132 AC – The Skies Above King's Landing
Point of View: Aenar Targaryen
The wind clawed at Aenar Targaryen's face, sharp as Valyrian steel, carrying the bitter tang of salt and the acrid reek of distant fires. Below, King's Landing sprawled like a wound, its towers and spires glinting red in the dying light. The Red Keep stood defiant at its heart, unscarred—for now. Aenar's jaw tightened. He would not burn the city. Not unless they left him no choice.
Balerion's massive wings carved through the air, each thunderous beat blotting out the sun, casting a shadow that swallowed entire streets below. The Black Dread's scales, black as midnight, shimmered with an ancient, molten glow, as though the fires of Old Valyria still smoldered within him. Aenar's gloved hand pressed against the dragon's flank, feeling the pulse of primal power beneath the scarred hide—a heartbeat older than empires.
"They see us now, old friend," Aenar murmured, his voice barely audible over the wind's howl. He could sense the chaos erupting below: the frantic tolling of bells, the shouts of soldiers scrambling to their posts, the terror rippling through the city like a stone dropped in still water. Somewhere in the Red Keep, the Greens were saddling their dragons. Three would rise to meet him good.
"You ready, old boy?" Aenar's voice softened, a rare tenderness reserved only for the beast who had carried him through exile, through betrayal, through the long years of a life no one else had wanted him to live.
Balerion rumbled, a sound like mountains grinding against one another, deep and resonant, shaking the very air. It was not the roar of a young dragon, brash and eager, but something ancient, elemental—a promise of wrath and ruin.
"I don't expect to return," Aenar said, his voice steady but heavy with the weight of truth. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the warm scales. "But they'll know what it means when the Black Dread comes for blood. They'll remember us."
He closed his eyes, letting the wind carry away the ghosts of his past—his mother's cold dismissal, the endless whispers of that had dogged him since childhood. All of it had led to this moment, this final flight. "One last time, my old friend."
Balerion roared, a sound that split the heavens. The sky itself seemed to shudder, as if the gods had paused to bear witness.
The Skies Above Blackwater Bay
Point of View: Aemond Targaryen
The clouds parted like a torn veil as three dragons surged upward, their wings churning the air into a storm. Vermithor led the charge, his bronze scales gleaming like molten metal, his rider, Hugh Hammer, bellowing defiance to the heavens. The dragon's wings still bore the scars of Shipbreaker Bay, stained with salt and blood, but Vermithor flew with reckless pride, his chest heaving with fire.
To Aemond's left, Sunfyre soared, his golden scales catching the light like a beacon. But his flight was unsteady, his wings faltering under the weight of Aegon's pain. The king clung to the saddle, his face pale, his jaw clenched against the agony of old wounds that refused to heal. Aemond's eye narrowed. Aegon should not be here. But pride had always been his brother's chain.
Aemond rode Vhagar, the ancient she-dragon, her massive form dwarfing the others. Her scales, green and weathered, bore the marks of a hundred battles, yet she flew with a predator's grace, circling higher, watching, waiting. Aemond's hand tightened on the reins, his single eye scanning the horizon.
Then he saw it.
Balerion.
Not a dragon, but a nightmare given flesh. A shadow so vast it seemed to devour the sky. His wings stretched wider than a castle's walls, his scales blacker than a starless night. Balerion was older than any living man, older than the Red Keep itself, yet his eyes burned with a fire that had not dimmed in a century. The flame of Old Valyria lived in that beast, a furnace of wrath and memory.
Aemond's heart quickened, not with fear, but with something close to awe. "So you are a mad man after all".
Hugh screamed a war cry, spurring Vermithor into a dive. The bronze dragon's jaws opened, unleashing a torrent of flame toward Balerion's flank. The fire roared, bright and searing, a challenge to the ancient beast.
Balerion did not flinch.
He turned.
His jaws snapped shut with a sound like a thunderclap, teeth tearing through Vermithor's wing as if it were silk. The membrane shredded, blood spraying into the wind. Vermithor shrieked, spiraling wildly, his claws scrabbling at the air as Hugh's screams mingled with his mount's. They plummeted, a bronze comet trailing smoke and ruin.
Sunfyre struck next, golden fire lancing toward Balerion's chest. Aegon's voice cracked with desperation as he urged his dragon forward, but Balerion twisted with a speed that defied his age, his massive tail whipping through the air like a warhammer. It slammed into Sunfyre's ribs, the crack of bone echoing over the bay. Aegon cried out, clinging to the saddle as his dragon faltered, wings beating unevenly.
Aemond's pulse roared in his ears. "Vhagar, now!" he bellowed, and the ancient she-dragon dove, her flame meeting Balerion's in a cataclysm of red and black. The dragons collided, a clash of gods in the heavens. Claws raked scales, teeth tore flesh, and fire painted the sky in hues of destruction. Balerion's jaws clamped onto Vhagar's shoulder, his ancient teeth piercing deep. Vhagar screeched, her own flame lashing wildly, scorching the clouds.
They spiraled, locked in a deadly embrace, wings thrashing, blood raining down onto the waves below. Vermithor, somehow still aloft, dove for Balerion's belly, Hugh's voice hoarse with fury. Aenar, high in his saddle, let go of the reins.
"Now," he whispered.
Balerion roared, and the world burned.
His flame was not fire—it was oblivion. Black as pitch, white-hot at its core, it erupted with a force that seemed to bend the air itself. The blaze engulfed Sunfyre, searing golden scales to ash, melting flesh from bone. Aegon's scream was swallowed by the inferno, a sound so raw it tore at Aemond's heart. Sunfyre fell, a golden star extinguished in the smoke.
Vermithor lunged, jaws wide, but Balerion was faster. His teeth closed around the bronze dragon's throat with a sickening crunch, snapping bone like kindling. Vermithor's body went limp, plummeting to the earth below, Hugh's final cry lost in the wind.
But then, from the east, a sound pierced the chaos—a shriek like a storm breaking.
"Dreamfyre!"
Helaena. Aemond's heart lurched. They hadn't seen her, hadn't expected her. The pale blue she-dragon streaked through the sky, her rider sobbing prayers into the wind, her voice trembling with grief and duty. Dreamfyre's flame slammed into Balerion's eye, a lance of blue fire that seared through the socket. The Black Dread's roar was a sound of pure agony, shaking the heavens.
Balerion faltered, his massive wings trembling. Vhagar, bleeding and enraged, seized her chance, her teeth sinking into Balerion's wing-joint. The oldest dragons alive, bound by blood and fire, began to fall, locked together in a spiral of ruin.
Aenar clung to the saddle, the world spinning around him, smoke and ash filling his lungs. Balerion's heart still beat, his flame still burned, but his wings could no longer hold. Aenar's gaze drifted downward—not to the city, but beyond it, to the dark waters of the Blackwater Rush.
"Not over the city," he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. "Not over the people."
With a final, titanic effort, Balerion banked, his broken wings dragging through the air. They crashed into the Blackwater Rush, just shy of the shoreline, the impact splitting the earth. A shockwave of steam and spray erupted, a geyser of white against the blackened sky. Sunfyre and Vermithor's lifeless forms followed, swallowed by the waves. Vhagar, bleeding and broken, landed heavily nearby, her roars fading to silence.
Balerion lay still.
Aenar lay still.
The Blackwater Rush, After the Fall
Point of View: Aenar Targaryen
The world was a haze of smoke and pain, the sky a shattered mosaic of gray and fire. Aenar's breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, each one tasting of ash, salt, and blood. Beneath him, Balerion's chest rose and fell, slow and labored, each heartbeat a fading echo of the dragon's ancient strength.
Aenar's hands, trembling, rested on the scales he knew better than his own skin. They were worn smooth by decades of flight, etched with the scars of battles fought long before Aenar was born. He pressed his palm against them, feeling the faint warmth, the last flicker of the fire that had defined them both.
He thought of the boy he'd been—unwanted, cast aside, a shadow in a house of dragons. He thought of the man he'd become, forged in exile, tempered by loss. Balerion had been his anchor, his purpose, the one soul who had never turned away. Their bond was more than fire—it was the last thread of a dying dynasty, a flame that had burned through centuries, through conquest and betrayal.
"Thank you," Aenar whispered, his voice breaking. "For carrying me when no one else would. For giving me a name when they called me nothing. For being my fire."
Tears mingled with the ash on his face as Balerion's breathing slowed, each exhale a soft rumble, like distant thunder fading into silence. Aenar leaned forward, resting his forehead against the dragon's scales, his own heartbeat syncing with the weakening pulse beneath.
The sky darkened, the last embers of Balerion's fire glowing faintly against the encroaching night. Aenar closed his eyes, his hand still pressed to the Black Dread's side.
And with a final, shuddering sigh, the world went quiet.
The Skies Above Blackwater Rush
Point of View: Helaena Targaryen
Helaena's tears fell like rain, cold and unrelenting, streaking her face as Dreamfyre soared through the smoke-choked sky. Her hands gripped the reins with white-knuckled desperation, her heart a storm of grief and duty. She had not wanted this—not the fire, not the blood, not the war that had torn her family apart. But duty had bound her, as it always had, and now she flew into the heart of ruin.
Below, the broken forms of Vhagar and Balerion lay tangled in the shallows of the Blackwater Rush, their massive bodies half-submerged, steam rising from the water like a shroud. Aemond slumped against Vhagar's neck, his silver hair matted with blood, his single eye half-open, staring at the sky.
"H-hold on," Helaena whispered, her voice breaking as Dreamfyre circled lower. "Please, Aemond… hold on."
Vhagar's breaths were shallow, each one a labored rasp. Her green scales, scarred from a lifetime of war, glistened with blood and water. Her eyes, once fierce and unyielding, were dimming, but they met Helaena's gaze one last time—proud, defiant, yet heavy with resignation.
Aemond stirred, his trembling hand brushing Vhagar's scales. "You came," he rasped, his voice barely audible over the lapping waves. A faint smile flickered across his lips, bitter and broken. "In the end… you came."
Vhagar exhaled, a great sigh that scattered embers across the water, sparks glowing briefly before fading into the dark. Her massive body shuddered once, then stilled. Aemond's head fell forward, his hand slipping from her scales, his body limp against her.
Helaena's sob tore through the silence, raw and anguished. She pressed herself against Dreamfyre's neck, her arms curling around the reins as if they could anchor her against the weight of loss. "Why?" she whispered, her voice a plea to gods she no longer trusted. "Why must it always end like this?"
Dreamfyre keened softly, a mournful sound that echoed over the water, a lament for the fallen—dragons and riders alike. Helaena's tears fell onto her dragon's scales, mingling with the blood and ash of a war that had consumed them all.
That is the end of a era there one more chapter left hope you enjoy it the story so far.
Also wa the fighting scene good Enough I struggled lol