High Tide, Driftmark.
One hour before sunset, inside the Council Hall of High Tide.
Cleon Velaryon listened to Maester Mathos's report in a heavy, prolonged silence.
A dozen high-ranking officers and officials sat around the table, their eyes fixed on him, awaiting a verdict.
"He truly said that?" a young Velaryon knight burst out.
"Not even our personal property? Not even the ancestral castle? He wants to pull us out by the roots!"
"He wants total submission," another sighed.
"Not just our walls, but our dignity. To kneel, disarm, and welcome them like slaves... without honor, what is the difference between the dead and us?"
"But if we fight, we die a far worse death," a logistics officer added, his face ashen.
"That is Vhagar. One breath from that old dragon can melt the ramparts. What do we have to hold her back?"
Arguments erupted. The hawks and the doves clashed; some drew swords to hack at the table in fury, while others wept openly.
The pride of Driftmark, an island that had not fallen in centuries, shattered against the cold, draconic reality of Aemond's ultimatum.
Cleon remained silent, staring out the window at the home where he had been raised.
He remembered Lord Corlys's parting words: "Guard it well until I return."
Could he?
As the sun dipped lower, the room fell silent. Finally, Cleon turned.
"Raise the parley flag. Send Mathos one last time. Tell him Driftmark will open its gates, but the garrison must be allowed to march out with their personal sidearms. That is the final line. Velaryon warriors will not be driven from their homes like common criminals."
"And if he still refuses?" his adjutant whispered.
"Then we hold," Cleon said softly, but with iron.
"We hold until the stones melt. For the glory of the Seahorse."
At sunset, inside the negotiation tent.
Mathos entered for the third time, his hands shaking. He recited Cleon's terms, bowing so deeply he couldn't see Aemond's face.
The tent was silent, save for the crackling of the braziers.
"March out with weapons in hand?" Aemond finally spoke.
"Yes... yes..." Mathos stammered.
"Lord Cleon says it is the final shred of dignity for a Velaryon warrior."
"Dignity."
Aemond shook his head and smiled. He stood up and pulled back the tent flap.
The sunset was like spilled blood, staining the entirety of the island.
"We Targaryens conquered the Seven Kingdoms with dragons and fire," he said, his back to the maester.
"But to maintain rule, dragons and fire are not enough. You must have rules."
He turned back, a cold smile on his lips.
"The rule is: obey, or die. There is no middle ground, no bartering, and certainly no 'final dignity'. Go back and tell Cleon Velaryon: the sun has set."
As Mathos scrambled out of the tent, the last sliver of the sun vanished below the horizon.
Booooom!
A horn blasted across the plains. The war began.
The first wave wasn't Vhagar, but Morghul.
The young black dragon moved like a thunderbolt, diving from the clouds toward the western wall.
He was faster and more erratic than his elder kin. Before the defenders could react, Morghul swept the battlements with dragonfire. A dozen archers fell from the walls as living torches.
"Dragon! Dragon!"
"The scorpions! Aim!"
"Too fast! I can't lead the shot!"
In the chaos, Morghul banked and made a second pass.
His fire clung to the stone and skin alike, and those struck by the black dragon's flames shrieked as the heat began to corrode even their bone.
Then came Sunfyre, Aegon's golden dragon, bathing the ramparts in a secondary layer of flame.
But this was just the distraction.
As the garrison focused on the west, a low, earth-shaking rumble echoed from the east.
It wasn't the sharp scream of a young dragon, but a deep, ancient boom from the abyss.
Hearts hammered against ribs; blood turned to ice.
Vhagar had arrived.
The old dragon blotted out the newly risen moon. She didn't dive; she approached with the crushing inevitability of a moving mountain.
The defenders looked up and saw the end of their world.
Vhagar opened her maw. Deep in her throat, a green light didn't just glow, it exploded.
A wall of fire seventy feet wide slammed into a section of the wall and two towers. There was no sound at first, because the air itself was vaporized.
The granite turned cherry-red, then white. Timber gasified. Iron gear became liquid, flowing down the melting stone.
The men on that section of the wall didn't even leave ash behind.
When Vhagar closed her mouth ten seconds later, the barracks and warehouses behind the wall were gone. The heat was so intense that soldiers a hundred meters away felt their skin blistering.
"Retreat! To the inner keep!" officers screamed.
They were helpless. Against dragonfire, there was no defense.
On the balcony of High Tide, Cleon Velaryon witnessed it all. He saw the molten stone, the sea of fire, and the three dragons circling like vultures.
"My Lord, we can hold the inner keep!" his adjutant cried.
"No, we cannot," Cleon replied.
"A few more passes from Vhagar and this castle becomes a furnace. We would be baked alive."
He turned to a herald.
"Raise the white flag. Not just here, across the city. All of them."
"My Lord?!"
"It's over," Cleon said with a hollow laugh.
"Honor is nothing before the dragon. I will not watch the children of my House burn for a lost cause. Open the gates."
Vhagar landed in a nearby field, her amber eyes fixed on the castle, ready to ignite again.
High Tide's main gate creaked open. A single man in a white cloak led the remaining army out.
They had stripped their armor and cast aside their weapons, dressed only in white tunics.
The Royal Army parted to let them pass. Cleon led his men to the clearing where Aemond stood beside Vhagar.
"Commander Cleon Velaryon," his voice carried through the night.
"I ask for surrender to Prince Aemond. The castle, the harbor, the fleet, and the people are yours. I only ask..."
He looked up, the light of the burning walls reflecting in his tired eyes. "I only ask that the Prince keep his word. Do not kill those who have surrendered. Do not slaughter the smallfolk."
Aemond looked down at him for a long time.
"What did I say before sunset?"
Cleon didn't answer.
"I said: if the gates are closed at sunset, I will assume you chose war. The gates were closed. You chose war. And you lost."
"Prince, we are willing, "
"Too late," Aemond interrupted.
"I gave you chances. The first was unconditional surrender; you wanted to barter. The second was disarming; you wanted your weapons. Now the battle is lost, men are dead, and my walls are melted. Now you come to plead?"
He shook his head.
"This is not a surrender, Lord Cleon. This is a defeat. And those who are defeated have no right to set terms."
Aemond looked at the thousands of defenseless men before him.
"I give you one final choice. Kneel, and swear fealty to me. Or else..." He looked toward the burning High Tide.
"Your home truly becomes a pyre."
Cleon's body began to shake.
"We have surrendered... we should be captives, by the laws of nobility..."
"My rules are the only rules!" Aemond barked.
Around them, the Royal Army drew bows.
Morghul landed beside Aemond, his throat glowing with a dark heat. Vhagar rose to her full height, fire gathering in her gullet.
One word, and a thousand captives would be ash.
Cleon looked at his kin, many of them distant branches of House Velaryon.
He sighed and dropped to both knees. A wave of men followed him, hitting the dirt in silence.
Aemond watched with cold eyes.
He was already calculating how to take Dragonstone. Its black-stone fortress could absorb heat, making dragonfire less effective.
He didn't want to destroy the ancestral Targaryen seat with brute force, he wanted it intact. That meant he needed fodder to take it by storm. These captives would be the first into the breach.
But several dozen men remained standing, straight-backed and defiant.
Aemond gestured with his hand. The guards dragged them from the lines.
"I am a Velaryon! I serve Princess Rhaenyra!"
"I will never kneel to a kinslayer!"
"For the glory of the Seahorse!"
Before they could finish, Vhagar unleashed her fire.
The orange sea swallowed them. The screams lasted half a second. When the flames dissipated, only charred earth and rising smoke remained.
The kneeling captives shuddered. No one dared to look up.
Aemond scanned the silent field.
"Now," he said softly, "who else wishes to speak of honor?"
-----
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