High above the harbor, Daemon Targaryen rode atop Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, squinting at the movement below.
He watched as the enormous Vhagar began to prepare for takeoff.
His blood-red dragon, Caraxes, was an exception among dragons—growing very fast, yet only a third the size of Vhagar.
Caraxes, crimson-scaled from head to tail, veins visible between the wing membranes, radiated a predator's aggression even while hovering in the air.
Now, she was controlled by a twelve-year-old madman.
"Madman…" Daemon whispered, unsure whether he meant Aemond or himself.
On the streets of King's Landing, the Gold Cloaks obeyed him, striking down those he deemed lawless.
He had ridden Caraxes to aid Velaryon in seizing the Stepstones, personally killing a powerful pirate called "the Crab," backed by the Kingdom of the Three Daughters.
Afterward, Daemon crowned himself King of the Narrow Sea, provoking the wrath of his brother, King Viserys.
Even now, he was no longer young, and he understood the madness that burned in Targaryen blood.
The desire to prove, to seize, to destroy.
Aemond's performance in the hall last night—those wild eyes, the knife pressed against him… it was all too familiar.
Vhagar spread her wings, casting shadows over half the island.
Time had made her a little bloated; her movements were no longer as swift as a young dragon's, but her weight and strength, causing the ground to tremble with every step, were unmatched by any hatchling.
She beat her wings.
The second flap lifted her massive body off the ground.
The wind roared in Aemond's ears—not the chaotic howl of last night's storm.
Aemond turned his head, eyes fixed on his uncle through the wind and distance.
Morning light streamed between the two dragons, casting long shadows over the sea, and the salt-laden breeze swept past.
Daemon smiled, watching Aemond.
Aemond did not respond.
He leaned close to Vhagar's slightly warm scales and issued commands in Valyrian.
Vhagar roared, a sound that shook wind and waves alike.
The inhabitants of Crow's Nest Island looked up, awe-struck by the sight of the giant Vhagar…
She suddenly veered, flapped vigorously, and surged toward the western port.
Clawhawk froze for a moment, adjusted course, and hastily followed.
Daemon's gaze fell upon the small figure atop Vhagar—his eyes narrowed.
That child was controlling her, at least for now.
But dragonriding was not merely a matter of skill—it was a battle of wills, and dragons sensed fear, hesitation, and weakness in their riders.
Inside Dragonstone, Rhaenyra stood before her eldest son's window.
She watched Vhagar soar into the sky, a massive shadow gliding over the harbor, Daemon's red dragon following, and finally Aemond racing across the back of the oldest dragon toward the royal fleet.
Her jealousy toward Aemond was cold; she knew her uncle Daemon well, and she understood this younger son—reckless, dangerous, uncontrollable.
"Who?" came a hoarse voice from behind, thick with hangover.
Rhaenyra did not turn. She knew it was her husband, Laenor Velaryon, who had finally returned from some port tavern or sailor's bed.
Laenor followed her gaze to the window, but saw nothing—only empty sky and the slowly brightening sea.
He approached the bed and looked at Jacaerys, lying with a heavy bandage over his left eye, still asleep under the influence of milk of the poppy.
"Seven Gods…" Laenor whispered, his voice filled with genuine pain.
He reached out, hesitating above his eldest son's brow, unwilling to wake the boy.
"I was in port, and when I heard… it was too late. Rhaenyra, I—"
"It matters not where you were," Rhaenyra interrupted, finally turning to face him.
No tears on her face, only exhaustion.
"What matters is that Aemond lost an eye.
But I also made them pay the price."
Laenor looked at her. His wife—no, she was more like a sister.
The princess he had known in youth later became his partner through a political marriage.
She was strikingly beautiful, worthy of being called the Light of the Realm.
Even amid anger and grief, Rhaenyra's radiant Targaryen beauty drew attention.
He had never felt passion for her.
"I am not a fit husband," Laenor said.
"Nor am I a fit father. I… I cannot give you what you need."
Rhaenyra regarded him with anger, sorrow, disappointment, and relief.
"I tried too, Laenor," she said.
Her voice trembled, yet she forced herself onward.
"But you evade me every time.
You'd rather drink with captain-friends, sit in taverns with sailors, or…"
Laenor's face turned pale.
He wanted to defend himself, to apologize, but all words failed him.
"No," Rhaenyra shook her head, a single tear slipping down, quickly wiped away.
"You cannot love me, and I cannot endure solitude and neglect."
She approached the window, turned her back, and looked out at the tidal island as the sun gradually rose.
"I do not regret, Laenor."
Laenor stood there, as if all his strength had been drained.
Could he be angry?
No—only guilt remained.
Rhaenyra had given him a chance, yet his body's instinct hindered him from taking it.
"You and Daemon…" he muttered the name with effort.
This marriage was painful for him.
But under the influence of the Faith of the Seven in Westeros, divorce was impossible.
Rhaenyra's eyes flickered briefly with panic, quickly replaced by resolve.
"That comes later," she said firmly.
"Now we have more pressing matters:
The Eyes of Jacaerys, and Jacaerys's betrothal to Helaena."
She left the sentence unfinished, but Laenor understood.
He took a deep breath and headed for the door.
"I will do it properly. I must do it," he said.
"As the father of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey, in public."
Rhaenyra stood alone at the window, the morning light turning her long silver hair golden.