As night fell, storm clouds gathered over Dragonstone.
These were no ordinary clouds.
They rolled in from the sea, black as ink—true storm clouds.
The wind off the sea turned sharp and cold, snapping the Black faction's four-part banners atop the castle walls.
The garrison looked up at the sky, cursing under their breath.
In weather like this, even rats knew to hide in their holes—yet they had to stand watch on the walls and take the storm head-on.
Then came the lightning.
When the first bolt struck, the soldiers were still eating their evening meal.
The flash was blinding—so bright it made everyone freeze for a heartbeat.
By the time the second bolt split the sky, they saw the dragon.
Vhagar.
The largest dragon alive, bursting out of the clouds.
Her wings stretched wide enough to cover half the castle. Each beat of them whipped up violent gusts, nearly knocking soldiers off their feet.
Her eyes burned with savage light—like twin ghostly flames—staring coldly down at the castle below.
And on her back rode a man.
Aemond.
Silver hair whipping in the storm.
"Enemy attack! Enemy—!"
The sentry's shout was swallowed by thunder.
Vhagar was already diving.
She didn't come to breathe fire—not at first.
She came to smash.
The massive body crashed straight into the main tower of Dragonstone.
The tallest structure in the castle, standing for centuries—witness to the birth and death of countless Targaryens.
Now, it fell.
Before that monstrous force, even fireproof black stone began to crack. The tower collapsed in a deafening roar.
Stone, beams, and tiles rained down like a storm of death. The soldiers below didn't even have time to scream before they were buried alive.
Dust billowed dozens of yards high, mixing with the pouring rain.
"Seven hells…"
On the wall, a soldier who had barely escaped sat slumped on the ground, staring blankly at the devastation.
This was Dragonstone—the seat of House Targaryen.
And now it was being destroyed.
Aemond sat astride Vhagar, silver hair whipping wildly.
"Rhaenyra!"
His voice cut through the rain and thunder.
"Rhaenyra!!"
No answer.
Only the storm, pouring down without mercy.
Vhagar landed atop the ruins, her massive claws crushing what remained of the walls.
Stone crumbled under her feet like wet clay.
Aemond leapt down from the saddle and walked into the smoking wreckage of the chambers.
He kicked aside a corpse and looked.
A crushed body lay beneath.
Not her.
He kicked aside another.
Another corpse—still not her.
Room after ruined room, body after body.
Soldiers. Servants. Maids.
Some crushed, some broken.
Their faces twisted in death, eyes still open—unable to rest.
Aemond searched.
For that silver-haired sister.
For the woman wearing a crown.
For the woman he was meant to kill.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
"Rhaenyra!"
His roar echoed through the shattered castle.
Lightning flashed, illuminating his face.
Cold.
Obsessive.
Bordering on madness.
She had to be here.
She could only be here.
If not in the chambers, then in the hall. If not in the hall, then—
His gaze snapped downward.
The Dragonpit.
He looked up at Vhagar. She lowered her head, meeting his eyes.
"Dracarys."
Vhagar drew in a breath.
Then exhaled.
Her jaws opened wide.
Green fire surged forth.
Not a stream—a flood.
It poured into the ruined castle, flooding every chamber, every corridor, every place where someone might hide.
Flames crawled through cracks, down into cellars, into wine vaults—into every corner where life might cling.
The screams began.
Not a few.
A chorus.
Soldiers, servants, maids hiding in the ruins were swallowed by green fire.
Some stumbled out, bodies ablaze, only to collapse after a few steps—burned into charred husks.
Others never even had the chance to run—incinerated where they stood.
Some tried to smother the flames with blankets, with water, with anything they could find.
But this was dragonfire.
Not ordinary flame.
It could melt stone, turn steel to liquid—what chance did flesh have?
The flames raged through the ruins for several minutes.
Minutes later, the green fire finally died out.
Vhagar was tiring.
Not a single scream remained in the ruins of Dragonstone.
A hundred people?
Two hundred?
No one could say.
All they knew was that when the flames went out, a thick, sickening smell hung over the ruins.
The smell of charred flesh.
Aemond stood atop the wreckage, letting the rain pour over him.
There was no expression on his face.
Below, in the Dragonpit, Rhaenyra gripped young Aegon's hand tightly.
The boy was too young to understand what was happening. He only looked at his mother in confusion.
Little Viserys was held by a trembling maid, her whole body shaking.
From above came the thunder of destruction. Bits of stone and debris rained down from the ceiling.
The entire Dragonpit trembled, as if it might collapse at any moment.
"Your Grace!"
A maid beside her grabbed her arm in panic. "Your Grace, you mustn't go out!"
Rhaenyra shook her off and took a step forward.
Then another.
And then she stopped.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she heard them.
The screams.
The screams of people being burned alive above them.
One. Two. Ten. A hundred.
She couldn't tell how many.
She only knew—they were her people.
The ones who had stayed in this castle because they were loyal to her.
"Your Grace…" the maid's voice trembled. "He's looking for you… he's looking for you…"
Rhaenyra didn't answer.
She just stood there, one hand on her swollen belly, the other braced against the stone wall, listening as the screams faded.
One voice.
Then another.
Then another.
And then—
Silence.
Complete silence.
"That bastard killed them…" Rhaenyra murmured. "He killed them all…"
"Your Grace!" another attendant rushed over, face pale with terror. "It's Vhagar above us!"
"It's the kinslayer, Aemond! He's up there! He's looking for you!"
Rhaenyra turned her head and looked at him calmly.
"I know."
The man froze.
"I know he's looking for me."
"Let him."
She turned and looked behind her.
Syrax.
The great golden she-dragon lay crouched on the ground, rumbling uneasily.
Beside her were several freshly laid dragon eggs—grey, orange, green.
Syrax had already sensed the danger, sensed the killing intent of the colossal beast above. But her rider had not given the command.
Rhaenyra stepped forward and gently stroked Syrax's neck.
"It's alright," she said softly. "It's alright."
Syrax nudged her with her head, letting out a low, rumbling purr.
She was trying to tell her—
Don't be afraid. I'm here.
But Rhaenyra knew.
Something was wrong.
Aemond had come.
He had come to kill her.
She should have been in her chambers. That was where she always was at this hour.
After supper, she would return there to rest, read, or simply sit in silence while waiting for Daemon to return.
But tonight, she had wanted to see Syrax.
To choose a dragon egg for the child in her womb.
That single thought had saved her life.
If she had been in her chambers…
She didn't dare think further.
Another crash thundered overhead, followed by Vhagar's roar.
It was too close—so close it felt as though it was right above them. Even Syrax lifted her head, letting out a low, warning growl.
"He's killed more," Rhaenyra said bitterly.
The maid's face was deathly pale. "Then… then you…"
"If I had been there," Rhaenyra sighed, "I would be dead now."
Above, Aemond stood on the shattered ruins of Dragonstone, rain pouring down over him.
His silver hair clung to his face, covering half of it.
The exposed eye gleamed with something deeply unsettling.
She wasn't there.
Not in the chambers. Not in the hall. Not anywhere she should have been.
Then where?
He lifted his head and looked at the massive stone gate nearby.
The Dragonpit.
The only place left.
Vhagar sensed her rider's intent, letting out a low growl as she turned her head toward the gate.
"Vhagar."
Aemond climbed back onto her.
"To the Dragonpit."
Vhagar spread her wings.
Aemond suddenly looked up.
Lightning split the sky.
In that blinding flash of white, a crimson shape was diving down out of the black clouds.
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