The battle at Rook’s Rest burned like a wound across the land. Smoke curled into the sky, thick and choking, as dragonfire carved trenches through stone and flesh alike.

Vhagar descended from the clouds like a storm given form, her massive wings stretching wide enough to blot out the sun. The very air seemed to pause, waiting. Upon her back, like a rider cast in iron, was Aemond. His silhouette was rigid. Composed. Aegon gasped, his chest tightening with the sharp sting of hope. “Thank the gods,” he whispered, relief cracking through his blood-smeared face.

Vhagar would turn the tide. Aemond would pull him from the brink.

But Vhagar wasn’t looking at Meleys.

She circled the battlefield in silence, her great head tilted, ancient eyes tracking every motion below—not as an ally entering the fray, but as a beast sizing up the kill. Aegon’s stomach dropped. The moment stretched. Sunfyre screeched as Meleys twisted, locking wings, dragging him toward the earth in a deadly spiral.

Still, Aemond didn’t move.

His eye—a single, pale flame—was fixed not on the battle, but on his brother.

Something darker than rage flickered in that gaze. Something cold.

Vhagar’s jaws opened with slow intent, heat gathering behind her teeth. The light of her fire reflected in Aemond’s silver hair, and his lips parted just enough to speak:

"Dracarys!"

The word came low, nearly lost in the wind—but Aegon heard it.

"No!" Aegon shouted, twisting in his saddle as Sunfyre spasmed beneath him, roaring in agony. He raised his arm against the fire he knew was coming—not from the enemy, but from kin. From blood.

It wasn’t rescue.

It was judgment.

Years of mockery. Resentment. Slights buried but not forgotten. In that instant, Aegon saw it all in his brother’s face—the boy he’d laughed at, the prince he’d dismissed. Aemond hadn’t come to save him.

Meleys, mortally wounded, her wings scorched and her scales shattered, does not fall at once. Bleeding in the sky, she spots Vhagar and Aemond—distracted, certain of victory. With one final surge, she dives, twists mid-air, and crashes into Vhagar's flank like a flaming meteor.

The dragons' roars blend with the crack of breaking bone. Vhagar stays aloft but loses altitude, lurching in the air. Aemond, unprepared for the impact, slips from the saddle.

He manages to catch the harness—just barely—but Vhagar’s wing clips the remains of a tower. A chunk of broken stone crashes down onto Aemond, smashing through his armor and shattering his collarbone.

His fingers slip. For a heartbeat, everything stills—the sky, the roar, even breath. Then—he falls.

His body hits the rocks at the foot of the keep. His armor clangs dully, like a hollow bell.

Vhagar circles above the battlefield, unaware her rider has fallen. Meleys, unraveling mid-air, is already plunging, trailing smoke like a dying comet.