ULF
Silverwing dove at Vermithor.
Dragons collided—silver and bronze, ancient intelligence against brute fury. Claws raked. Fire erupted. The sky became chaos.
He's stronger. But I'm faster. I've been doing this longer.
Except Hugh was adapting. Learning Silverwing's patterns. Each exchange brought his attacks closer to their mark.
The wound on her flank still bled. She was tiring.
Direct combat kills us both.
So change the rules.
"Kelītīs!"
Silverwing hovered.
I stood in the saddle. Found my balance point.
"Silverwing. Dracarys on Vermithor when I clear."
A questioning rumble.
"Trust me."
I jumped.
GEPPO
Air solidified beneath my feet.
The technique I'd practiced a thousand times—walking on nothing, defying gravity through sheer will and compressed force.
One step. Two. Three.
Hugh's head turned. His mouth opened.
"What the—"
Four steps. Five.
I landed on Vermithor's back. Behind Hugh.
The Bronze Fury thrashed beneath me. Scales shifted. Wings beat in confusion.
Hugh spun, drawing steel.
"How are you—"
Soru.
I blurred.
His sword cut empty air where I'd been.
Shigan.
My fingers—iron-hard, driven by technique and desperation—punched through the gap in his armor at the shoulder joint.
Hugh screamed. Blood sprayed.
"You fucking—"
Tekkai.
His sword bounced off my hardened forearm.
I grabbed his harness. Pulled him toward me.
"You shouldn't have betrayed us."
"We could have ruled—"
"I don't want to rule. I want to go home."
I pushed.
Hugh Hammer fell.
VERMITHOR
The Bronze Fury felt his rider vanish.
Confusion became rage. Rage became violence.
The dragon thrashed, twisted, tried to burn whatever had taken Hugh away. Fire erupted in all directions.
I kicked off—Geppo, Geppo, Geppo—barely ahead of the flames.
But Vermithor followed.
The riderless dragon screamed fury at the sky. At Silverwing. At me. At everything.
"Silverwing! Dracarys!"
Silver fire met bronze scales.
Vermithor turned. Charged.
He's gone berserk. Without Hugh, without commands—
Silverwing dove aside. Vermithor pursued.
I can't kill him. He's too valuable. But I can't let him kill us either.
The dragons circled. Clashed. Separated.
Vermithor's jaws snapped at Silverwing's neck.
She twisted—not fast enough.
Teeth closed on her wing.
She screamed.
ROKUOGAN
Something broke inside me.
Not failure. Not defeat.
Release.
Every technique I'd learned. Every skill I'd practiced. Every desperate hour of training.
They stopped being separate.
Soru. Tekkai. Shigan. Rankyaku. Geppo. Kami-e.
Six powers. One purpose.
I landed on Vermithor's snout—impossible, suicidal, necessary.
He tried to shake me off. I held.
My hands found the dragon's skull. Pressed against scale.
And everything came together.
Rokuogan.
The shockwave erupted from my palms. Not fire. Not blade. Pure force channeled through every technique simultaneously.
Vermithor's eyes rolled.
The dragon collapsed.
Not dead—I could see his chest still moving. But stunned. Down.
I kicked off. Found Silverwing.
She was wounded—wing torn, blood streaming—but alive.
"Sōvēs. Gently."
We climbed away from the fallen dragon.
Below, Vermithor stirred. Groaned.
He'll recover. He'll be a problem for someone else.
But not for us. Not today.
THE PRINCES
I turned toward the God's Eye.
What I saw would haunt me forever.
Vhagar and Caraxes lay in the shallows—both dragons dying, tangled together, their battle ended in mutual destruction.
But Aemond and Daemon weren't on their mounts.
They were falling.
Two figures locked together in the air above the lake. Swords flashing. Even now, even dying, still fighting.
Daemon's Dark Sister caught the light.
Aemond's blade answered.
They hit the water together.
Neither surfaced.
AFTERMATH
I circled the lake three times.
Looking for survivors. Looking for bodies. Looking for anything.
Vhagar still breathed—barely. The ancient dragon's chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm. But her wounds were mortal.
Caraxes had stopped moving entirely.
Aemond. Daemon. Hugh.
All gone.
Three riders dead. Three dragons fallen or dying. And me.
Just me.
Silverwing's wing trembled with exhaustion. Blood still seeped from her wounds.
We need to go home.
"Naejot. Slowly."
She turned toward King's Landing.
We flew alone through empty sky.
KING'S LANDING
The Dragonpit rose from afternoon haze.
I guided Silverwing down—careful, gentle, mindful of her injuries. She landed with a stumble that spoke of utter exhaustion.
I slid from her back. My legs buckled.
Hands caught me.
"Easy. I've got you."
Helaena.
She was there. Of course she was there. She'd dreamed it, known it, waited for this moment.
"You came back."
"I promised."
"The others?"
"Dead. All of them. Hugh. Aemond. Daemon." The words tasted like ash. "I'm the only one."
She didn't ask how. Didn't ask why.
Just held me.
"Our child?"
"Safe. Waiting for you."
I collapsed into her arms.
I survived. For you. For our baby. For whatever comes next.
I survived.
Around us, guards and servants gathered. Whispers spread like fire through dry grass.
The Dragonslayer returned alone.
Four dragons fell at God's Eye. Three riders died.
He walked away.
In the Red Keep's great hall, someone voiced what everyone thought.
"What is he?"
No one had an answer.
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