The Harbor of Dragonstone.
Before dawn, Dragonstone was as black as charcoal.
On the west coast docks, however, fire soared into the sky, the Royal Fleet had landed under the cover of daybreak.
The air was thick with the scent of sea brine and sulfur.
Over three thousand soldiers were lowering gangplanks, their iron boots striking the wood with a heavy, rhythmic thud.
It was quiet. Too quiet. There wasn't a single movement on the entire island.
In an instant, the clouds directly above exploded!
Vermithor plummeted from the heavens, breathing fire.
His bronze-colored frame tore through the mist; over one hundred and thirty meters long, he was second only to Vhagar in size and currently in the prime of his draconic power.
Every scale glinted with a metallic bronze sheen, and his wingspan exceeded two hundred meters.
The speed was terrifying. He transitioned from the clouds to an attack position in a mere heartbeat.
"Climb! Full speed!" Aemond roared.
Vhagar rolled onto her side. The ancient dragon's century of combat instinct allowed her to react the moment she sensed movement in the clouds.
But the sheer mass that gave her power now translated into a lethal sluggishness.
The bronze dragonfire grazed the trailing edge of her left wing.
The flames were not the typical orange-red, but a dark, molten gold, like liquid bronze from the depths of a forge.
BOOM!!!
The dragonfire slammed into the sea less than three hundred feet from the harbor. The water vaporized instantly upon contact, boiling frantically.
A pillar of steam billowed outward, and a scalding salt mist washed over the docks like a tsunami.
Several unfortunate soldiers were struck head-on; their leather armor was scalded through, skin blistering and rotting in seconds as they fell screaming.
The sea left a terrifying, thirty-foot-wide depression that revealed the jagged reefs below before the surrounding water rushed back in, carrying with it the white-bellied corpses of fish cooked alive by the heat.
"Vermithor?!" Aegon shrieked in disbelief.
"There's someone on its back!"
Aemond didn't answer. He looked up, his violet eye locking onto the figure perched on the bronze titan, a man in black armor with short silver hair.
Through the slit of the helmet, a pair of desperate, murderous eyes stared back at him.
Aemond let out a sharp, cold laugh. Dragonseeds.
The Blacks had indeed played this card, allowing bastards to tame the dragons. Fury surged within him, but he forced himself to remain calm.
"Not just one."
Aemond's pupils constricted as he looked toward the island.
From the Dragonmont, one, two, three more dragons were taking flight! They were being ambushed.
"Where is your Morghul?!" Aegon's voice was laced with despair.
The young black dragon was supposed to be screening the flanks, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Aemond knew Morghul was clever. The moment the Bronze Fury attacked, the black dragon had vanished into the clouds.
To the right, a grey shadow materialized like a ghost.
Grey Ghost. His fifty-foot wingspan made him a small fry among the elders, but his speed compensated for everything.
He darted through the clouds in a trajectory nearly impossible to track, his pale scales making him almost invisible in the morning mist.
Higher still, in the deepest layer of the clouds, another shadow circled: Sheepstealer.
Four dragons. Four riders. A textbook ambush formation.
Vermithor to engage Vhagar head-on; Silverwing to harass from the flanks; Grey Ghost to strike and fade with speed; and Sheepstealer to loom high, creating chaos.
Aemond's mind worked with lightning speed.
"Aegon, listen well." his voice was terrifyingly calm.
"I'll take Vermithor. You hold off the other three. Don't try to kill them, just stall. Survival is victory."
"But they have four dragons! We'll be torn apart!" Aegon shrieked. The targets of the other three were clearly him.
"Sunfyre cannot fight three dragons! We should retreat! Retreat now!"
"Do as I say!" Aemond cut him off sharply.
"If you turn and run now, they will hunt us down and rip us from the sky. We will be surrounded and torn apart!" He paused, his voice gaining a ruthless edge.
"You are a Targaryen, what are you afraid of? If we die, I will ensure they go to the grave with us."
Aegon finally nodded. He could run, but Vhagar was too old; she would be caught.
No matter how strong Vhagar was, she could not face four dragons simultaneously, especially with the Bronze Fury among them.
Aemond leaned forward, his palm pressing against the rough scales of Vhagar's neck.
"Vhagar," he whispered, his voice heard only by the dragon.
"Come."
Vhagar tilted her massive head. Her amber pupils fixed on Vermithor, Silverwing, and Sheepstealer.
These dragons had once been her kin, some even her own hatchlings.
Do dragons feel? Men had debated it for centuries.
Aemond didn't know. He only knew that Vhagar's mood was heavy.
"Today," he continued, his hand gently stroking her scales, "we must remind them who truly masters the sky."
Vhagar raised her head. She did not roar. She took a deep breath.
The sound was like a thousand bellows drawing air at once, creating a visible vortex that funneled into her massive maw.
Vermithor's charge faltered for a fraction of a second.
A flicker of hesitation crossed the bronze dragon's eyes.
No matter how fierce he was, before his mother, an indelible spark of primal fear remained.
His jaws closed slightly, the gold-red light in his throat dimming.
His wingbeats missed a beat, and his massive body hung in the air in a brief, uncertain hover.
But the rider had no such instinct.
"Go!" Valos roared frantically, leaning over the saddle.
"Vermithor!"
The final trace of hesitation in Vermithor's eyes was replaced by command.
He opened his maw again, the dark gold light reigniting, fiercer and more violent than before.
The second blast of bronze dragonfire erupted.
-----
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