The sky above Rook’s Rest had become a graveyard of smoke and flame.

Ash drifted slowly through the air like dark snow, carried on the hot winds that rolled across the battlefield. Below, the castle walls smoldered where dragonfire had struck them, and the distant cries of soldiers echoed faintly through the haze.

Moments earlier, the sky itself had seemed to tear apart.

Meleys — the Red Queen — had fallen.

The great crimson dragon and her rider, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, had vanished into the burning clouds below after the brutal clash in the heavens. The impact had shaken the ground itself, sending a plume of fire and debris spiraling upward.

For a moment, the battlefield had gone still.

High above the chaos, the enormous wings of Vhagar beat slowly against the smoky sky as the ancient dragon circled through the dark clouds. Her massive body cut an overwhelming silhouette against the dying sunlight.

Upon her back sat Prince Aemond Targaryen, rigid and composed as ever.

His long silver hair whipped violently in the wind, strands tearing free from where it had been tied back during the battle. The sapphire set in place of his missing eye gleamed coldly beneath the fading light as he looked down toward the scorched earth below.

Somewhere in the smoke, Meleys had fallen.

And with her… the Queen Who Never Was.

Aemond’s expression remained unreadable, though a faint tension lingered in his jaw.

Victory.

Or so it seemed.

Below them, another dragon wheeled through the smoke — Sunfyre, King Aegon’s magnificent golden dragon. His shining scales were now blackened with soot, the creature beating his wings unevenly as he struggled to remain airborne after the brutal fight.

The battle had been costly.

Too costly.

Aemond’s gaze slowly lifted toward the distant horizon, scanning the endless stretch of cloud and smoke.

The battlefield was settling into an uneasy quiet… the kind that often followed slaughter.

Then Vhagar shifted beneath him.

The ancient dragon released a low, rumbling growl deep in her chest — not of triumph…

But of warning.

Aemond’s remaining violet eye narrowed slightly.

Something was moving.

Far beyond the battlefield, where the smoke thinned and the sky opened into pale evening light…

A shape appeared.

At first it was nothing more than a dark speck against the horizon.

Then the shape grew larger.

Wings.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Another dragon.

The creature was still far away — too far to make out its color, its size, or the rider upon its back.

But it was coming.

Directly toward Rook’s Rest.

The wind shifted sharply as Vhagar tilted her massive head, watching the distant silhouette with predatory focus.

Aemond straightened slightly in the saddle, one gloved hand tightening around the dragon’s harness as his gaze remained fixed on the approaching shape.

His voice, calm and cold as steel, cut through the roaring wind.

“Curious…”

He studied the approaching dragon carefully, the faintest hint of something dangerous flickering behind his expression.

“…I do not recall inviting another guest to this battle.”

The dragon on the horizon continued to grow larger.

And still…

No one yet knew who rode it.