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The journey from King’s Landing to Dragonstone stretches long and arduous, a lonely ribbon of sky stretched above the endless sea. Yet, Daervon feels lighter than he has in weeks. Gaelithox, his ever-loyal shadow, mirrors his rider’s rare flicker of peace, his massive black wings slicing through the wind with a joyous ferocity.

The great beast flips mid-air with a grace that belies his size, spiraling playfully around Vhagar’s lumbering form. The sudden burst of energy causes Daervon’s laughter to echo across the skies, bright and unrestrained. Gaelithox roars in delight, the sound carrying far over the waves below, and Daervon feels his bond with the dragon swell—a tether of shared emotion and understanding.

Aemond, riding atop the ancient and battle-scarred Vhagar, spares a glance at his husband. His single eye softens, though he remains silent, watching Daervon’s joy with something that borders on reverence. Vhagar, unbothered by Gaelithox’s antics, continues her steady, deliberate flight, her ancient wings cutting through the air like a tired queen pacing her crumbling halls.

Behind them, Helaena rides Dreamfyre with serene grace, her hands steady on the reins while Vidor clutches little Jaehaera tightly in his arms. Dreamfyre glides smoothly, her shimmering scales reflecting the sunlight, a stark contrast to the dark and looming Gaelithox.

As they near Spicetown, Vhagar begins to falter. The shift is subtle at first—a hesitation in her wingbeats, a slower descent. Then, without warning, the great dragon refuses to rise any higher, her vast form sinking slowly toward the barren lands below.

“Vhagar,” Aemond murmurs, concern flickering across his sharp features. He adjusts his reins, but the dragon does not respond to his command. Instead, she lets out a low, guttural growl, as if announcing her intention to rest.

Gaelithox and Dreamfyre, sensing something unspoken, circle in the air briefly before landing beside Vhagar. Their growls rumble like distant thunder, a solemn chorus of respect for the Queen of all Dragons.

Vidor watches the scene unfold from a distance, Jaehaera tucked protectively in his arms. “What’s happening?” he asks, his voice puzzled but edged with caution as he keeps a wide berth from the enormous dragon.

Helaena dismounts Dreamfyre with a gentle grace, her pale hair catching the sunlight like spun silver. She steps closer, her gaze distant but calm. “She’s tired,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “She wants to rest.”

Vhagar’s massive form shifts on the barren land, her breaths labored and uneven. The ancient dragon, Queen of the Skies, releases a low, guttural growl, her golden eyes fixed on Aemond. It is a sound of farewell, laden with centuries of wisdom and fire. Aemond unmounts, his boots sinking into the dry earth, his gaze locked with hers.

He places his palm against her warm, scaled neck, the vibration of her breath resonating beneath his hand. Vhagar’s bond with him is palpable, an unspoken connection forged through blood and fire. And now, she stands at the edge of her final breaths.

Aemond presses his forehead against her, his lone eye closing as he murmurs words in Valyrian only she can understand. Vhagar growls softly in response, her exhale a heavy gust of air that stirs the dust around them. It is her way of saying goodbye.

Daervon watches from a distance, his own heart aching for Aemond. He knows what Vhagar means to his husband—she is not just a dragon but a part of his soul. When Vhagar releases one last rumble, her great body settling into stillness, Aemond drops to his knees, his shoulders rigid as he fights the tears threatening to spill.

Daervon crosses the barren ground swiftly, his boots kicking up dust as he reaches Aemond. Without hesitation, he wraps his arms around him, pulling him close. “I am here,” he whispers, his voice steady, though his own emotions threaten to overwhelm him.

Aemond leans into him, inhaling Daervon’s scent—clean and sharp with a hint of eucalyptus. It grounds him, a tether in the midst of his spiraling grief. They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, the world falling silent except for the faint rustle of wind.

When they finally rise, Aemond casts one last glance at Vhagar. His eye lingers on her still form, the once-mighty dragon now at rest.

The black dragon lets out a resonant growl, his emerald eyes glowing with understanding. He senses his rider’s emotions, his powerful wings stirring the air as he prepares to take flight. Dreamfyre, with Helaena, Vidor, and little Jaehaera aboard, follows close behind, her own mournful roar echoing through the sky.

Aemond swallows hard, the loss cutting deeper than any blade. He looks to Daervon, his jaw clenched, his voice low and broken. “I am nothing without her. A lost cause.”

Daervon's hand cupping Aemond’s cheek, forcing him to meet his gaze. “You are selling yourself short, my love,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “Yes, Vhagar shaped you, as fire shapes steel. But you are not defined by her alone. You wore the Conqueror’s crown with glory unmatched and ruled the Seven Kingdoms with the precision of a man who bends destiny to his will. You managed to trap me into marriage. A feat few could accomplish, might I remind you,” Daervon says, his tone laced with teasing reverence. “You even gave me a fight worthy of legend.”

Aemond’s lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile, his chin brushing against Daervon’s shoulder as his voice cuts through the wind. “Which I won.”

“It was a fucking tie,” Daervon retorts without missing a beat, glancing back at him with narrowed eyes.

“You swear too much,” Aemond murmurs, his lips grazing the shell of Daervon’s ear as his voice drops into something softer, almost teasing.

Daervon smirks, a spark of mischief lighting his face. “What are you going to do about it, hmm?”

Aemond’s hand drifts to Daervon’s waist, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against the fabric of his tunic. His touch is deliberate, possessive, a silent claim. “I have many things in mind,” Aemond whispers, his voice dripping with unspoken promises that make Daervon’s breath hitch.

Daervon rolls his eyes, though his smirk widens. “Careful, my prince. You might make me regret giving you the upper hand.”

“You said it yourself,” Aemond counters, his tone low but edged with satisfaction. “You’ve fallen into my trap now. You can’t run away.”

Daervon twists slightly in his seat, just enough to meet Aemond’s piercing gaze. “I’m not trying to run away,” he says, his voice softening, the sincerity behind his words undeniable. “I’m yours, remember?”

The admission hangs in the air, weighty and true, striking Aemond in a way that almost leaves him breathless. He swallows hard, his hand tightening slightly on Daervon’s waist as if to anchor himself. “Good,” he replies, his voice brimming with pride, though his eye betrays the overwhelming depth of his feelings.

For a moment, the sea and sky blur into insignificance. There is only the steady beat of Gaelithox’s wings, the warmth of Aemond’s touch, and the unspoken promise binding them together as they soar onward, united even amidst grief and loss.