Silverwing roared as she unfurled her wings, vast enough to blot out the sky. The silver beast that had long followed Vermithor, the tyrant among dragons, once more revealed the majestic figure that had once set the Valley of Flowers ablaze and left the pirates of the Stepstones screaming in dragonfire.
Vermithor's roar shook the mountains. Starsong sang with a melody sweet as a ballad. Shadowmare let out a shriek terrifying enough to make children cry. Zarafax moaned low. Skyfire gave a deep, drawn-out bellow. Candlelight and Morning cried out in varying tones. Sendros howled with defiance, and Hovendes's voice echoed across the skies like the song of a whale.
The dragons composed a hymn with their roars, singing in unison for Silverwing.
Atop the tower, the onlookers remained silent, watching the dragons soar above. Valenna and Daenyra had already draped themselves in black veils long prepared. But neither of the girls wept. In their eyes were only longing—and a hint of fervor. Yet there was still a difference between them: Daenyra's gaze held more yearning, while Valenna's burned with greater zeal.
Valar's life was nearing its end. At that evening's feast, he drank enough strongwine to ignite his ailments, followed by copious sweets and meat. By the end of the banquet, he could no longer move. Had it not been for Draezell's blood magic, he might have collapsed then and there.
And yet he still insisted on following them to the tower top, mounting his Silverwing.
On the neighboring Flame Tower, the Targaryens stood watching the same scene. King Aegon looked on in quiet sorrow, saying nothing as Silverwing rose into the sky, surrounded by the other dragons.
Aemon stood solemn, reverent awe in his gaze. Daeron stood shoulder to shoulder with Jeyne and said with a hint of envy, "Jeyne, when I'm old and tired of life, I'll ride my dragon like this, one last time."
The young Prince Daeron's eyes shone with longing. "Whether I fall from the sky or burn with my dragon, isn't it the greatest fortune for those of us born with the blood of dragons?" He nudged Jeyne, who was silently weeping. "Don't you think so, Jeyne?"
Jeyne gave him a glance. She had no desire to tame a dragon and no interest in claiming one for herself, but she was still a descendant of the Dragonlords. Her love for the skies remained deep-rooted in her heart.
Still, saying something like that now… she had no idea what was going through Daeron's head. She only nodded, saying nothing more.
In the distance—
Valar was already extremely weak. His body could no longer support the nimble feats he'd once performed atop the dragon saddle in his youth—those moves Rey had once so admired. Even bending down to grasp the reins took great effort. But relying on years of experience, he managed to stay balanced.
Silverwing sent forth emotions of concern. The bond between them made her aware of her rider's failing body.
"It's alright, it's alright," Valar said as he strained to bend forward, patting her scales. "Old girl, let's go one last time."
Silverwing resisted. She knew what he intended. But Valar's flame of life was all but extinguished. His blood could no longer shield him from her fire.
"Old girl, Silverwing," Valar whispered, "Don't make this too hard on me. Just one last flight with you, and I'll be content. Let me go peacefully—to the ancestors… and to that ghost of a father."
Valar suddenly smiled as he thought of his father, that elusive shadow never fully seen. Truthfully, his relationship with his parents had always been distant. Through childhood and youth, it had been Draezell—no older than himself—who played the role of father figure. Now, as the end neared, he couldn't even remember his real father's face.
"Let me see what you really looked like, Father," Valar murmured. He closed his eyes, his plump body leaning forward, slumping over the saddle.
"Ascend."
Silverwing spread her wings wide and soared into the sky.
"Dracarys."
Silverwing hesitated. No flame came forth.
The other dragons hovered below, staring as Silverwing climbed higher and higher.
The members of House Vaelarys couldn't help but bow their heads.
"Children, look up," Draezell's voice rang in the ears of every Vaelarys.
"Father…" Dan held Rhaegon tightly in his arms. Tears still clung to Seryna's lashes as she clutched Orion's hand. Jacaerys stood with Rhaegor behind Valenna and Daenyra. Jacaerys's wife, Lady Helena, stood beside Valenna, gently comforting her sister-in-law. Rey and Rhaena stood side by side, looking up at the sky.
"This is the honor of a dragonrider," Draezell said softly. But Rhaegor could hear it—the tremble in his father's voice, so unlike his usual calm. "To die in the sky, to perish on dragonback—this is the glory of those born of dragon blood."
"Dracarys."
Valar uttered the High Valyrian command once more. Silverwing could feel his partner's pain, could sense that the flame of life within him had already gone out.
At last, it opened its jaws. A torrent of dragonfire surged skyward, erupting in midair like a colossal blossom of flame—a vast flower blooming in the heavens, or a great fiery mushroom cloud. Silverwing roared as it flew through the blaze, hot enough to melt stone.
In his youth, Valar's bloodline and the bond with his dragon had shielded him from the searing heat of dragonfire, at least for short periods. But now, his flame had gone out.
He could no longer resist the burning.
The fire ignited the bloated flesh swollen by years of gluttony, caught the fat beneath his skin, consumed everything he was. In the blink of an eye, the dragonrider who had once brought ruin to his enemies was reduced to a candle upon a dragon's back.
He was gone in an instant.
Draezell raised a hand, pointing toward the dragon in the sky.
And in that moment, unnoticed by all, the incinerated body of Valar did not turn to ash, but fell gently with the rain of fire, descending slowly into the crimson peaks of the Red Mountains.
In the caverns deep below, Melisandre glanced at a sudden flare in the magma. She frowned, puzzled, but couldn't make sense of what had just happened—so she returned to studying the murals on her wall.
The dragons gave a unified cry of mourning, then fell silent. Vermithor slowly descended onto the wide edge of the Dragonkeep Tower, watching Silverwing land, the dragon saddle on its back now hauntingly empty.
In that instant, all of Dragon's Nest could hear Silverwing's cry of pain.
Draezell stepped behind Valenna and said softly, "Go."
He gestured to Silverwing. "That's the partner Valar left for you. Go."
Valenna had been prepared. She removed her black veil, revealing a practical black riding outfit beneath—mourning attire tailored for flight. Before the feast, Valar had already told her what to do once he was gone.
Silverwing lowered its head, gazing at the girl who now walked toward it with unwavering steps.
It made no sound.
Nor did she.
Valenna seemed oblivious to the massive head lowered in front of her, the dagger-like teeth peeking from a slightly opened mouth, the red glow flickering within.
She walked toward Silverwing's body without hesitation. The dragon watched her and, at last, shut its mouth. The red light faded, and the great beast bowed its head ever so slightly.
Without pause, Valenna reached the climbing rig. With a forceful kick, she climbed swiftly. As she looked upon the pristine saddle, there was a fleeting moment when it all felt like a dream.
But she knew this wasn't a dream.
The specially forged dragon saddle had been made to withstand prolonged exposure to dragonfire. Not even Vermithor's flames could melt it.
She touched the still-warm leather, then climbed on without hesitation, gripping the handholds tightly.
Still, Silverwing made no move to resist.
Valenna closed her eyes.
"Silverwing, take flight!"