Departure (Part 2)

High above, Daemon Targaryen rode atop the Bloodworm, Caraxes, squinting as he watched the movements below.

He watched as the massive Vhagar began the motions to take flight.

His Bloodworm, Caraxes, might have been an anomaly among dragons—growing at an astonishing rate—but he was still only a third of Vhagar's size.

Caraxes, his entire body scarlet as blood with clearly defined veins between his wing membranes, circled in the air with the predatory aggression unique to his kind.

Ferocious, belligerent, and cunning. Such was the nature of this dragon, much like his rider.

Daemon wore no armor, only a simple black and red leather doublet, his long silver hair dancing wildly in the wind.

"Here we go?" The corners of his mouth curled upward.

Sensing his rider's mood, Caraxes let out a short hiss, adjusted the angle of his wings, and began to slowly lose altitude, though he maintained a delicate distance.

Close enough to monitor, far enough to react to any sudden developments.

Daemon understood Vhagar. The old she-dragon was irritable, her temper unpredictable.

She had once belonged to his wife, Laena.

Now, a twelve-year-old madman rode her.

"Madman..." Daemon whispered, unsure if he was speaking of Aemond or his former self.

He had once been the most dangerous prince in the realm, running off to the Eastern Continent to serve as a sellsword, simply to enjoy the sensation of killing.

In the streets of King's Landing, he had reorganized the Gold Cloaks to serve him, slaughtering those he deemed lawbreakers.

That night in King's Landing, thousands were subjected to his whims—beheaded or maimed without trial, a brazen provocation of the kingdom's laws.

Some said he had murdered his first wife in the Vale, simply because he did not like her.

He had also ridden his dragon to help the Velaryons seize the Stepstones, personally killing the powerful pirate nicknamed the Crabfeeder, who had been backed by the Triarchy.

Afterward, Daemon crowned himself King of the Narrow Sea, infuriating his brother, Viserys.

Back then, the young Daemon made no secret of his desire for his brother's Iron Throne.

He believed that since Viserys had no male heir, only an eldest daughter, Rhaenyra, she should be married to him, and he should be the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

He had once harbored the insane thought of fratricide to seize the throne, but in the end, Viserys's good-natured character and the bond of brotherhood between them had kept him from ever striking the blow.

Now, he was no longer young, and he understood that madness that burned within the Targaryen blood.

That impulse to prove something, to seize something, to destroy something, regardless of the cost.

Aemond's performance in the hall last night, those frantic eyes, and finally, the blade pressed against his own eye socket...

It was, truly, so very similar.

Coraxes hovered in the air, wings beating steadily.

Daemon kept his eyes locked on them. If Vhagar lost control, if that boy tried to do something, to breathe Dragonflame over Tidepool Island...

He would have to do something.

Vhagar—the morning light hit her fully for the first time, revealing her true, immense scale.

When she spread her wings, her shadow engulfed half the island.

Age had made her somewhat bloated, her movements not as swift as a younger dragon, but that sense of weight, that sheer power that made the earth tremble with every step, was something no young dragon could match.

She beat her wings.

The first beat: a gale erupted, trees swaying violently.

The second beat: her massive body began to lift from the ground.

The third beat: she soared into the sky.

Aemond gripped the scales tightly, his entire body jolting from the sudden lift.

The wind roared in his ears, no longer the chaotic howling of last night's storm.

Storm's End shrank rapidly beneath his feet; the towers, the walls, the ships in the harbor, all became toys.

Then he saw Daemon.

The blood-red Coraxes was about three hundred yards to the northeast, maintaining a parallel course.

Prince Daemon's figure was merely a black speck in the high-altitude winds, but Aemond could feel that gaze—scrutinizing, vigilant.

Aemond turned his head, across the wind and the distance, locking eyes with his uncle.

In that instant, the morning light cast itself between the two dragons, throwing two long shadows across the sea as the ocean breeze whistled past.

Daemon smiled as he watched Aemond.

Aemond did not respond.

He leaned forward, pressing himself against Vhagar's slightly warm scales, and issued a command in Valyrian.

Vhagar let out a deafening roar, a sound that drowned out the wind and the crashing waves.

At that moment, everyone on Tidepool Island looked up, watching this colossal behemoth, Vhagar...

She swerved abruptly, her wings beating with immense force as she accelerated toward the harbor.

Vhagar's movements were unexpectedly swift, showing none of the sluggishness one would expect from such an aged dragon, leaving a churning wake of air in her path.

Caraxes paused for a heartbeat in the air, then adjusted his course, following at a leisurely pace behind her.

Daemon watched the tiny figure on Vhagar's back, his expression complex.

The boy has truly mastered her, at least for now.

But mastering a dragon was never merely a matter of technique; it was a contest of wills. Dragons could smell a rider's fear, hesitation, and weakness.

Inside the castle, Rhaenyra stood before the window of her eldest son's room.

She watched Vhagar take to the sky, watched that massive dark shadow sweep over the harbor, watched Daemon's red dragon follow in the air, and finally, watched Aemond ride the oldest of the great dragons toward the direction of the King's fleet.

She felt a cold dread regarding Aemond. She understood her uncle Daemon, and she was certain she understood this brother of hers, Aemond, just as well—both were equally mad, dangerous, and uncontrollable...

"He has claimed her," she murmured, her voice dry.

"Who?" came a voice from behind, raspy with a hangover.

Rhaenyra did not turn around. She knew who it was: her husband, Laenor Velaryon, finally returned from some harbor tavern or some sailor's bed.

Laenor walked up behind her.

He remained as handsome as ever, with his silver hair, violet eyes, and sharp, straight nose.

Only the disarray of his clothes and the scent of alcohol clinging to him betrayed his indulgence from the night before.

His collar was open, and he carried the mixed scent of sea air and perfume.

He followed her gaze out the window, but there was nothing left to see—only the empty sky and the sea surface beginning to brighten.

"Vhagar," Rhaenyra said. "Aemond has ridden her away, just moments ago."

Laenor fell silent for a moment upon hearing this, then let out a sigh.

He walked to the bedside and looked at Jacaerys, who lay there with his left eye wrapped in heavy bandages, still in a deep sleep induced by poppy milk.

Half of the boy's face was severely swollen, his exposed right eye shut tight, his eyelashes trembling from time to time as if he were caught in a nightmare.

"Seven Gods," Laenor whispered, his voice filled with genuine pain.

He reached out as if to touch the forehead of his nominal eldest son, but stopped in mid-air; he did not wish to wake the poor boy.

"Last night..." he began with difficulty, "I was at the harbor. When I heard the news... it was already too late. Rhaenyra, I..."

"Where you were no longer matters," Rhaenyra interrupted, finally turning around.

There were no more tears on her face, only a sense of exhaustion.

"What matters is that Jae lost an eye."

"But I made them pay the price, too."

Laenor looked at her. His wife—no, she was more like a sister to him.

The princess he had known since his youth, who later became his partner through a political marriage.

She was stunningly beautiful, truly deserving of the title "Realm's Delight."

Even in her anger and sorrow, Rhaenyra's sharp, Targaryen beauty remained dazzling.

Yet, he had never felt desire for Rhaenyra.

"I am not a suitable husband," Laenor said.

"Nor a suitable father. I... I cannot give you what you need."

Rhaenyra stared at him, her expression a mix of anger, sorrow, disappointment, and relief.

"I tried, too, Laenor," she said.

"When we were first married, I wanted to be a good wife."

"To bear a true heir for Tidepool Island, to carry on the blood of the Targaryens and the Velaryons."

Her voice began to tremble, but she forced herself to continue.

"But you avoided me every single time."

"You preferred to drink with your captain friends, to crowd into taverns with sailors, or..."

She paused, leaving the rest unsaid, though both of them knew exactly what she meant.

Hearing this, Laenor's face went pale.

He wanted to defend himself, to apologize, but all words felt powerless in this moment.

"I have failed you," he finally said.

"No," Rhaenyra shook her head. A single tear finally slipped down, but she wiped it away quickly.

"You cannot love me, and I cannot endure the loneliness and the neglect."

She walked to the window, turning her back to him to look out at Tidepool Island as the sun began to rise.

"I have no regrets, Laenor."

"Even if the people of the Seven Kingdoms call me a harlot, even if those rumors spread across the Seven Kingdoms, claiming my sons are bastards... I do not regret it."

"Because at the very least, I have lived, and I have chosen what I wanted."

Laenor stood there, as if all the strength had been drained from him.

Should he be angry?

As a husband, his wife had been unfaithful, and his three sons were not of his blood.

But he could not summon any anger, only a sense of guilt.

Rhaenyra had given him chances, but his own physical instincts had made it impossible for him to fulfill his duties.

"You and Daemon..." he said, struggling to utter the name.

This marriage had been a source of pain for him.

He had once imagined divorcing, like the nobles of the Eastern Continent.

But under the influence of the Faith of the Seven in Westeros, there was no such option as divorce.

Rhaenyra's eyes flickered, showing a moment of panic, but it was quickly replaced by resolve.

"That is a matter for the future," she said, regaining her composure.

"For now, we have more pressing issues."

"Jae's eyes, and the betrothal between Jae and Helaena."

She did not finish, but Laenor understood.

Laenor took a deep breath and walked to the door.

Before leaving, he turned to look at Rhaenyra one last time.

"I will do what I must," he said. "As the father of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey, in the eyes of the public."

He paused for a moment.

"I am sorry, for everything I could not be."

He pushed the door open and left, his footsteps fading away in the stone corridor.

Rhaenyra stood alone by the window, the morning light dyeing her silver hair gold.