132 AC – Rook's Rest
Point of View: Ser Criston Cole
The camp stretched across the hills like a patient wound—open, raw, waiting to bleed.
Criston Cole stood atop a rise overlooking the black silhouette of Rook's Rest. Smoke drifted from the cookfires. Horses snorted and shifted. The men were restless. So was he.
Aemond hadn't spoken a word in hours.
He stood just down the slope, armored and still, his one good eye fixed on the darkening sky. Vhagar waited nearby—silent, coiled like a viper in the tall grass, her shape barely visible through the fog that clung to the valley like breath on a mirror.
The air was thick. Too thick. The kind that made men sweat through their cloaks even when the wind blew cold.
Criston felt it deep in his bones.
Something was coming.
He turned to one of the squires. "Any sign of her?"
The boy shook his head. "Not yet, my lord. But… the crows are flying inland."
Criston frowned.
Crows always knew.
Aemond moved then, slowly. Deliberately. He climbed the rocks above the ridge and stood beside Vhagar's head. Her great amber eye turned to him, unblinking. She didn't growl. Didn't shift. Just stared.
"She's coming," Aemond said flatly.
Criston took a step forward. "You're certain?"
The prince didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Far off, to the south, thunder rolled. Not from the sky. From wings.
Meleys.
But there was another sound beneath it—deeper, older. A roar like the earth breaking.
Criston narrowed his eyes.
That wasn't Meleys.
That was something else.
Something ancient.
---
Moments Later – The Sky Above
Vhagar raised her head, nostrils flaring.
The ground itself seemed to tremble.
Aemond mounted in silence, his silver hair catching what little light remained. He looked down once at Criston.
"Ready the men," he said.
Criston nodded.
Then, from the clouds above the castle, a shadows broke through.
132 AC – The Skies Over Rook's Rest
Point of View: Ser Criston Cole
The first roar split the heavens.
Not from Vhagar. Not even from Meleys.
Something deeper. Rougher. Like the groan of stone cracking beneath a mountain.
Criston's breath caught as he stared upward.
Meleys had broken through the clouds first, crimson wings wide as a war galley's sails, her rider—Princess Rhaenys—clad in black and bronze. She circled the towers of Rook's Rest like a hawk eyeing her prey.
Then came Vhagar, rising to meet her.
But before either could strike, another beast tore free of the sky.
Sunfyre.
A golden blaze against the dark, beautiful and terrible. The sun caught his scales and turned them molten. And riding atop him—armor gilded, crown flashing—was Aegon the Second, King of the Seven Kingdoms.
Criston barely heard the shouts behind him.
"Where did he come from?"
"He wasn't supposed to be here!"
The plan had been simple: Aemond alone would meet Meleys, while Criston's forces encircled the castle. But now the king had arrived—too soon, too bold.
Criston gritted his teeth. "Fool," he muttered. "He'll get himself killed."
Above, Meleys banked hard. Vhagar bellowed a challenge, but Sunfyre rose between them—his golden flame lancing toward Meleys, missing by inches. The battle had begun.
Steel rang below. Arrows loosed into the sky more from panic than precision.
Then came the fourth shadow.
No one expected it.
A low, rumbling cry—so deep it shook the stones of the painted table itself back in Dragonstone. The clouds above broke open, not with sunlight—but shadow.
Balerion.
Or what was left of him.
Black wings, tattered and thin as old parchment. His body carried scars of age, of battles fought when the world was young. But the fire still lived in him. Dimmer now, but there.
And upon his back—leaning low, barely upright—was Aenar Targaryen.
Men cried out. Some dropped to their knees. Even Vhagar faltered, drifting sideways at the sight of her ancient kin.
Criston stared, stunned. "That beast was meant to be dead."
Aemond laughed then—no joy in it, only hunger for action.
Above Rook's Rest – Moments Before Impact
Point of View: Aenar Targaryen
The wind screamed in his ears.
Balerion's wings beat like thunder, but Aenar could feel it—each stroke slower than the last. The old dragon's body ached beneath him. His breaths were shallow, drawn through ruined lungs.
Yet when he saw the battle, he straightened.
Sunfyre and Meleys already danced, their flames crossing like blades. Vhagar loomed below, waiting for an opening.
Rhaenys spotted him first.
Her eyes widened.
Aenar raised a hand
Then he guided Balerion downward—into the dance between the dragons.
---
132 AC – The Battle of Rook's Rest
Point of View: Aenar Targaryen
The sky burned.
Flame and smoke curled across the heavens like torn silk. Screams echoed from below—soldiers scattering, arrows falling like rain, siege towers collapsing in the chaos.
But Aenar saw none of it.
He saw Vhagar—wings wide, eyes ancient and cunning—waiting to strike like a coiled serpent.
He saw Sunfyre, radiant and reckless, dancing in golden arcs as he chased Meleys, who dove and twisted through the clouds like a spear of flame.
And he saw Rhaenys, alone.
Aenar urged Balerion lower, the old beast groaning beneath him. "One more time, old friend," he whispered. "Just once more."
They plunged into the fray.
Meleys had turned to meet Sunfyre head-on. The golden dragon unleashed a torrent of flame—scorching, bright—but Meleys dodged, then raked her claws across his side. Blood sprayed, glittering in the light.
Aegon shouted something, but it was lost in the roar of wind and fire.
Then Vhagar moved.
With speed belying her massive size, she dove at Meleys from behind. Rhaenys turned too late.
Claws sank into Meleys' back. The red queen screamed in rage, flame bursting from her mouth—but Vhagar had her pinned.
And then—Balerion struck.
A sound like mountains collapsing split the air. Aenar and Balerion slammed into Vhagar from above, knocking her from Meleys' back.
The old dragons tangled in the clouds, a maelstrom of black wings and snapping jaws.
"Dracarys!"
Aenar's voice was raw. Balerion answered—his flame thick and dark, like molten tar. It caught Vhagar along the wing, scorching her hide and sending the beast into a spin.
Aemond cursed, struggling to right her. He glanced down—and met Aenar's eyes across the sky.
Something passed between them. Recognition. And something more ancient.
Blood calling blood.
Vhagar roared and lashed out, jaws snapping at Balerion's neck—but the older dragon was faster. His teeth closed around her shoulder, bone crunching.
Then Sunfyre struck from above.
Aegon had circled back, fire spilling from his mouth as he dove onto Balerion's exposed flank. The flame was searing but Balerion didnt flinched.
"Get out of there!" Aemond barked. "Now!"
They disengaged. Vhagar pulled up hard, bleeding but alive. Sunfyre limped behind, one wing sluggish from the gash Meleys had given him.
Criston Cole's voice echoed up from below: "Fall back! The king is wounded!"
Aegon was slumped over in his saddle, but alive. Sunfyre beat his wings furiously, straining to keep them both aloft.
"Go!" Aemond shouted, circling once to cover his brother. "I'll hold them!"
But Balerion wasn't chasing.
He hovered beside Meleys now, both dragons bloodied, breathing heavy, wings struggling to hold them in the thinning sky.
Aenar looked
He watched as Vhagar and Sunfyre disappeared into the clouds, fleeing south, smoke trailing behind them.
The sky was theirs—but the war had only begun.
Later – On the Walls of Rook's Rest
Point of View: Rhaenys Targaryen
Rhaenys stood beside Aenar, their dragons resting behind them, too tired to roar.
The ground below was ash and ruin. Fires still burned in the shattered towers. But Rook's Rest held.
"You could've killed them," she said quietly.
Aenar nodded. "No i couldn't "
She looked at him, eyes narrowed. "Why not?"
The old man smiled faintly. "Because Balerion would still be slower hes dying as it is "
Rhaenys said nothing for a moment.
The wind blew in off the sea, thick with smoke and salt.
Above them, Meleys let out a tired growl.
Balerion lay down and growled
132 AC — The Kingsroad, South of Rook's Rest
Point of View: Aemond Targaryen
They had escaped by the edge of fire.
Vhagar's wingbeats were uneven, her right side scorched black. Every few strokes, she growled low in her throat—a sound Aemond hadn't heard from her since he was a boy. Pain. Rage. Exhaustion.
Behind them, the smoke still rose, a dark pillar curling into the sky.
Sunfyre flew lower, struggling. Blood shimmered down his golden side like melted coins. Aegon was slumped over the saddle, arms limp around the reins.
"Hold on, brother," Aemond muttered. "Just hold on."
They touched down in a clearing south of the road—just off the edge of a burned-out village. Trees bowed from the heat. The grass was black. Everything stank of war.
Aemond dismounted quickly, running toward Sunfyre as the dragon landed hard, stumbling and collapsing on his side.
"Aegon!" he shouted.
The king stirred, groaning, blood on his cheek and chest. The armor near his ribs was scorched through. One eye blinked blearily.
"…He came," Aegon rasped.
Aemond crouched, teeth clenched. "Who?"
Aegon swallowed hard. "The Black Dread."
Aemond didn't answer at first.
He sat back, breath catching in his chest. The image was still burned into his mind. That shadow, rising through the smoke. Bigger than any dragon should be. Older. Slower. But not weak. Not dead.
Not yet.
"That was Balerion," Aegon whispered again. "He should've been bones by now."
Aemond looked away, jaw tight.
They had heard the rumors—an old man, a relic from Maegor's time, riding the the Black Dread. They hadn't believed it. Not really. Everyone thought Balerion died.
But he hadn't died.
And he still fought like a god.
"Aenar," Aemond muttered.
Aegon looked at him, confused.
"The rider," Aemond said. "That was Maegor's son. Aenar Targaryen. Thought dead, like his dragon."
Aegon gave a weak laugh. "The dead are rising now?"
"No," Aemond said coldly. "The just to old and to stubborn to die"
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the labored breathing of their dragons.
Vhagar look restlessly nearby, her eyes scanning the skies.
"We should've killed them," Aegon said suddenly, voice bitter.
Aemond said nothing. He thought of Meleys. Of Balerion. Of the way the sky had turned black with flame.
"No," he finally said. "They were ready. And we weren't."
Aegon looked over, eyes sharp despite the pain. "You think we'll be ready next time?"
Aemond stood, turning to face the road south. "We have to be."
Behind him, the dragons lay wounded, but breathing.
So were they.
But next time, the old ghost might not spare them.
132 AC – Dragonstone
Point of View: Aenar Targaryen
The flight back was slow.
Even Balerion flew as if the sky itself resisted him. His wings beat slower now, gliding more than climbing, his black scales dulled by ash and old blood. Beneath Aenar, the saddle creaked with each heavy breath the beast drew.
Meleys flew beside them, graceful even in weariness. Rhaenys sat atop her, back straight, her armor scorched in places but unbroken. Aenar glanced her way once, and she nodded—barely a gesture, but one that spoke volumes.
They had lived.
But it hadn't felt like victory.
By the time they descended onto the blackened courtyard of Dragonstone, word had already reached the castle. Servants lined the steps. Maester and healers waited like crows. The roar of Balerion's landing echoed across the cliffs like thunder.
Aenar dismounted stiffly. His knees nearly buckled when he hit the stone, but he straightened without help. He always did.
Rhaenyra was already waiting for them at the gates. Her hair was loose, blowing in the salt wind, her eyes wild with questions.
Rhaenys stepped forward first.
"We held the skies," she said simply.
Rhaenyra rushed to her, gripping her arms. "You're alive," she whispered. "Both of you."
She turned next to Aenar. "And Balerion?"
"Tired," Aenar said. "But still breathing. Like the rest of us."
The group moved quickly toward the Painted Table, the war council already gathering. Jacaerys was there, pale and tight-jawed. Lord Corlys. Maester Gerardys. Ser Erryk Cargyll. All eyes turned to the returning riders.
Aenar rested his hands on the edge of the table, gazing down at the ancient map. Rook's Rest burned red beneath the candlelight.
"We met them in the sky," he said. "Aegon. Aemond. Sunfyre and Vhagar."
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
"They were waiting," Rhaenys added. "It was meant to be a trap."
"But the trap broke," Aenar said. "Meleys drove them off. And Balerion… turned the tide."
Corlys leaned forward. "And the King? Aegon?"
"Alive," Rhaenys said grimly. "But barely. Sunfyre took wounds. Aemond dragged them away."
"Then they'll regroup," Jacaerys said through gritted teeth. "We should've finished it."
"We weren't ready for what we saw," Aenar said, voice low. "None of us were."
The Painted Table fell silent.
Aenar's gaze lifted from the map to the faces around it. Young men. Proud women. Lords and heirs and warriors. And behind each pair of eyes, the same thing: fire. Grief. A hunger for vengeance.
He could see what was coming. Felt it in his bones, as clearly as he felt Balerion's wings beginning to falter. This wasn't a battle anymore.
It was a reckoning.
Rhaenyra stepped close to him, voice softer now. "You saw them. You saw Aegon. Will he fight again?"
Aenar met her eyes. "Yes. He's too proud not to. And Aemond… he's more dangerous than his brother. Cold. Patient."
"And what of Balerion?" Corlys asked. "Will he fly again?"
Aenar didn't answer right away.
Then, after a long breath, he said, "One more time. Maybe two. But no more dances he has little strength left "
He looked to Jacaerys.
"You'll guys carry this war now," he said. "Not me and the dread We've given you the skies."
Jacaerys nodded.
"I'll bring fire and blood " he said.
Aenar turned away from the table and walked to the window, the sea wind tugging at his cloak.
Behind him, war was being planned.
But in his heart, he knew he would have to dance once more before he could meet the Seven.
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