The Dance of Two Dragons

Caraxes... Blood Wyrm...

Every beat of that red dragon's wings struck his memories like a hammer. And now, riding it was his own son, Daemon Targaryen.

"You finally found a new rider..." Baelon's fingertips brushed the cold stone window, where the marks he and Aemon had carved still remained: a crooked dragon, with the words "Caraxes and Vhagar, never fall" beside it.

Back then, Aemon had always said that when he had a son, he would pass Caraxes down to the next generation, so that the name Blood Wyrm would forever resound through the skies. But now, it had been passed to his own son.

Baelon's knuckles tapped against the stone window of Dragonflame Hall, producing a dull echo.

The sulfur crystals clinging to the window lattice shook loose and fell onto his deep-purple velvet cloak like scattered diamonds. As a father, of course he knew Daemon had long since mounted Caraxes—it was something he had personally approved.

Three years ago, when thirteen-year-old Daemon had first timidly touched Caraxes's scales, Baelon had stood in the shadows of the Dragonpit.

Aemon had died only two years earlier. Caraxes had curled up in the deepest part of the cavern, his scales stripped of their former luster, even his breathing carrying a mournful note.

This scarlet beast was not as heartless as people claimed, as though it had been resting nearby and devouring six goats when Prince Aemon's throat was pierced by a crossbow bolt.

Holding a piece of fresh venison as though it were some priceless treasure, Daemon had inched toward the red dragon step by step. His calves trembled like autumn leaves in the wind, yet he stubbornly lifted his chin and said, "Uncle Aemon said brave dragons like brave riders."

Baelon had nearly laughed aloud then, and nearly wept.

He watched his son get blown to the ground by Caraxes's breath, then climb back up, wipe his face, and continue offering the meat. He watched his son get flung against the rock wall by the red dragon, clutch his arm, and say, "I was standing in the wrong place."

He watched his son suddenly ride Caraxes out of the Dragonpit one morning, scaring the dragonkeepers into frantically sounding their horns, while he sat in the council chamber, pretending not to hear the dragon's roar and the guards' cries outside.

"That was Aemon's dragon. It should be your dragon too," Baelon later said, patting his son's shoulder. Beneath his palm, he could feel the raised knots along the boy's shoulder blade—the traces left by countless falls.

Caraxes's nickname, Blood Wyrm, had been given by Aemon. He said that when the dragon grew enraged, it was like a venomous worm burrowing into one's veins, coiling so tightly that one could barely breathe. Now that venomous worm had been tamed by Daemon, yet as it pursued Glutton through the night sky, it revealed the same savagery it had possessed under Aemon's command.

Baelon's gaze shifted from Caraxes to the unfamiliar boy riding Glutton. Daemon Blackfyre's silver hair glimmered coldly beneath the moonlight. Crouched upon the black dragon's back like a black panther poised to strike, he was utterly unlike Daemon's flamboyant riding style, yet carried the same ruthless edge.

Glutton was far too docile.

That vicious dragon, which had bitten off the arms of three dragonriders and treated the bones of Dragonpit guards as snacks, actually allowed another boy to move about on its back. When Caraxes drew near, it even deliberately slowed down—just as Vhagar had done when Baelon first rode her. She could have easily thrown him off, yet had merely swept her tail lightly across his waist, as though mocking him and protecting him at once.

And when facing Glutton, Caraxes also restrained his usual temper. Even the arc of his dragonfire carried a measure of restraint, as if he knew the black dragon was a companion rather than an enemy.

The two dragons suddenly climbed together, spreading their vast wings before the full moon. Caraxes's scarlet and Glutton's pitch-black formed a sharp contrast beneath the moonlight, yet they were strangely harmonious, like a painting split apart and pieced back together. Baelon watched Daemon Targaryen stretch out a hand from Caraxes's back toward the other Daemon. Watching the two silver-haired boys high-five in the sky, he suddenly covered his mouth—the sight was too much like him and Aemon.

That year, he had just turned eighteen, and he and Aemon flew over Blackwater Bay on their respective dragons. Aemon waved at him from Caraxes's back, silver hair plastered messily to his sweat-damp forehead, calling him "slowpoke Vhagar rider." Laughing, Baelon urged Vhagar forward until she flew alongside Caraxes. The shadows of the two dragons intertwined over the sea like two enormous tangled serpents.

The wind had been warm then, carrying the salt of the Narrow Sea. The dragonfire had been bright then, able to illuminate their young faces.

"Aemon..." Baelon's voice caught, and tears finally blurred his vision. He saw Caraxes suddenly release a long dragon cry. There was grief in that sound, but also the joy of new life, as if proclaiming to the heavens: he had not forgotten his old rider, but he had accepted a new one.

In the direction of Tidehead Island, Corlys Velaryon's flagship had just dropped anchor.

The Sea Snake stood at the prow, gazing at the two intertwined flames in Dragonstone's night sky. His fingers clenched tightly around the mother-of-pearl dagger at his waist, iridescent light flickering in his eyes as though he were calculating an approaching storm.

And deep within the Dragonpit, the aged Vhagar opened her clouded eyes.

She had long grown accustomed to darkness and solitude, yet the familiar dragon cry in the night sky woke her.

When Caraxes's voice reached her, the great dragon who had witnessed countless rises and falls slowly raised her head and gave a deep reply. Her breath stirred the ash at the bottom of the cavern, exposing half a dragon-carved bone buried beneath it—the hilt of a dagger Aemon had dropped while feeding her for Baelon years ago.

Daemon Blackfyre lay low against Glutton's back, feeling the heartbeat of the great dragon beneath him gradually merge with his own pulse.

The brand on his right shoulder no longer burned. Instead, it felt like a warm heart, resonating with Caraxes's cry, Glutton's breathing, and even Vhagar's distant answer.

He looked at Daemon Targaryen beside him, at Caraxes's scarlet dragonfire blossoming across the night sky, and suddenly understood that this crossing through time might never have been an accident.

The two dragons soared into the sky again, swallowing the full moon in a woven net of dragonfire. The laughter of Blackfyre and Targaryen echoed through the night, passing through sulfurous mist, over Blackwater Bay, and spreading toward every corner of the Seven Kingdoms—after this, the skies of 97 AC would have two dragons.

One was scarlet as blood, inheriting the glory of its old rider. One was black as night, carrying the storm of the future. And their riders, two boys both named Daemon, rode the dragons of fate, carving out trails of their own across history's heavens.

The two dragons suddenly climbed in unison, breaking through the mist and spreading their vast wings beneath the full moon. Glutton released a long dragon cry, no longer a savage roar but a thunderous proclamation. Baelon's fingers dug deep into the fringe of his cloak—he knew that from this night onward, the skies above Dragonstone would change.

Daemon Blackfyre looked down at Glutton beneath him, then up at the scarlet giant beside him. Dragonfire intertwined in the night sky like two burning rivers. He knew that from this moment onward, the skies of 97 AC no longer belonged solely to Targaryen's red dragons—a black dragon from the future had broken free from its cage.

And far away in King's Landing, King Jaehaerys's throne still swayed in the candlelight, utterly unaware that a rebel from a century hence had already, in his own era, mounted the fiercest dragon of all.