiot. He'll hit Vhagar as much as Meleys.
Three dragons now. Locked together. Falling.
Vermithor's flames caught Meleys's wing membrane. The material tore, burned, shredded.
The Red Queen screamed—a sound that would haunt my dreams.
They hit the ground together.
THE IMPACT
The earth itself seemed to die.
Trees exploded. Soil erupted. Fire spread in all directions.
Soldiers caught in the impact zone simply ceased to exist—one moment running, the next scattered atoms.
I circled above, Silverwing steady despite the shockwave.
Three dragons. All three down. Who's alive?
Vhagar rose first. Massive. Wounded but standing. Aemond visible on her back, shouting commands I couldn't hear.
Vermithor next. More damaged—one wing hanging at a wrong angle, blood streaming from a dozen cuts. Hugh clung to his saddle, face twisted with pain or rage.
And Meleys...
The Red Queen struggled upright. One wing destroyed. Rhaenys still mounted, armor scorched, but moving.
She's alive. She can still fight.
Or flee.
Meleys stumbled toward the sky. Broken. Desperate.
"Kill her!" Hugh's voice carried across the battlefield. "Don't let her escape!"
Vermithor lunged. Jaws snapping.
Meleys dodged—barely. Climbed with her one good wing.
She's heading for the coast. For escape.
A decision crystallized.
"Sōvēs," I commanded. "Naejot."
Silverwing dove after the fleeing dragon.
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