Caraxes broke through the lake's surface, his blood steaming in the cold water as he dragged his torn body toward the shore.
"Caraxes!"
Daemon froze for a heartbeat, then rushed forward like a madman.
"Gah…"
Caraxes collapsed on the bank, curling up in the clearing, too weak even to roar.
The dragon's wounds were catastrophic. One wing hung nearly torn off. His abdomen was ripped open, his organs exposed. Deep claw marks scored his body, bones were broken from vicious bites, and the back of his neck was blackened with burns.
It was unimaginable how he had summoned the strength to crawl out of the icy depths.
"Caraxes…"
Daemon halted halfway, too afraid to touch the scarlet dragon's broken form.
Caraxes's pupils were dull, half-shut, his blood-soaked chest heaving in ragged gasps. His life was hanging by a thread. Any disturbance could snuff it out.
Daemon stood motionless, dazed, his sorrow barely contained. His oldest companion was slipping away.
Above them, the night sky shuddered with the roars of dragons.
Vermithor grappled with Vhagar, their talons locked, flames spewing as they spun in the air. From afar, they looked like a blazing wheel tumbling from the heavens.
Neither dragon yielded. In their struggle, they lost balance and plummeted toward the molten lava below.
With a thunderous crash, Vhagar's immense body slammed into the crusted earth, breaking through gray rock and spilling crimson magma into the air.
"Roar!"
Vermithor tore free just before impact, riding the surge of smoke back into the skies.
The dragons scattered, circling Lonely Mountain, watching for the elder's return. An old dragon like Vhagar, hardened by centuries, knew how to endure. He would not fall so easily.
"Hiss… Gah…"
As the clash raged, a spark lit again in Caraxes's fading eyes—a desperate will to survive.
Summoning hidden strength, he dragged his mangled body upright. Attempts to fly ended in collapse, but he persisted, clawing forward with his good wing and his spindly hind legs.
In the air, his serpentine body made him swift and agile. Even after crashing into the lake, his shape cut through the water, helping him escape. But on land, his stunted hind limbs betrayed him, forcing him to crawl like a broken fireworm, carving a bloody trail behind him.
Daemon's chest tightened as he watched. Caraxes's abdomen scraped across stone, each jagged rock slicing into raw flesh.
What drove him? What hope gave him such stubborn resolve?
Daemon knew one thing—if Caraxes failed now, he would die.
Dragons rarely suffered such wounds. Their hides were thick, their bodies resilient enough to heal themselves. But fatal injuries were different. Two things made them near impossible to mend: no needle could pierce a dragon's hide to stitch it shut, and infection spread too quickly, consuming them from within.
Balerion the Black Dread himself had once returned from the Sea of Smoke with a jagged nine-foot gash across his belly. Left untended, the wound rotted and festered, and the maesters later believed it hastened his death.
Caraxes's wounds were worse than Balerion's. His chances of survival were nearly nonexistent.
"Hiss… Gah…"
Still, the red dragon clawed his way to the foot of Lonely Mountain, wading across hardened ash into a newly torn canyon. His glowing pupils fixed on a vent close to the surface, where heat and sulfur thickened the air.
With a soft chirring from his throat, Caraxes looked back one last time at his rider, then plunged into the steaming cavern.
...
Above Lonely Mountain, the battle reached its peak.
"Roar—!"
Vhagar lunged, his bloody jaws crushing into Vermithor's shoulder and tearing through his wing.
Vermithor's copper-bright eyes flared, his blood boiling with fury. Ignoring the pain, he twisted, clamping his jaws around Vhagar's throat. His fangs ripped past green scales, snapping through to flesh.
"Roar!"
Vhagar thrashed, his titanic wings battering the air. But Vermithor locked on, his own massive wings beating in rhythm to steady himself.
With brutal strength, Vermithor wrenched the elder's neck, shaking and dragging him across the sky like prey. Hot dragon blood rained across the mountain.
Desperate, Vhagar lashed out with claws and wings, a final, frenzied assault.
Boom—
Vermithor released his hold mid-flight and hurled Vhagar into the mountainside.
The elder dragon crashed, stunned and bleeding, his scorched neck reeking of charred flesh. His larynx was nearly crushed.
Exhausted but victorious, Vermithor soared to the Lonely Mountain's summit, his sides heaving.
"Hiss!"
Silverwing, Greyshadow, Meleys, and the others surged forward, their roars echoing across the peaks.
Vermithor crouched low, scarred jaws dripping blood and fire, his bronze eyes burning with savage triumph.
Though battered, his spirit blazed untamed. He had fought Caraxes, defeated Vhagar, and now faced the others with unbroken will.
Meleys faltered first, backing away, unwilling to challenge him.
Seasmoke, though young and strong, followed suit, frightened by the bronze beast's madness.
Silverwing and Greyshadow circled closest, as if acknowledging him as their lord.
"Hiss!"
Vermithor raised his roar to the heavens, claiming the mountain as his throne.
Below, Vhagar dragged himself upright, snarling but beaten. Blood Origin Fruit had restored his vigor, but even renewed strength could not match Vermithor's relentless fury.
At last, the other dragons scattered, seeking caves in the mountain. Only Silverwing stayed by Vermithor's side, brushing her head against his in silent recognition.
"Dragon Lord…"
From afar, Viserys and the others gazed on in awe. A single dragon had risen above the rest, commanding them as supreme.
No memory remained of such a figure in Old Valyria, but Vermithor's dominance was undeniable. Dragons were not equals; they were wild, proud, and always vied for rank. And now Vermithor had claimed the highest.
...
Inside Lonely Mountain's lair, Aemon heard the distant roars without surprise.
Through their bond, he felt Vermithor's power recovering, his dominance secure even against the likes of Seasmoke.
"Tell me," Aemon said coldly, pointing the Lady of the Void toward the figure before him. "Why have you come to my domain?"
"I came to warn you."
The small, green-skinned creature clung nervously to the bronze godswood, staring at the Valyrian steel blade.
One of the Children of the Forest. The giants called them squirrel-folk, and Aemon saw why—her lithe form, her twitching ears, her leaf-woven mantle draped over dappled skin.
Her catlike eyes shimmered gold and green, framed by a mane of chestnut curls woven with petals. She looked no older than a child, barely taller than Aemon's shoulder, yet her voice was that of a grown woman—soft, melodic, and strangely haunting.
And she spoke the Common Tongue, though her accent was broken and rough, unlike Westerosi or Essosi speech.
"How old are you?" Aemon asked curiously. "In human years."
"Sixteen."
"Only a year older than me…" His surprise flickered.
She gave her name as Leaf, born beyond the Wall. Her sisters bore names of trees and flowers, a custom born of their devotion to nature in the endless winters where greenery was scarce.
Unlike most of her kin, Leaf had left her people with the elders' blessing, wandering south to learn of the world. She had meant only to pass through quietly and return, but fate had led her here.
"You were the one whispering in my ear? The one meddling in Lonely Mountain?"
Leaf admitted it, her gaze locked on the steel in his hand.
"You could have left unseen. Why reveal yourself?"
"I am a greenseer," she said, her voice trembling but resolute. "I saw it—the Dragon Lord on his blood-red dragon, dying in a lake."
Aemon's eyes narrowed. "The Battle of the God's Eye…"
"I wanted to stop your kin from tearing each other apart," Leaf declared. "I was born in the age of dragons. I don't want them to die out."
"All of them?"
"Yes," she whispered. "The last dragon will die in the Vale."
Aemon hid his thoughts. He already knew history, the dwindling of dragonkind. Yet her words rang with prophetic weight.
"And Daemon? Why urge me to kill him?"
Leaf's eyes widened. "If he died here, in this lake, then the other great dragon would live. Their deaths together would never happen."
Aemon almost laughed. Her vision was fragmented, clouded, driven by her own will to reshape fate.
She believed sparing Vhagar could preserve Targaryen might.
Naïve. Incomplete.
With a clang, Aemon sheathed his sword.
Greenseers were no gods. Their foresight was fickle, fragile—no clearer than a dreamer's.
He knew she hadn't foreseen the truth: history was already shifting beneath their feet.
But perhaps… she could be useful.
"One last question," Aemon said, leaning close, his gaze sharp. "What drew you here, to Lonely Mountain—and to me?"
---------------
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