Leaving, Part Two

High above, Daemon Targaryen rode Coraxes, the Blood Wyrm, narrowing his eyes as he watched the scene below.

He watched Vhagar begin to prepare for takeoff, her massive body shifting.

His Blood Wyrm, Coraxes, was an anomaly among dragons and grew at an astonishing rate, but he was still only a third of Vhagar's size.

Coraxes's entire body was crimson as blood, the veins in his wing membranes clearly visible. As he circled through the air, he carried the distinctive aggression of a predator.

Fierce, warlike, and cunning. Those were the dragon's traits, just like his rider.

Daemon wore no armor, only a simple black-and-red leather jacket. His silver hair whipped wildly in the wind.

"Here he comes?" A faint smile tugged at his lips.

Coraxes sensed his rider's mood and gave a short hiss. Adjusting the angle of his wings, he began to descend slowly, while keeping a delicate distance.

Close enough to keep watch, far enough to respond to any sudden trouble.

Daemon knew Vhagar. The old she-dragon was temperamental, her moods impossible to predict.

She had once belonged to his wife, Laena.

Now, a twelve-year-old madman was riding her.

"Madman..." Daemon murmured, though it was unclear whether he meant Aemond or his younger self.

He had once been the most dangerous prince in the realm, going off to the Eastern Continent to become a sellsword, just for the pleasure of killing.

In the streets of King's Landing, he had reformed the Gold Cloaks into a force obedient to him, and killed those he believed had broken the law.

Thousands of people in King's Landing had been beheaded or had their hands and feet cut off without trial that night, in open defiance of the realm's laws.

Some said he had murdered his first wife, from the Vale, simply because he disliked her.

He had also ridden his dragon to help the Velaryons seize the Stepstones, personally killing the formidable pirate backed by the Three Daughters, known as the "Crabfeeder."

Afterward, Daemon had crowned himself "King of the Narrow Sea," enraging his elder brother, Viserys.

In those days, the young Daemon had made no secret of his desire for his brother's Iron Throne.

He believed Viserys had no male heir, only an eldest daughter, Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra should marry him, and then he could rule the Seven Kingdoms.

He had even entertained the mad idea of killing his brother and taking the throne, but Viserys's kindly nature, along with the affection between them, had kept him from acting.

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

That urge to prove something, seize something, destroy something, no matter the cost.

Aemond's behavior in the hall last night, those crazed eyes, and the knife pressed against his eye at the end...

It had been all too familiar.

Coraxes hovered in the air, his wings beating steadily.

Daemon kept his gaze fixed on Vhagar. If she lost control, if the boy tried something and breathed Dragonflame over Tidepool Island...

He would have to act.

Vhagar. The morning light fell fully upon her for the first time, revealing her true enormity.

When her wings spread, her shadow covered half the island.

Age had made her a little corpulent, and her movements were slower than those of a young dragon. But no young dragon could match her sheer weight, or the force of every step that made the earth tremble.

She beat her wings.

The first beat sent a gale roaring through the trees, making them sway violently.

With the second beat, her massive body began to rise from the ground.

On the third, she surged into the sky.

Aemond clung desperately to her scales, his whole body tossed by the sudden lift.

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

Storm's End rapidly shrank beneath him. Its towers, walls, and harbor ships all became toys.

Then he saw Daemon.

The blood-red Coraxes flew about three hundred yards to the northeast, keeping pace with him.

Prince Daemon's figure was only a black speck in the high-altitude wind, but Aemond could feel that gaze—appraising, wary.

Aemond turned his head and met his uncle's eyes across the wind and distance.

For an instant, morning light fell between the two dragons, casting two long shadows across the sea as the wind howled past.

Daemon smiled at Aemond.

Aemond did not respond.

He leaned down against Vhagar's slightly warm scales and gave her a command in Valyrian.

Vhagar let out a deafening roar, drowning out the wind and the waves.

At that moment, everyone on Tidepool Island looked up at the colossal beast, Vhagar...

She abruptly banked, beat her wings with tremendous force, and sped toward the harbor.

Vhagar moved with startling speed, nothing like a dragon so old. A churning wake of air followed in her path.

Coraxes paused in the air for a moment, then changed direction and followed at an unhurried pace.

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

The boy had indeed mastered her, at least for now.

But riding a dragon had never been merely a matter of skill. It was also a contest of wills. Dragons could smell their riders' fear, hesitation, and weakness.

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

She watched Vhagar rise into the sky, watched the vast shadow pass over the harbor, watched Daemon's red dragon follow through the air, and finally watched Aemond ride the oldest dragon toward the king's fleet.

She felt a cold wariness toward Aemond. She knew her uncle Daemon, so she knew this younger brother of hers, Aemond, too. They were both so mad, so dangerous, so uncontrollable...

"He got her," she murmured, her voice dry.

"Who?" came a hoarse voice behind her, rough with a hangover.

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

Laenor walked up behind her.

He was still handsome, with silver hair and purple eyes, and a straight nose.

But his rumpled clothes and the smell of liquor gave away last night's debauchery.

His collar hung open, and he still carried the mingled scent of sea air and perfume.

He followed her gaze out the window, but there was nothing left to see, only empty sky and the sea gradually brightening.

"Vhagar," Rhaenyra said. "Aemond rode her away just now."

Laenor was silent for a moment, then sighed.

He walked to the bed and looked at Jacaerys, lying there with his left eye wrapped in thick bandages, still asleep under the influence of milk of the poppy.

Half the boy's face was badly swollen. His exposed right eye was closed, his lashes twitching from time to time as if he were having a nightmare.

"By the Seven," Laenor murmured, his voice full of genuine pain.

He reached out as if to touch his eldest son's forehead in name, then stopped halfway. He didn't want to wake the poor boy.

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

"Where you were doesn't matter anymore," Rhaenyra cut in, finally turning around.

There were no tears on her face now, only exhaustion.

"What matters is that Jae lost an eye."

"But I made them pay, too."

Laenor looked at her. His wife—not, more like his sister.

He had known the princess since they were young, and later she had become his consort through a political marriage.

She was stunningly beautiful, worthy of her title, the Realm's Delight.

Even in anger and grief, Rhaenyra's Targaryen sharpness and beauty still blazed.

But he had never desired Rhaenyra.

"I wasn't a good husband," Laenor said.

"Nor was I a good father. I... I couldn't give you what you needed."

Rhaenyra stared at him, her gaze filled with anger, sorrow, disappointment, and relief.

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

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

"To give Storm's End a true heir and continue the bloodlines of the Targaryens and Velaryons."

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

"But you avoided me every time."

"You would rather drink with your captain friends, squeeze into taverns with sailors, or..."

She paused, leaving the rest unsaid, though they both knew what she meant.

The words made Laenor's face go white.

He wanted to explain, to apologize, but every word seemed powerless now.

"I was the one who failed you," he said at last.

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

"You couldn't love me, and I couldn't bear the loneliness and neglect."

She walked to the window, turned her back to him, and looked out at the sun slowly rising over Tidepool Island.

"I don't regret it, Laenor."

"Even if the people of the Seven Kingdoms call me a whore, even if the rumors spread through the realm and say my sons are bastards... I don't regret it."

"Because at least I lived. I chose what I wanted."

Laenor stood there as if all his strength had been drained away.

Should he be angry?

As her husband, his wife had been unfaithful, and none of her three sons were his own blood.

But he couldn't feel anger, only guilt.

Rhaenyra had given him a chance. It was simply that his own nature had made it impossible.

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

The marriage had been painful for him.

He had once wanted a divorce, like the nobles of the Eastern Continent.

But under the influence of the Faith of the Seven in Westeros, divorce was not an option.

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

"That's for the future," she said, regaining her composure.

"Right now, we have more urgent problems."

"Jae's eye, and his betrothal to Helaena."

She didn't finish, but Laenor understood.

Laenor took a deep breath and walked to the door.

Before leaving, he looked back at Rhaenyra one last time.

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

He paused for a moment.

"I'm sorry for everything I couldn't be."

He opened the door and left, his footsteps gradually fading down the stone corridor.

Rhaenyra stood alone at the window, the morning light turning her silver hair gold.