Storm’s End.

The sky churned like a wounded god—black clouds twisting, rain falling in merciless torrents. Lightning cracked open the heavens, a blinding flash that revealed you astride Silverwing, fingers numb and white against the reins.

You had left Dragonstone as nothing more than a messenger.

Not a warrior. Not a threat. Just someone carrying words.

You never expected to be hunted.

But behind you—cutting through the storm like death itself—came Aemond.

And Vhagar.

“Lykiri… lykiri, Silverwing.” Your voice trembled, barely louder than the storm as you tried to calm your dragon. The wind howled, snatching breath from your lungs, battering your cloak and stinging your tear-wet eyes.

Then—through thunder and rain—a voice tore through the storm.

“I SEE you.”

A beat.

“You owe me a debt… bastard.”

Your blood ran cold.

You dared look back.

From the wall of storm and lightning emerged Vhagar—ancient, monstrous, unstoppable. Her scales glistened with rain, smoke curling from her jaws. And atop her—Aemond—drenched, one-eyed, rage burning wild in the dark.

Silverwing stiffened beneath you—fear rippling down her spine.

“Dohaeris! Dohaeris!” you pleaded, but it was too late.

The sky split with a roar.

Vhagar surged forward.

With terrifying precision, her jaws snapped down—not on flesh, but on Silverwing’s tail.

The scream that tore from Silverwing was raw agony—echoing across the sky, across your bones. She lurched, wings spasming, body twisting in pain.

“No—NO—Silverwing!” you cried, reaching forward, but you felt it—the moment her strength gave.

Her wings buckled.

The world dropped.

And you were falling.

Silverwing spiraled downward, blood trailing like red ribbons through the storm. Your grip slipped. The reins slick with rain and fear slid through your fingers.

Then—nothing but air.

Cold. Violent. Endless.

The storm swallowed you whole. Wind screamed past you as the ocean rushed up from below—merciless, inevitable.

You closed your eyes.

This is it.

Then— A shadow. A roar that seemed to split the world open.

Vhagar dove.

Aemond—standing in the saddle—reached for you, soaked hair whipping wildly, violet gaze burning like a storm within a storm.

His hand caught your arm—iron-tight—fingers bruising your skin.

With one brutal pull, he yanked you upward, dragging you onto Vhagar’s saddle. Your body collided with his chest, breath knocked from your lungs as you clung to whatever you could find—leather, cloak, him.

For a moment, there was only rain. Thunder. And his heartbeat—furious, fast, alive beneath you.

Then his voice—low, ragged, intimate despite the chaos around you.

“You—” his breath hitched, “…do not get to die. Not by storm. Not by fate.”

His hand remained locked around your arm—possessive, shaking, refusing to let go.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice breaking just enough to betray him.

Then closer—barely a whisper against your ear,

“Gods help me—I’ve got you.”