Echoes of the Three-Headed Dragon

The morning mist over the Stepstones had yet to clear when Vhagar's roar tore through the sky.

Baelon Targaryen gripped the carved pommel of his saddle and drew in a deep breath of sulfur-tinged air.

The old wound beneath his ribs throbbed faintly with the jolting flight. The bandages wrapped by the maester had grown damp with cold sweat, but when he looked down at Vhagar's outspread wings—wider than three warships lined abreast, her scales gleaming a cold blue-green in the morning light—all discomfort was forced aside.

"Father, are you sure you want to join the battle?" Daemon Targaryen rode Caraxes behind and to one side, the red dragon's scales reflecting the sunrise like flowing blood. "The maester said your condition..."

"What does a maester know?" Baelon laughed, breathing heavily, yet his voice carried unquestionable authority. "In the year 83 of the Conquest calendar, I was coughing worse than I am now, and I still rode Vhagar to burn the Dornish fleet to ashes." He patted Vhagar's neck. The old dragon answered with a low rumble, her breath churning the waves below. "Today, it is time the Kingdoms of the Three Daughters learned that Targaryen dragons were never mere ornaments."

Daemon Blackfyre rode Glutton down on the other side. The pitch-black dragon, Vhagar, and Caraxes formed a triangle in the sky, while green-fire eyes reflected the distant fleet of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters. "Prince Baelon." He deliberately used the honorific. The brand on his right shoulder warmed faintly at Vhagar's roar. "Your strategy?"

"The same as in '83." Baelon looked toward the dense mass of enemy ships in the bay. The one-year-old Triarchy was at the height of its arrogance; Lyseni silk sails, Myrish ironclads, and Tyroshi long-oared galleys loomed in and out of the mist like a flock of chattering seabirds. "Vhagar will break through from the front and plow apart their formation with dragonfire. Caraxes will circle to the flank and deal with any fast ships trying to flee. Glutton..." He looked at Daemon Blackfyre, a complicated glint passing through his eyes. "You take out their flagship. That old bastard Aris Introlokos will certainly be on the most conspicuous ship."

As Blackfyre nodded, Vhagar suddenly let out a long, drawn-out roar.

It lacked Glutton's savagery and Caraxes's sharpness. Instead, it carried a weight that seemed to cross through time—as though answering some distant summons.

The pirates of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters clearly had not expected three dragons to descend upon them.

When Vhagar's blue-green shadow emerged from the mist, they were still throwing dice and drinking cheap wine on deck. Only when the first wave of dragonfire crashed onto the deck of a Myrish ironclad like a golden waterfall did anyone scream and rush for the lifeboats.

"That's it!" Baelon's cry was swallowed by the thunder of dragonfire.

Vhagar's breath carried the heat of molten gold. The ironclad's steel plates curled and melted beneath the inferno, while the pirates' screams rose into the sky wrapped in steam.

He guided the old dragon into a dive, then pulled her up again. Her fire carved a burning arc across the sea; wooden ships became torches in its wake, ironclads became furnaces.

The sight was far too familiar.

Before Baelon's eyes flashed the Dornish coast of '83—he had been only twenty-six then. His father Jaehaerys rode Vermithor ahead of him, his brother Aemon rode the young Caraxes to the left, and he rode Vhagar to the right.

The flames of three dragons had woven a net of fire before the Dornish fleet could land. Prince Marlion Martell's flagship had not even lowered its landing boats before Balerion's dragonfire reduced it to ash.

The sea had been red that day too—not with blood, but with reflected dragonfire. The wind had been scorching as well, carrying the scent of Dornish sand and burning masts.

His father had laughed from his saddle and said, "Even Aegon the Conqueror never had it this good." Aemon had clapped him on the shoulder, the heat of dragon scales reddening his palm...

"Father! There's a Tyroshi galley on the left that slipped through!" Daemon Targaryen's shout dragged him back to the present.

When Baelon turned, he saw Caraxes diving like an arrow loosed from a bow. Scarlet dragonfire swept across the sea and burned the galley attempting to circle behind them in half.

Daemon Targaryen shifted atop the red dragon's back, silver hair plastered messily to his sweat-damp forehead. The profile of his face looked exactly like Aemon in his youth—just as flamboyant, just as reckless. Even his gestures as he controlled the dragon were identical.

On the other side, Glutton's black dragonfire had locked precisely onto the flagship flying the Triarchy's banner.

Daemon Blackfyre lay low against the black dragon's back, steady as a rock. He was neither as ostentatious as Daemon nor as composed as Baelon, yet he possessed a strange, Targaryen kind of ruthlessness—a stance only found in those who had fought atop dragonback, calm as ice and blazing as fire.

"Good lad," Baelon murmured in praise. When Glutton's fire struck the flagship's main sail, he saw Daemon Blackfyre suddenly raise a hand, seemingly directing the dragon to adjust its angle. That instantaneous judgment was remarkably like Aemon's decisiveness in avoiding the reefs during the Dornish naval battle.

The shadows of three dragons intertwined and wheeled across the sea.

Vhagar's blue-green bulk was like a moving mountain, Caraxes's scarlet form like an arrow piercing flame, and Glutton's black silhouette like an axe splitting the sea.

Dragonfire collided in the air, scattering interwoven gold and crimson sparks. They fell upon the sea and sent up vast sheets of white mist, shrouding the entire Stepstones in a scorching haze.

Corlys stood dumbfounded at the prow of the "Sea Snake." He had seen Baelon's courage in his youth and Daemon's headlong vigor, but never anything like this—an aged green dragon, a vigorous red dragon, and a savage black dragon tearing apart in a single morning the Three Daughters Fleet that had plagued the Seven Kingdoms for an entire year.

What unsettled him even more was the way Baelon looked at that "Daemon Waters." The scrutiny in his eyes had changed into... approval.

By the time the battle ended, the morning sun had just climbed to the tops of the masts.

Only burning wreckage remained of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters' fleet. Aris Introlokos was carried by Glutton's claws onto the deck of the "Sea Snake," his purple silk robes soaked with seawater and smeared with ash as he lay trembling on the deck.

Vhagar landed upon a reef jutting from the sea. As Baelon dismounted, his legs gave way and he nearly fell, only for Daemon Targaryen to rush over and support him.

"Father, are you all right?"

"I won't die." Baelon waved a hand, but his gaze passed over his son and settled on Daemon Blackfyre, who was climbing down from Glutton's back.

The youth's silver hair had curled slightly from the dragonfire, while the black dragon mark on his right shoulder glimmered dark red beneath the sunlight like fire-tempered iron. "The way you ride a dragon is very much like Aemon."

Daemon Blackfyre paused. He knew who Aemon was—Rhaenys's father, a hero of this age, and also the man mistaken for his "biological father." "You taught me well," he said quietly, his fingertips still holding the warmth of Glutton's neck scales.

"The dragon chose you." Baelon smiled, and there was rare ease in his cough. "In the Dornish naval battle of '83, Vermithor, Caraxes, and Vhagar—three dragons ended the war in one day. Today..." He looked at Vhagar, then at Caraxes and Glutton. "We did the same."