Before the morning mist had even cleared from the Stepstones, the roar of Vhagar had already torn open the sky.
Baelon Targaryen gripped the carved pommel of his dragon saddle, inhaling deeply of the sulfur-tinged air.
The old injury beneath his ribs throbbed faintly with every jolt, and the bandages the maester had wrapped were damp with cold sweat. But when he looked down and saw Vhagar's massive wings unfurled—a wingspan wider than three warships side-by-side, scales shimmering with a cold bronze-green light in the morning sun—all discomfort was suppressed.
"Father, are you sure about joining the battle?" Daemon Targaryen, riding Caraxes, flanked him from the rear. The red dragon's scales reflected the rising sun like flowing blood. "The maester said your health..."
"What do maesters know?" Baelon's laugh was breathless but carried unquestionable authority. "In 83 AC, I coughed harder than this, yet I still rode Vhagar and burned the Dornish fleet to ash." He patted Vhagar's neck. The old dragon let out a low rumble of response, her breath churning the waves below. "Today, let the Kingdom of the Three Daughters see that Targaryen dragons are never just for show."
Daemon Blackfyre, riding The Cannibal, descended on the other side. The pitch-black dragon formed a triangle with Vhagar and Caraxes, its green-fire pupils reflecting the distant fleet of the Triarchy. "Prince Baelon," he deliberately used the honorific, the brand on his right shoulder warming slightly with Vhagar's roar. "Your orders?"
"Same as '83." Baelon's gaze swept over the dense cluster of enemy ships in the bay. The Triarchy, formed only a year ago, was at the height of its arrogance. Lysene silk sails, Myrish ironclads, and Tyroshi longships appeared and disappeared in the mist like a flock of noisy seabirds. "Vhagar will break through the center, plowing their formation with dragonfire; Caraxes will flank and deal with the fast ships trying to flee; The Cannibal..." He looked at Daemon Blackfyre, a complex light flashing in his eyes. "You take out their flagship. That old fool Craghas Drahar will be on the most conspicuous vessel."
As Blackfyre nodded, he suddenly heard Vhagar let out a long, resonant roar.
The sound wasn't like The Cannibal's violence, nor Caraxes's sharpness. It carried a weight that seemed to transcend time—as if responding to a distant summons.
The pirates of the Three Daughters clearly hadn't expected an assault by three dragons.
When Vhagar's massive bronze-green shadow emerged from the mist, they were still rolling dice and drinking cheap wine on deck. It wasn't until the first wave of dragonfire crashed onto the deck of a Myrish ironclad like a golden waterfall that someone screamed and rushed for the lifeboats.
"Just like that!" Baelon's shout was swallowed by the roar of dragonfire.
Vhagar's breath carried the heat of molten gold. The steel plates of the ironclad curled and melted in the high temperature, the pirates' screams carried into the sky by clouds of steam.
He steered the old dragon into dives and climbs, dragonfire carving a burning arc across the sea. Wherever it passed, wooden ships became torches, and ironclads became furnaces.
The scene was all too familiar.
The coast of Dorne in 83 AC suddenly flashed before Baelon's eyes—he was only twenty-six then. His father Jaehaerys rode Vermithor in the lead, his brother Aemon rode the young Caraxes on the left, and he rode Vhagar on the right.
The fire of three dragons wove a net of flame before the Dornish fleet could even land. Prince Morion Martell's flagship was burned to ash by Balerion's fire before it could even lower a landing craft.
The sea that day was red too—not with blood, but with the reflection of dragonfire. The wind was hot, carrying the scent of Dornish sand and burning masts.
Father laughed in his saddle, saying "Even Aegon the Conqueror never had such fun"; Aemon patted his shoulder, the heat of dragon scales reddening his palm...
"Father! A Tyroshi galley on the left is slipping through!" Daemon Targaryen's shout yanked him back to reality.
When Baelon turned, he saw Caraxes diving like an arrow from a bow. Scarlet dragonfire swept across the sea surface, burning the galley that tried to circle behind them in half.
Daemon Targaryen maneuvered on the red dragon's back, silver hair plastered messily to his sweat-dampened forehead. His profile looked exactly like a young Aemon—the same flamboyance, the same recklessness, even the hand gestures controlling the dragon were identical.
On the other side, The Cannibal's pitch-black dragonfire was precisely locking onto the flagship flying the banner of the Triarchy.
Daemon Blackfyre lay low on the black dragon's back, his posture as steady as a rock. He was neither as flamboyant as Daemon nor as steady as Baelon, yet he exuded a strange, distinctly Targaryen ruthlessness—a poise possessed only by those who had fought and killed on dragonback, calm as ice, hot as fire.
"Good lad!" Baelon murmured in praise. When The Cannibal's dragonfire hit the flagship's main sail, he saw Daemon Blackfyre suddenly raise a hand, seemingly directing the dragon to adjust its angle. That split-second judgment was exactly like Aemon's decisiveness in dodging reefs during the Dornish naval battle years ago.
The shadows of three dragons wove and circled over the sea.
Vhagar's bronze-green shadow was like a moving mountain; Caraxes's scarlet silhouette was like an arrow piercing flame; The Cannibal's pitch-black outline was like an axe cleaving the sea.
Dragonfire collided in the air, creating sparks of gold and red that fell onto the sea, steaming up vast clouds of white mist that shrouded the entire Stepstones in a scorching haze.
Corlys watched in awe from the prow of the Sea Snake. He had seen Baelon's valor in his youth, seen Daemon's raw drive, but he had never seen a sight like this—an ancient bronze dragon, an agile red dragon, and a vicious black dragon tearing apart the Triarchy fleet, which had given the Seven Kingdoms a headache for a whole year, in a single morning.
What startled him even more was the look in Baelon's eyes when he watched "Daemon Waters." It had shifted from initial scrutiny to current... approval.
By the time the battle ended, the morning sun had just climbed to the top of the mast.
Only the burning wreckage of the Three Daughters' fleet remained on the sea surface. Craghas Drahar was hauled onto the deck of the Sea Snake by The Cannibal's claw, his purple silk robes stained with seawater and soot, shivering in a heap on the floor.
Vhagar landed on a reef jutting out of the sea. When Baelon dismounted, his legs gave way, and he nearly fell, only to be caught by Daemon Targaryen, who had rushed over.
"Father, are you alright?"
"Won't die yet." Baelon waved his hand, but his gaze went past his son to land on Daemon Blackfyre, who was climbing down from The Cannibal's back.
The boy's silver hair was slightly singed by dragonfire, and the black dragon crest on his right shoulder glowed dark red in the sunlight, like iron quenched in fire. "The way you ride a dragon... is very much like Aemon."
Daemon Blackfyre paused. He knew who Aemon was—Rhaenys's father, a hero of this age, and the "biological father" he was mistaken for. "You taught him well," he said quietly, the warmth of The Cannibal's scales still lingering on his fingertips.
"It is the dragon that recognized you." Baelon smiled, his cough carrying a rare lightness. "In the Dornish naval battle of 83 AC, Vermithor, Caraxes, and Vhagar... three dragons ended the war in a day. Today..." He looked at Vhagar, then at Caraxes and The Cannibal. "We did it too."
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