The Skies Above Dragonstone.
This time, the "Bronze Fury" Vermithor did not aim for Vhagar's massive body.
Instead, he unleashed a torrent of flame directly at Aemond upon the saddle.
Aemond did not flinch.
Vhagar accelerated to full speed, ramming head-on into Vermithor.
"Is he mad?!" Aegon shrieked from a distance as he watched the ancient dragon's lungs gather power for a roar that shook the very heavens.
Fifty meters apart.
Vhagar raised her head, not in retreat, but to coil her strength.
She opened her maw. The fire that erupted was not a common pillar of orange flame, nor was it the molten gold of Vermithor.
It was a murky green liquid fire.
The two dragon breaths collided in mid-air.
BOOM!!!
A deafening explosion swallowed all sound.
At the point of impact between the bronze and green flames, a blinding white light erased all color.
Aemond pressed himself flat against Vhagar's hide to shield himself from the violent shockwave.
The blast expanded in a massive sphere, the recoil staggering both titans backward.
Vermithor, young and robust, used brute strength to steady himself, his wings beating frantically to cancel his backward momentum.
Vhagar, however, relied on experience. As the old dragon drifted back, she suddenly tucked her wings, plummeting thirty feet like a falling meteor.
She converted the explosion's impact into kinetic energy, then snapped her wings open with a sound like thunder, cutting back into the fray from below.
Her trajectory was precise, aiming for Vermithor's relatively vulnerable underbelly.
But Vermithor's instincts were formidable. The bronze dragon didn't try to climb, which would have exposed his chest further, but opted for the most barbaric counter: he slammed his heavily armored shoulder directly into Vhagar's chest.
Two dragons, with a combined wingspan of over two hundred and fifty feet, collided at full force.
The roars and shrieks were so loud that the Black supporters watching from the Dragonmont were forced to cover their ears.
The impact sent Aemond lurching forward, his safety straps biting into his flesh and leaving bruised welts.
He gripped the saddle pommel until his knuckles turned white.
Vhagar let out a roar of agony; though her scales were thick, the collision against her sternum sent a wave of pain through her entire frame.
Yet, the old dragon's counter was faster.
In the brief second after the impact, as the force pushed apart the two dragons, Vhagar twisted her neck.
Her massive jaws, lined with teeth the size of men, clamped onto the side of Vermithor's neck.
Drawing on two centuries of slaughter, she gripped a section of his scales and wrenched her head violently from side to side.
CRACK!!!
A massive patch of bronze scales was torn away, exposing raw, crimson muscle that spasmed in the cold air.
Dragon blood began to pour. As it hit the sea below, it vaporized the water into great plumes of white steam.
Dead fish floated to the surface by the hundreds, poisoned by the extreme heat and toxicity of the ancient blood.
"ROAR!!!"
Vermithor descended into a total frenzy. He abandoned all tactics, kicking his hind legs into Vhagar's belly to break her hold.
Simultaneously, his tail lashed out like a siege ram, its bone spikes whistling through the air before slamming into the base of Vhagar's left wing.
THUD!!!
The force of the blow made the sky itself seem to shudder. Vhagar was knocked off balance, her left wing mangled and bleeding.
The old dragon's roar turned to one of true, unbridled fury. A wing injury in aerial combat was a death sentence.
"Vhagar!" Aemond hissed, feeling her flight become unstable.
She beat her right wing fiercely to compensate, rolling her body to create distance.
But Vermithor gave no quarter. He abandoned defense entirely, pressing in close with claws, teeth, and head-butts.
Every inch of his body was now a weapon.
The wound on his neck continued to bleed, but the pain acted as fuel, stoking his battle lust.
The two titans spiraled into the high clouds, tearing the mist apart as dragon blood fell like rain.
The Flanks.
On the other side of the battlefield, Aegon was in dire straits.
Sunfyre's situation was wretched. Though the Golden Dragon was in his prime, he was trapped in a disadvantageous engagement.
Even if the opposing riders, Sara and Mirax, lacked experience, their numerical advantage was absolute.
Silverwing's tactic was clear: avoid a head-on clash and use her agility to strike from Sunfyre's blind spots.
The silver dragon aimed specifically for the existing tears in Sunfyre's left wing, digging in with her claws and snapping with her teeth.
Every strike widened the wounds, leaving a long crimson trail of blood mist behind the golden dragon.
"Left turn! Sunfyre, dive left!"
Aegon screamed, his own back burning with pain from a previous graze by Silverwing's talons.
His armor was shredded, and his breath came in ragged, bloody gasps.
Sunfyre tried to maneuver, but Grey Ghost circled nearby.
Every time Sunfyre attempted to climb or turn, the pale dragon would ghost through the clouds to unleash a narrow, high-temperature jet of flame, boxing him in.
The coordination between the Dragonseeds was unrefined, but the size of Silverwing and the speed of Grey Ghost made for a lethal combination.
Silverwing struck again.
This time, her claws found the base of Sunfyre's right wing.
With a violent wrench, three molten-gold scales were torn out along with a chunk of flesh.
The golden dragon roared in agony, his altitude dropping twenty feet instantly.
"Climb, Sunfyre! Climb!" Aegon shrieked.
The dragon beat his wings with all his might, but the damage to his right side made the ascent agonizingly slow.
Below them lay the jagged black cliffs of the coast; at this height, a loss of control meant certain death.
The High Clouds.
High above, in the deepest clouds, a different struggle unfolded.
Sheepstealer was enraged.
The long-missing Morghul had reappeared, using his extreme agility to engage the wild dragon.
Morghul ignored Sheepstealer entirely, focusing his attacks solely on the rider, Nettles.
The young black dragon knew that the small human was a far easier target.
Nettles huddled low in her saddle, gripping the pommel for dear life as she dodged Morghul's precision jets of flame.
Her body was tossed violently with every maneuver Sheepstealer made.
The wild dragon was in a state of confused fury. He wanted to swat the black shadow out of the sky, but Morghul was too fast, constantly repositioning to roast the rider.
Sheepstealer was forced into a defensive aerial dance, banking and diving to keep Nettles safe.
Whenever Sheepstealer tried to strike back with his massive wings, Morghul would accelerate away.
Sheepstealer let out a frustrated, thundering roar, circling the sky but unable to catch the small, dark phantom that haunted his back.
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Morgul is basically this world's Night Fury.
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