POV Aerys Targaryen
Stonehelm did not sleep long.
Victory had filled the halls with noise the night before—songs, shouting, men boasting of deeds that grew greater with every cup—but by morning the laughter was gone. The air felt tight again. Expectant. Like a bowstring pulled to its limit.
Walter Wyl had come.
The horns woke us before the sun. I was already half-armored when the runner burst into the chamber.
"My prince," he panted. "Their banners are sighted. Wyl rides at their head."
Of course he did. Men like Walter Wyl did not send others to bleed in their place.
I stepped onto the battlements as the gates thundered open and our host marched out to meet them. The wind carried their colors clear enough to see: the serpent banner snapping above a dense line of spears. They had come in strength, more than I expected, and they advanced with the confidence of men who believed this day already theirs.
Davos joined me, helm tucked beneath his arm. "They look eager," he said.
"They won't look that way for long."
Caraxes shifted behind me, claws scraping stone. He felt my mood, my hunger for the fight. His wings twitched.
"Soon," I whispered to him.
We rode out with the vanguard.
The field before Stonehelm was narrow, hemmed by rocky hills. No room for clever maneuvers. It would be decided the old way—line against line, courage against courage. Lord Orys took command at the center, his voice cutting clean through the clamor.
"Hold the ground," he ordered. "Let them break on us."
Walter Wyl did not wait.
His charge came hard and fast, his men slamming into our front like a hammer strike. The impact rippled through the ranks. Shields splintered. Men staggered. For a moment the line bent, and I felt the tremor of fear pass through us.
Then Orys roared, and the Stormlanders roared with him.
The fighting swallowed everything.
I was in it again—the press of bodies, the crash of steel, the stink of sweat and churned earth. A man rushed me with a scream. I turned his blade and drove him back. Another took his place. There was no space to breathe, only to move.
Walter Wyl carved a path through the melee like a man possessed. I saw him in flashes: tall, broad, his armor dark with mud, his sword rising and falling. Men gave ground before him. He fought like someone with nothing left to lose.
"Orys!" someone shouted. "He's pushing for Orys!"
I looked up just in time to see them collide.
Their blades met with a sound like a bell struck. Walter drove forward with brutal force, but Orys did not yield. He turned the blow aside and answered with one of his own. The two circled, the battle seeming to hush around them for a heartbeat as men watched.
Walter lunged.
Orys caught his wrist, twisted, and sent the sword spinning from his grasp. Stormlander soldiers surged in, dragging Walter to the ground beneath a pile of bodies. He thrashed and cursed, but the fight had left him. When they hauled him upright, his face was streaked with dirt and fury.
They brought him before Orys in chains.
Walter spat blood at his feet. "Do it, then," he snarled. "Be done with it."
Orys regarded him in silence for a long moment. The field was quiet now except for the groans of the wounded and the distant caw of crows. Every man nearby leaned in, waiting.
"Your father," Orys said at last, voice low, "took my sword hand."
Walter's jaw tightened, but he did not look away.
"I remember," Orys continued. "I remember the pain. I remember learning to fight again. I remember every day since."
He nodded once to his guards.
They forced Walter to his knees.
I did not look away. I told myself I should not. A prince could not flinch from the cost of war. Walter struggled as they held him, rage pouring from him in broken shouts. Orys drew his blade, his expression carved from stone.
The punishment was swift.
When it was done, Walter sagged in their grip, his fury spent, his breath coming in ragged pulls. The field remained silent. Even the wind seemed to hold back.
"Let him live," Orys commanded. "Let him carry the lesson home."
The guards dragged Walter away.
No one cheered.
Davos exhaled slowly beside me. "That's… an ending, I suppose."
"No," I said, watching the retreating figure. "It's a beginning. Men will remember this."
"And fear it?"
"Yes," I answered. "Fear it."
Caraxes stirred behind us, a low rumble rolling in his chest. The war was not over. Not truly. But the message had been written in blood and steel, and all the Stormlands would read it.
We turned back toward Stonehelm as the sun climbed higher, the field behind us heavy with silence.
Another victory.
Another scar.
__________________________________________________________________________
POV Aerys Targaryen
A week and a half had passed since the battle. Orys had been wounded, and though the maesters said the cuts did not seem fatal, the camp carried the quiet dread of men who had seen strong warriors die from less. Davos never left his father's side. When they rode for Storm's End, he rode with them.
Before he left, Orys summoned me.
"You finish it," he told me from his litter, pale but burning with stubborn life. "The Vulture King. End this, and end it clean."
I promised him I would.
That promise carried me south.
The Dornish marshes spread beneath Caraxes like a green-brown sea, broken by black pools and twisted trees. The air was thick and wet. Even from the sky I could smell rot and smoke. Lords were hunting the Vulture King, I'd been told. He had failed to take Nightsong and was fleeing, snapping at his pursuers like a wounded dog.
As I flew, I heard it—the faint ring of steel drifting upward.
I smiled.
"Down," I told Caraxes.
He folded his wings and descended.
POV Samwell Tarly
I would never forget the sight.
We had been chasing the Dornish through the marsh for what felt like hours. The ground sucked at our boots. Men slipped, cursed, rose again. The enemy fought like ghosts, appearing from reeds and vanishing just as quickly.
Then the roar came.
Every man froze.
It rolled across the marsh like thunder, deep and alive. Even the Dornish stopped. We all looked up as one.
Out of the clouds burst a dragon.
Red as spilled wine, long and terrible, its wings beating storms into the air. Fire poured from its jaws, not wild but guided, striking the ground ahead of the fleeing rebels. The marsh lit orange. Men scattered in terror.
"Dragon!" someone screamed, though none of us needed telling.
On its back rode a boy.
I remember blinking, certain my eyes lied to me. He was small in the saddle, armor black and gleaming, silver hair whipping behind him. A child, and yet the dragon obeyed him as if he were born to its spine.
The Dornish line shattered.
Some threw down their weapons. Others ran blindly into the water and vanished beneath it. The Vulture King's banner wavered in the chaos.
And the boy steered straight for it.
POV Aerys Targaryen
I landed in the heart of them.
Caraxes hit the ground with a crash that knocked men from their feet. Heat rolled off him in waves. The rebels stumbled back, their courage burning away faster than their banners.
"Bring me your king!" I shouted.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then he stepped forward.
The Vulture King was taller than I expected, wrapped in patched armor, a ragged cloak hanging from his shoulders. His face was lined and hard, eyes bright with hatred instead of fear.
"So," he said, voice rough. "They send a child to kill me."
"They sent a dragon," I answered, sliding from the saddle.
I drew my sword.
He laughed and came at me without another word.
Our blades met with a sharp crack. He was strong—stronger than any man I had fought. Each strike jarred my arms. He fought low and dirty, splashing mud, forcing me to shift my footing.
"You're quick," he snarled. "But quick dies the same as slow."
He feinted high and came in close. I turned, but not fast enough. Pain exploded across my face. The world lurched sideways. I staggered back, vision blurring, my left side drowning in darkness.
I tasted blood.
The marsh tilted. The shouts of men sounded far away. For a heartbeat I felt something cold crawl into my chest.
Fear.
The Vulture King advanced. "Look at you now," he said softly. "Dragon prince."
I tightened my grip on my sword.
If I fell here, I would fall as prey.
I lunged.
The next moments were motion and instinct. Steel flashed. I ducked under a swing and drove forward with everything I had left. My blade bit deep into his leg. He screamed and collapsed, crashing into the mud.
I kicked his sword away.
He clawed at the ground, trying to crawl. I caught his cloak and dragged him back, ignoring the pounding in my skull. Caraxes loomed behind me, smoke curling from his nostrils.
The Vulture King looked up at the dragon.
For the first time, he was afraid.
"No—" he began.
I shoved him forward.
Caraxes needed no command.
The dragon's jaws closed, and the marsh fell silent except for the beat of his wings and my own ragged breathing. The rebels who remained threw down their weapons at once.
I stood there swaying, one eye full of fire and the other empty night, and felt the weight of what I had become settle over me.
A boy no longer.
A dragon.