"Bronze Fury" Vermithor, this time no longer aimed at Vhagar's massive body, instead spewed its breath toward Aemond on the dragon saddle.
Aemond did not dodge.
Vhagar accelerated with all her strength and charged straight at Vermithor.
"Has he gone mad?!" Aegon, who was being pursued, turned back and saw this scene, crying out in shock.
The rumbling of power building in the old dragon's lungs echoed across the sky.
Fifty meters.
Vhagar lifted her head—not retreating, but gathering strength.
She opened her enormous jaws.
The dragonfire she spewed was not the usual orange-red pillar of flame, nor even the molten-gold high-temperature fire of Vermithor.
It was an inky green, liquid fire.
The dragonfire exhaled by the two dragons collided in midair.
BOOM!!!
The deafening explosion devoured everything.
The instant the bronze dragonfire met the inky green liquid flame, a blinding white light swallowed all color. Aemond lay flat against Vhagar, avoiding the violent blast of air from the explosion.
The explosive shockwave of dragonfire spread outward in a sphere.
The two gigantic dragons were thrown backward by the recoil.
Vermithor, young and powerful, stabilized himself through brute strength, his wings beating frantically to counter the backward momentum.
Vhagar, however, displayed experience.
While being blasted backward, the ancient dragon suddenly folded her wings, and her massive body dropped like a meteor for thirty feet, converting the force of the explosion into potential energy. Then she beat her wings with full force, the membranes of her wings cracking through the air like thunder. From below, she cut back into the battlefield along a cunning trajectory, aiming directly for Vermithor's relatively vulnerable belly.
But Vermithor's battle instincts were astonishing.
The bronze giant did not attempt to climb to evade—doing so would have exposed an even more vulnerable chest and abdomen. Instead, it chose the most brutal response: using the shoulder covered with the thickest scales to slam fiercely into Vhagar's chest and belly.
Two dragons with a combined wingspan exceeding seventy-six meters collided in the air with full force.
The roars and shrieks of the dragons were so piercing that even the members of the Blacks watching the battle from Dragonstone could not help but cover their ears.
At the moment of impact, Aemond felt himself violently thrown forward by tremendous inertia. The safety straps cut into his flesh, leaving purplish bruises. He clutched the dragon saddle tightly, his knuckles turning white.
Vhagar let out a pained roar.
Though the scales on the old dragon's chest and belly were thick, Vermithor had struck directly against her breastbone, and the sharp pain spread through her entire body.
But the old dragon's counterattack came even faster.
In the instant when the aftermath of the collision had not yet dissipated and the two dragons had slightly separated due to the recoil, Vhagar turned her head. Her massive jaws opened, revealing fangs as tall as a man, each one as long as an adult.
She bit toward Vermithor's neck.
With two hundred years of battle experience, the old dragon chose the cruelest and most efficient method. She clamped her upper and lower jaws onto a section of scales on the side of Vermithor's neck, then violently twisted her head left and right.
Crack!!!
A large patch of scales on Vermithor's neck burst away, exposing the bright red, curling muscle beneath. The muscle fibers spasmed in the air as dragon blood began to flow down.
Vermithor's blood dripped into the sea below, instantly evaporating into large clouds of white steam. A patch of dead fish floated to the surface, their bellies turned upward.
They had been killed by the extreme heat and some toxic substance within the dragon's blood.
"Roar!!!"
Vermithor fell completely into a frenzy.
It no longer dodged and no longer used tactics. With its hind legs, it violently kicked Vhagar's abdomen, using the force to break free of her control. At the same time, its tail swept sideways like a battering ram. The bone spikes at the tip tore through the air with a shrill scream and struck solidly at the root of Vhagar's left wing.
Bang!!!
The force of that blow made the sky itself seem to tremble.
Vhagar's entire body tilted from the strike, and the flesh of her left wing split open.
The old dragon's cry of pain carried anger—true anger.
A wound to the wing would affect flight; in aerial combat, that was fatal.
"Vhagar!" Aemond roared. He could feel that Vhagar's flying posture was beginning to grow unstable.
Vhagar violently beat her right wing, while her left wing barely cooperated. Her body rolled to the right, trying to widen the distance between herself and Vermithor.
But Vermithor gave no chance.
It completely abandoned defense and closed in at point-blank range—claw strikes, tearing bites, tail sweeps, even headlong collisions.
Vermithor turned every inch of its body into a weapon, every strike filled with savage fury. The wound at the side of its neck was still bleeding, but the pain had become fuel, feeding the fire of its battle spirit.
The two giant dragons grappled in the air, rolling and climbing higher, tearing through the clouds as dragon blood poured down like a torrential rain.
Aemond lay pressed against the dragon saddle. The Blackfyre sword beside the saddle had already been drawn. His violet eyes locked like a hawk onto Valos on Vermithor's back.
That bastard at this moment was lying prone on the dragon saddle, both hands clutching the saddle ring tightly. Although the two colossal beasts had just collided violently, chains were fastened around him, so he had not been thrown off.
The madness in Valos's eyes had not diminished in the slightest.
Because on the other side of the battlefield, Aegon had fallen into a desperate situation.
Sunfyre's condition was terrible.
Although the golden dragon was young and strong, facing the coordinated attacks of three dragons—despite the riders on the other side lacking experience—it had inevitably fallen into a disadvantage.
Silverwing's tactics were clear: not to engage in a head-on clash, but to use speed and agility to repeatedly cut in from Sunfyre's blind spots.
Each time the silver she-dragon swooped, she aimed at the torn wound on Sunfyre's left wing—digging with her claws, tearing with her teeth, striking with the tips of her wings.
Every attack widened the wound a little more. Dragon blood gushed like a spring, and the mist of falling blood dragged a long crimson trail behind the golden dragon.
"Turn left! Sunfyre! Turn left and evade!" Aegon roared while lying across the dragon saddle, the wound on his back causing unbearable pain.
That was the result of being grazed earlier by the tip of Silverwing's claw while he was dodging. Fortunately he had evaded in time and the wound had not reached the bone, but his armor had been torn open, and even his breathing carried flecks of blood.
Sunfyre tried to turn left.
But Grey Ghost circled not far away. Whenever Sunfyre tried to turn or climb, Grey Ghost would dive like a phantom, spewing a narrow but high-temperature stream of dragonfire, leaving Sunfyre no room to maneuver.
The coordination between the two dragons was not exquisite. Saera and Miraxes clearly lacked experience, but their advantage in size and numbers made up for everything.
Sunfyre was struck again.
This time it was at the root of the right wing. Silverwing's claws dug into the gaps between the scales and tore violently. Three molten-gold scales were ripped away by force, along with a large piece of flesh beneath them.
The golden dragon let out a pained roar. Its body tilted sharply in midair, and its flying altitude dropped about six meters in an instant.
"Climb! Sunfyre! Climb!" Aegon screamed.
The golden dragon beat its wings with all its strength, but the injury to the right wing affected the force of the strokes, and its ascent was slow.
Below lay the jagged black rock coast of Dragonstone. If it lost control at this height, the only end to the fall would be to be smashed to pieces.
Higher above, Sheepstealer was in a furious rage. Lothorne, who had long disappeared, appeared again and tangled with him, relying on extreme speed.
Lothorne never attacked Sheepstealer. Instead, he focused entirely on attacking the girl Nettles on the dragon's back.
Lothorne knew this little one was an easy target.
Nettles, on Sheepstealer's back, curled her body tightly and clutched the dragon saddle, avoiding Lothorne's flames.
Her body shook violently with every maneuver Sheepstealer made.
Sheepstealer himself was clearly in a state of chaos and fury.
He wanted to attack, but that little black dragon was simply too fast. It kept trying to use dragonfire to attack his rider, Nettles.
Sheepstealer had no choice but to think of his rider, darting left and right to evade the flames.
In his furious rage, if he were given a single opportunity, he would crush Lothorne with one strike.
But instead, Lothorne deliberately closed the distance again and again, and then spat another mouthful of fire.
Whenever Sheepstealer tried to beat his wings violently to counterattack, Lothorne would accelerate and flee.
Sheepstealer let out an anxious, furious dragon's roar, circling in the sky, yet he could never catch that small black shadow.
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