The battlefield trembled beneath the roars of dragons, the sky a tapestry of fire and smoke.
Red Dragon Yigen, massive and ferocious, had finally unleashed his full strength. With a violent swing of his colossal body, he seized Silverwing by the tail and flung the pale dragon like a weapon, smashing her into the air. The impact rang like thunder, the clash of scale against scale echoing across the heavens.
Vermithor, who had been poised to release another torrent of Dragon Flame, faltered as her breath was knocked astray. Her fiery blast veered off course, missing its intended target and instead grazing the vast, black wing of the monster that hovered nearby—Black Dragon Im.
The black scales of Im hissed and sparked under the lick of Vermithor's fire. A shower of flame rolled across her wings, scattering embers into the night sky, yet the mighty beast endured the assault without faltering. The damage was negligible, her immense bulk barely singed.
In that instant, the balance of the battle shifted once more.
What had been a desperate, swirling melee now drew to a standoff. Six dragons remained in the sky, locked in tense opposition—three against three. But though the numbers were even, the power was not.
Rayder's side—Black Dragon Im, Red Dragon Yigen, and the abomination Kidora with its three terrible heads—had seized the advantage. Their combined might, bolstered by Kidora's unnatural form and Im's overwhelming presence, had turned the tide.
Especially Im. The black dragon loomed like a living mountain, her wings spanning wide, her body hunching as if she were the mouth of a volcano ready to erupt. Within her chest, a furnace burned, and any moment she might loose another torrent of black flame that would reduce her foes to ash.
Across from her, King Jaehaerys could only stare at the sight, his heart weighed with despair.
As the silver in his beard stirred in the wind, the King realized with brutal clarity: the hope he had clung to was gone. The fate of House Targaryen, decided in dragonfire, had slipped from his grasp.
He could not win.
The truth was bitter, but Jaehaerys knew it well. If the battle continued, Vermithor and Silverwing would be slain. The dynasty's foundation—its legacy of dragons—would be annihilated in this single clash.
With a heart torn between pride and duty, he pulled Vermithor back, guiding the wounded dragon to distance. His voice, hoarse with exhaustion and desperation, rang out above the battlefield:
"Stop! Enough! Let us speak!"
The cry pierced the air. It was not only the plea of a man, but the command of a king.
Rayder, astride the monstrous Kidora, heard it and narrowed his eyes. His heart, unlike Im's flame, was cold and calculating.
Victory lay within his grasp. With another order, he could finish the Targaryens, slaughter them where they hovered bloodied and broken. But what then? A corpse-heap of dragons would not give him dominion. Dead men yielded no kingdoms.
He understood a truth sharper than any sword: conquest by fire brought only ruin. If he pressed too far, he would bleed himself dry in victory.
So he steadied his hand. With a low murmur, he soothed Black Dragon Im, forcing her to swallow back the inferno burning in her throat.
"Hold," he commanded.
Im rumbled, restless, but obeyed.
At the same moment, Yigen released Silverwing's tail, the battered dragon flailing free. The battle's momentum froze.
Then the sea roared.
All eyes turned downward as the once-calm waters churned into frothing waves. From the depths, vast shadows stirred. Like leviathans rising from ancient slumber, two figures emerged, breaking the surface with a surge that sent white spray into the air.
Vhagar and Meleys.
They were battered and scorched, their scales torn, but they lived. Against all odds, the dragons Rayder had thought defeated clawed their way from the deep. Their resilience was a testament to their kind—beasts of fire and blood who refused to die.
Yet their riders had not fared as well.
On Vhagar's back, young Lannael sagged in her saddle, unconscious and pale as death.
And on Meleys, Princess Rhaenys scrambled with frantic desperation, unbuckling her straps and diving into the water to seize her daughter. She hauled Lannael into her arms, her face contorted with terror and fierce resolve. Desperately, she pressed at her daughter's chest, urging her to breathe, her tears mingling with the saltwater.
Rayder watched. His expression did not soften, but within his mind the calculation shifted once more.
Mercy? No. This was not mercy. This was strategy. Even if he slew them all now, the Targaryens' roots ran deep. Bloodlines, alliances, the weight of history—he could not burn those away in a single night.
Better to show restraint. Better to hold his strength in reserve, consolidate power, and build his dominion piece by piece.
Yes. First the Wall. First the North. Then, perhaps, all of Westeros.
For now, he would negotiate.
On Dragonstone's black beaches, the survivors gathered.
Jaehaerys and Alysanne descended swiftly, Vermithor and Silverwing limping from the air. They rushed to the shore, pulling Rhaenys and Lannael from the waves, steadying Meleys, whose great body shuddered with exhaustion.
The scene was grim. Dragons bled openly, smoke rising from charred scales. Riders stumbled, soaked and pale, their strength near spent.
The air reeked of blood, salt, and ash. The tide hissed against jagged rock, whispering of lives nearly lost.
When both sides at last stood on the sand, they kept distance.
Rayder's dragons—Im, Yigen, Kidora—cast monstrous shadows, their eyes glowing with otherworldly malice. They were near unscathed, the black scales gleaming with power.
Jaehaerys's brood was another matter. Vermithor's flanks bled freely. Silverwing's wings bore ragged tears. Meleys staggered, half-drowned. Caraxes limped back from the distance, eyes wild. And Lannael, wrapped in her mother's arms, clung to life by a thread.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the crash of waves.
At last, Jaehaerys lifted his head. His hair, damp with sweat and seawater, whipped in the wind. Though his voice was weary, it carried the weight of kingship.
"You crossed the sea," he said hoarsely, his eyes fixed on Rayder. "You came to Westeros not for battle, but for a home. Did you not?"
Rayder smiled, slow and sharp. His voice carried a hint of scorn.
"Indeed. A place to settle, a place to rule. But men like me—men with dragons—find little welcome among your lords and princes."
He let the words hang, barbed with provocation.
Jaehaerys did not rise to it. His tone remained calm, though weariness threaded his words.
"Those are misunderstandings," he said softly. "We are blood of the same line. Dragonlords, descended from Old Valyria. What grudge could there be between kin?"
The two men locked eyes. Behind them, dragons shifted restlessly, their breaths steaming in the cool salt air.
The truce was fragile, held by the thinnest thread.
But for the moment, fire had yielded to words.
--
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