Deep within the Dragonmont of Dragonstone.
Prince Daemon Targaryen stood before the Cannibal. Dark Sister hung at his waist, and the steam rising from the volcanic vents beneath his feet dampened his silver hair.
Daemon held out his hand, palm upward, toward the wild dragon.
"I know you can understand me," his voice echoed through the cavern.
"You and I are the same."
The Cannibal did not move.
Those emerald-green dragon eyes stared at him coldly.
The hot breath pouring from its nostrils carried a heavy stench of sulfur, blowing Daemon's hair back.
"I need your help against Vhagar."
A deep rumble rose from the dragon's throat, shaking the entire cavern.
Daemon took a step forward.
Suddenly, the Cannibal's tail lashed out, smashing a pile of rocks to pieces.
Stone shards exploded through the air, slicing Daemon's cheek.
Daemon did not retreat. He did not even blink.
"You're afraid of being bound," he continued.
"I understand that."
"I'm not here to bind you. I'm here to ask for your help."
He took a third step forward.
The Cannibal lifted its head from its nest and leaned toward him with a suffocating sense of power.
Its nostrils were almost touching his face. Every breath felt like a blast of hot wind.
Daemon could see every pattern in its black scales. He could see the dried blood around its jaws.
"Either let me ride you," Daemon continued.
"Or burn me to death."
"Either one is better than standing here."
The Cannibal opened its mouth.
The fire deep in its throat suddenly swelled. A wave of heat crashed into him, and Daemon's eyebrows curled slightly from the temperature.
But he did not stop.
He reached out his hand.
That calloused hand looked pitifully fragile between the flames and the dragon's fangs.
The Cannibal stared at him.
The anger in those emerald-green slit pupils gradually faded.
Then it closed its mouth.
The flames died away, and a plume of white smoke drifted from its nostrils.
Slowly, it turned its head aside and looked toward the eternal darkness deeper within the cavern.
It had refused him.
Not with fire.
Not with claws.
But with indifference.
Daemon's hand froze in midair.
He stood there with his arm outstretched, like a beggar asking for alms.
Ridiculous.
Pathetic.
Pitiful.
In the end, Daemon slowly lowered his hand.
It was trembling.
Not from fear.
Not from anger.
But from a pure, naked sense of defeat.
Why could that Aemond command two dragons?
Yet he could not?
He turned and walked toward the exit.
Outside the Dragonmont, Rhaenyra held her newborn daughter, Rhaenys—a name she had chosen in honor of her aunt.
The sea breeze tossed her silver hair.
Her face still carried the pallor of childbirth, and there was little color in her lips.
Daemon, having failed to tame the dragon, came to her side.
"It failed?" Rhaenyra asked, holding little Rhaenys.
Daemon sighed silently before speaking.
"That wild dragon would rather grow old alone."
Rhaenyra rested her head against his shoulder.
"If I had acted sooner," Daemon forced out through clenched teeth.
"Before that monster mounted Vhagar."
"When he was twelve. After Driftmark..."
"Daemon, there are no 'ifs,'" Rhaenyra interrupted softly.
Daemon clenched his jaw.
"I knew he was different back then."
"The look in his eyes. The way he carried himself."
"That calmness. A calmness no child should have had. I should have killed him."
Rhaenyra lifted her head and looked at his profile.
"This isn't your fault, Daemon..."
Daemon closed his eyes.
"Now Tyrosh is under Hugh's control," he said quietly.
"Baela, Rhaena, and Lucerys are all in his hands."
"After the battle at the Gods Eye, the Westerlands were crippled, and both the North and the Riverlands suffered crushing defeats."
"Jason Lannister is dead. Elmo Tully is dead. Cregan Stark is missing."
Daemon turned to face her and gripped her shoulders with both hands.
"All we have left are Caraxes and Syrax..."
"Now the Greens have more dragons than we do."
"Tell me, Rhaenyra."
"What do we have left?"
Rhaenyra looked at him.
Tears shimmered beneath the moonlight.
"We still have each other," she said.
Daemon froze.
"We still have each other," she repeated through her tears.
"We still have our children. We still carry the blood of the dragon."
Daemon looked at her.
Those violet eyes seemed especially deep beneath the moonlight.
Suddenly, he smiled.
It was a smile so warm that it hardly seemed like his.
Not mocking.
Not arrogant.
But the smile of the Daemon Targaryen who, years ago, had feared nothing when standing before his brother Viserys.
He reached out and gently wiped the tears from Rhaenyra's face.
His fingers were rough, his knuckles covered in calluses and scars.
"We were born from fire," Daemon said in a low voice.
"You and I were always meant to burn together."
"No matter what the future holds, I'll fight with everything I have to win even the slightest chance of survival for you and the children."
Rhaenyra nodded through her tears.
Suddenly, a dragon's roar echoed from the sky.
It was not Caraxes's shriek.
Nor Syrax's sharp bellow.
They both looked up.
Beneath the moonlight, a massive shadow circled overhead.
A long, slender neck.
An arrow-shaped head.
Silver-gray scales gleaming with a metallic sheen beneath the moon.
Seasmoke.
...
The Red Keep, King's Landing.
Beside King Aegon II's bed.
His right leg was crippled.
His face remained pale, his cheeks hollow, his cheekbones prominent, his eyes sunken deep in their sockets.
Yet at this moment, Aegon's gaze was unusually clear.
Queen Alyn sat beside the bed, feeding King Aegon spoonful after spoonful of warm honeyed milk with a silver spoon.
Queen Dowager Alicent stood on the other side of the bed. Over the past few months, more than half her hair had turned white, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes were as deep as knife cuts.
Aemond stood at the foot of the bed, watching it all.
"Keep doing what you need to do. Don't worry about me, Aemond," Aegon finally said from the bed, his voice hoarse and weak.
Aemond was silent for a moment.
"Focus on recovering."
Aegon gave a bitter smile and glanced down at his crippled right leg.
"A crippled king and a one-eyed dragon. Quite the pair."
"Sunfyre will recover. A dragon's healing ability is far stronger than a human's."
"That's good."
There was a sense of relief in Aegon's voice.
"At least Sunfyre can still fly. I probably never will again."
Aemond looked at the dejected King Aegon, his expression complicated, then turned to leave.
Queen Dowager Alicent grabbed her son Aemond's hand before he could go.
"Rhaenyra wants to speak with me."
Aemond turned toward his mother.
"You contacted her?"
Alicent nodded.
"A few days ago. I sent a messenger. She's willing to talk."
Aemond remained silent for a long time.
"Unless it's an unconditional surrender," he finally said, his voice cold.
"They hand over their dragons."
"Then I'll settle them in Dragon's Roost."
"A Great Council will be convened, and Rhaenyra will admit her usurpation."
"I'll spare their lives."
"She only wants to keep Dragonstone..."
"Impossible," Aemond interrupted. "Then it would only be a truce."
"Years from now, the war would begin again."
"She's your sister..."
"She's my enemy."
Aemond stared at Alicent.
"Mother, what are you thinking?"
"Do you think that if I compromise a little, the war might end?"
"You're mistaken."
"She's lost two sons. All she has left is hatred."
"Give her an inch now, and she'll demand a foot."
"In the end, she'll want our lives."
Alicent's eyes reddened.
She had once been Rhaenyra's closest friend. They had grown up together.
She had also become Rhaenyra's stepmother.
She did not want to see Rhaenyra die.
She had once promised Viserys...
To stop brother and sister from destroying each other.
Tears streamed down Alicent's face as she looked at Aemond.
"Then what will you become?"
"Aemond... what will you become?"
Aemond did not answer.
The attendant Alyn Waters quietly entered and leaned close to whisper a few words in his ear.
Aemond's expression grew even colder as he looked at his mother.
"I only accept unconditional surrender."
Then he turned and left.
...
The Iron Throne room.
Aemond stood before the Iron Throne, his posture relaxed as he looked down at the envoy below. Yet anyone who saw him knew instinctively that he was not someone to be treated casually.
His silver hair gleamed coldly beneath the candlelight.
His violet eyes were half-lidded.
Ulf stood below with several attendants.
Ever since he and Hugh had crawled out of Dragonstone, neither of them had ever bowed their heads before nobles.
Yet now, under the gaze of Aemond's violet eyes, his back bent involuntarily.
Aemond unfolded Hugh's letter.
After reading it, he let out a cold laugh.
The sound echoed through the hall.
Hugh wanted the Iron Throne to legitimize his Targaryen identity before all the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms.
He wanted to be recognized as Prince of Tyrosh.
In return, he would join the Greens and help them fight the Blacks.
He would also hand over the rebels—Lucerys and Daemon's two daughters.
Aemond dismissed the proposal with contempt.
This was a Targaryen family matter.
It was not the place of these bastards to interfere and profit from the chaos.
Then Aemond descended from the Iron Throne, step by step.
The sound of his boots on the stairs was exceptionally clear in the silence.
He stopped in front of Ulf.
"Do you know something?" Aemond said. His voice was not loud, but it was clear, firm, and impossible to ignore.
"You bastards are born fickle and faithless."
"Your blood carries betrayal and indulgence."
Ulf's face immediately darkened.
He could endure insults.
But there was no insult in Aemond's tone.
No contempt.
No emotion at all.
It was as though he were simply stating a fact.
That calm, emotionless disdain was more unbearable than any curse.
"Then what does the Prince Regent mean?" Ulf asked, his voice trembling slightly.
"Do you look down on us?"
"It's not that I look down on you."
Aemond took another step forward.
"It's that you're not qualified."
Suddenly, Aemond grabbed Ulf by the head.
The grip was so powerful that Ulf's skull creaked as though it might be crushed at any moment.
A scorching heat flowed from that hand and seeped into his bones.
"M-Mercy..." Ulf's voice had completely changed, trembling with sobs.
Aemond stared at him for a long time.
Those violet eyes reflected Ulf's twisted, terrified face.
Then he released him.
Ulf staggered backward and nearly fell.
His face was flushed red, and five deep purple finger marks stood out on his forehead.
"Get out."
"Tell Hugh this: stealing a Targaryen dragon never ends well."
Ulf scrambled out of the hall on all fours.
His attendants followed behind him like rats fleeing from a cat.
The hall fell silent once more.
Alyn stood in a corner, his palms covered in sweat.
He was a bastard too.
A bastard ignored by everyone on Driftmark.
A bastard treated as a disgrace.
A bastard who had never even met his father.
Aemond noticed.
He patted the young man's shoulder.
"I hate bastards who don't know their place."
"But that doesn't include you."
Alyn looked up, his eyes growing warm.
A trace of gratitude filled his heart.
"Thank you, Prince Regent."
Suddenly, the doors burst open.
A woman in a silk dress stumbled into the hall.
It was Sherry from Hull, the woman responsible for caring for royal mothers during childbirth.
Her face was flushed, her hair disheveled. She nearly tripped over the threshold as she rushed inside.
"Prince Regent!"
Her voice was urgent, almost hysterical.
"Princess Helaena is about to give birth!"
Aemond's expression changed instantly.