The night is still raw with grief.

Salt from the sea clings to the air around Driftmark, and the wind off the water carries the echo of Laena Velaryon’s funeral pyre—smoke, ash, the bitter tang of something ended too soon. Torches burn low along the cliffs, their flames guttering like they, too, are uncertain whether to stay lit.

Vhagar waits.

She is colossal even at rest, a mountain of old bronze scales and scarred wings folded tight against her body. Her breath steams in slow, patient clouds, each exhale sounding like the tide pulling back from shore. One eye is half-lidded, ancient and knowing. She has outlived kings. She has burned cities. She does not stir for children.

Aemond does not care.

He breaks from the shadows with reckless purpose, boots pounding over stone, heart hammering so loud it drowns out the distant surf. This is his moment—has to be. Everyone else has a dragon. Everyone else was chosen. He will not be the only one left small and wanting.

He reaches Vhagar’s foreleg, already grabbing for a scale—

“Don’t,” you shout.

Your voice cuts across the night like a blade.

Aemond turns just as you collide with him, the impact knocking the breath from both of you. You’re Daemon’s daughter, Rhaenyra’s blood—quick, fierce, unafraid of him in a way no one else is. You’ve followed him without thinking, fury burning brighter than grief.

“She’s not yours,” you hiss, shoving him back. “She belongs to Baela. Or Rhaena. You have no right.”

Aemond’s lip curls. “Dragons don’t belong to anyone,” he snaps. “They choose.”

“And you think she chose you?” you scoff.

He lunges.

The scuffle is messy and desperate—hands grappling, boots slipping on gravel, years of unspoken rivalry erupting all at once. He’s stronger than you expect. You’re faster than he anticipates. An elbow catches your ribs; your knee slams into his thigh. He curses. You snarl.

Then your hand closes around a rock.

You don’t hesitate.

The impact against his skull is dull and sickening, the kind of sound that makes your stomach flip even as adrenaline surges. Aemond staggers, dropping to one knee with a shout of pain and rage.

You don’t wait to see if he gets up.

You turn and run.

Vhagar’s sheer size is terrifying up close. Her scales are hot beneath your palms, ridged and uneven, each one bigger than a shield. Your fingers ache as you scramble, climbing with more instinct than skill, heart pounding so hard you fear she’ll feel it.

“Ao ēdruta lentor, Vhagar,” you gasp, voice shaking. “Please.”

The dragon’s eye opens fully.

For one endless heartbeat, you are certain you’ve made a fatal mistake.

Then she moves.

It’s slow at first—a shift of massive weight, a rumble deep in her chest—but when her neck lifts and her wings unfurl, the ground trembles. You cling to the ridge of her spine, breath tearing from your lungs as she rises, powerful and unstoppable.

You’ve done it.

Below, someone shouts.

Aemond.

You twist around just in time to see him—blood at his temple, fury carved into every line of his face—grabbing onto Vhagar’s scales as she lifts fully from the cliff. He’s mad. Completely mad.

“Let go!” you scream.

“Never!” he roars back, teeth bared in something feral and wild.

Vhagar launches into the sky.

The wind is violent, ripping tears from your eyes, trying to tear you loose as the world falls away beneath you. The sea becomes a black mirror far below. Driftmark shrinks into shadow.

Aemond is slipping.

You feel it through the dragon—the uneven weight, the way his grip falters. One hand slides. He shouts, raw and terrified now, all bravado stripped away.

Without thinking, you crawl back along Vhagar’s spine, fingers burning, muscles screaming. You reach down, catch his wrist just as it starts to go.

His hand is shaking.

For a moment, the two of you are suspended between sky and death—your arm straining, his life literally in your grasp. He looks up at you, one eye blazing, the other wide with something you’ve never seen before.

Not hatred.

Not fear.

Something worse.

Something like awe.