Watching the city below.
Jaehaerys narrowed his eyes.
"Atop it," he said. "There is someone."
Rogar swore softly. "No man rides that beast."
"He does."
They were moving now, across the square toward the outer gates. The Kingsguard surrounded Jaehaerys without smothering him. Rogar walked half a pace ahead, as though he might cut down the sky itself if it came too close.
The roar of wings faded as the black dragon settled beyond the walls, in the wide grasslands where tourney pavilions had stood that morning.
A tremor passed through the stones underfoot.
They reached the gates just as the portcullis began to lower.
"Hold!" Rogar barked. "Raise it. The king goes through."
The guards hesitated only a moment before obeying.
Outside the walls, the fields lay flattened in a broad circle.
Grass bent and smoldered where something vast had touched down.
The dragon stood there.
It was larger than Vermithor. Not by so much as to make the bronze look small—but enough that Jaehaerys felt it in his gut. Longer in body. Thicker at the neck. Its wings, half-folded now, stretched wide enough to blot the horizon.
Its scales were not the bright, almost living bronze of Vermithor nor the pale shimmer of Silverwing.
They were black.
Not glossy.
Not dull.
Black as cooled ash.
A long scar ran along one flank, pale against the darkness.
Smoke curled constantly from its nostrils. When it opened its mouth to taste the air, the flicker inside was deeper than ordinary flame—red at the heart, but rimmed in something darker.
Vermithor landed first, claws gouging trenches in the earth.
He roared, a deep, resonant challenge that Jaehaerys felt in his ribs.
The black dragon turned its head slowly.
Green eyes.
Bright and sharp.
They fixed on Vermithor without haste.
Silverwing descended to the left, wings whispering rather than booming. Dreamfyre to the right.
Three against one.
Yet none of them advanced.
"They hesitate," Jaehaerys said.
Rogar did not answer.
The soldiers from the city were forming a ragged line some distance back. Spears angled upward. Crossbows were lifted, though no one loosed a bolt.
"Lower them," Rogar ordered. "Loose a quarrel and we all burn."
The men obeyed.
The rider did not move.
He sat between the great ridges of the dragon's spine as though seated in a chair by a hearth.
No saddle.
No chains.
No visible harness.
"Who would dare?" Ser Gyles murmured.
Jaehaerys could not see the man's face clearly at this distance, but he saw the shape of him—broad-shouldered, straight-backed. His hair stirred in the wind.
Silver.
Not bright in the sun.
Darker.
Almost steel.
The dragon shifted one foreclaw forward.
The earth cracked beneath its weight.
Vermithor lowered his head and exhaled a plume of smoke.
The black dragon answered—not with a roar, but with a low, rolling growl that seemed to sink into the ground rather than rise into the air.
Jaehaerys swallowed.
He had grown up among dragons. He knew their moods, their tempers.
This one did not posture.
It did not display.
It simply stood.
Certain.
The rider finally moved.
He leaned forward slightly and laid one hand against the dragon's neck.
The enormous creature stilled at once.
Not cowed.
Not subdued.
Simply… attentive.
Rogar's voice dropped. "That is no dragonseed."
"No," Jaehaerys agreed.
The rider swung one leg over.
For a heartbeat, Jaehaerys thought the dragon might snap him in half for the presumption.
It did not.
The man dropped from its back to the ground below.
He landed lightly.
Too lightly, Jaehaerys thought, for such a height.
He did not draw a weapon.
He did not approach.
He stood with one hand resting against the black scales behind him, as if steadying himself—or the dragon.
Vermithor's tail lashed once, gouging earth.
The rider turned his head.
Even from this distance, Jaehaerys felt it.
The weight of being looked at.
"Who is he?" Rogar said quietly.
No one answered.
Behind them, more lords and knights had emerged from the city, drawn by terror and curiosity alike.
A murmur began.
"That dragon—"
"Black as night—"
"It cannot be—"
Jaehaerys stepped forward a pace before anyone could stop him.
He wanted a clearer view.
The wind shifted.
The rider's face turned fully toward the gathered company.
Jaehaerys saw scars first.
White lines crossing forearms bared to the elbow. A darker seam along his jaw.
His face was leaner than any man Jaehaerys remembered from boyhood. Harder.
And his eyes—
Even at this distance, they caught the light strangely.
Not the pale lilac of Targaryen blood.
Gold.
Molten.
The Dowager Queen stepped past them all.
No one had seen her move.
One moment she stood behind the Kingsguard.
The next she was walking forward into the open field.
"Your Grace," Rogar began.
She did not slow.
Her gaze was fixed on the man before the dragon.
Jaehaerys felt something twist in his chest.
He did not know why.
The wind tugged at his mother's hair, pulling silver strands loose from their pins.
She walked until she stood well ahead of the lines of soldiers.
The rider watched her approach.
He did not retreat.
He did not kneel.
He did not smile.
Alyssa stopped.
For a long moment she simply looked at him.
The field was silent now, save for the restless shifting of three great dragons and the steady breathing of the fourth.
Her voice, when it came, was barely more than breath.
"…Vaelaris?"
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