Dragon's flame

[Kingswood, 126 AC]

The sky was dark and foreboding, heavy with storm clouds that rumbled with distant thunder. Fierce winds howled through the trees, bending their branches with a wild, relentless force. Lightning split the heavens, casting fleeting shadows across the dense canopy of the Kingswood. Amidst the chaos of the storm, the faint rustling of leaves betrayed a sinister presence lurking within the woods.

Upon closer inspection, grotesque creatures could be seen soaring low above the treetops. Their scales shimmered in sickly green hues, streaked with jagged white stripes that glowed faintly in the intermittent flashes of lightning. These wyverns—hideous mockeries of dragons—moved with eerie precision, their wings slicing through the stormy air like blades. Beneath them, a small, grim-faced army marched in deadly silence, their expressions hardened by bloodlust. They advanced toward their destination with meticulous care, ensuring that no one would detect their impending assault until it was far too late.

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[Red Keep, King's Landing]

Viserys Targaryen stood by the window of his chambers, his gaze fixed upon the storm-laden sky. The wind battered the ancient walls of the Red Keep, and the flickering candlelight cast long, wavering shadows across his tired face. There was a trace of melancholy in his eyes, as if the storm outside mirrored the tempest within his heart.

"If only I had not been such a fool, Aemma…" he whispered into the dark, his voice barely audible above the howling wind.

His somber reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Come in," Viserys called, his voice carrying the weariness of a man burdened by regret.

The door creaked open, and Alicent Hightower entered, her face taut with concern. She was followed closely by their two young grandchildren, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. At the sight of them, a rare smile broke across Viserys' face, chasing away the shadows for a fleeting moment. He strode towards the children and scooped them up into his arms with a warmth that belied the storm outside.

"Jaehaera insisted on sleeping with her dragon," Alicent said, her voice tinged with exasperation. "I brought her here, hoping you could talk some sense into her."

Viserys chuckled softly, hugging the children tighter. "No need to worry, Alicent. These are troubled times," he murmured, his gaze drifting back to the storm beyond the window, his tone growing grim. "The children are safest beside their dragons."

A sudden gust of wind howled through the chamber, and a bolt of lightning split the sky, its brilliance momentarily illuminating Viserys' face. The candles flickered violently before being snuffed out, leaving the room bathed in shadows. For a brief, surreal moment, Alicent stared at her husband, and for the first time in years, she found him… handsome. There was a strange, fierce beauty in the lines of his face, carved by years of pain and resilience.

"Take the children to their mother's chambers," Viserys ordered quietly, his eyes still on the storm. "The night is dark… and full of terrors."

As Alicent turned to leave with the children, a distant, blood-curdling scream pierced the night, followed by the ominous tolling of bells. Panic surged through the city as alarms blared, signaling an attack. Viserys stood frozen, his heart pounding as he rushed to the window.

What he saw froze his blood.

Wyverns—hideous, monstrous things—descended upon King's Landing, their grotesque forms silhouetted against the lightning-streaked sky. Crowds of terrified smallfolk, all heading toward the Red Keep in a desperate bid for safety. The Tempest of Black Scales, as the maesters would later record, had begun

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[King's Landing]

Chaos reigned. The streets of King's Landing teemed with terrified smallfolk, their screams rising in a crescendo of despair as they surged toward the Red Keep for refuge. Inside the fortress walls, lords and courtiers, stripped of their noble composure, fled toward the Great Hall, their faces pale with fear.

The Red Keep itself was a fortress under siege. From the battlements and arrow slits, archers loosed volley after futile volley at the wyverns, their arrows glancing harmlessly off the creatures' thick hides. Scorpions, once the city's last line of defense against dragons, were rendered useless in the driving rain and low visibility of the stormy night.

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Viserys Targaryen, now clad in his dragon-riding leathers, strode through the halls with Ser Harrold Westerling and Ser Erryk Cargyll of the Kingsguard flanking him. His brother, Prince Daemon Targaryen, trailed behind, still in his nightclothes, his disheveled appearance belying the fierce fire in his violet eyes.

"Take Aegon and Aemond to the Dragonpit!" Viserys roared, his voice cutting through the din like a blade. "Mount your bloody dragons and defend the city!"

Daemon nodded sharply and peeled away from the group, vanishing into the chaos.

Viserys pressed forward, his destination clear—the Great Yard, where his mighty dragon Vermithor slumbered, undisturbed by the pandemonium surrounding him.

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[The Skies Above King's Landing]

Undeterred by the rain of arrows and scorpion bolts, the wyverns, led by the formidable Nazalar himself, closed in on the Red Keep after sowing chaos throughout the city.

"My Emperor," one of Nazalar's men whispered, his voice barely audible above the storm, "our spy was correct. The dragons are absent."

A wicked grin spread across Nazalar's face, his eyes gleaming with malevolent anticipation. Yet, as the other wyverns grew restless, intoxicated by the scent of blood, they broke formation, descending upon the fleeing smallfolk to sate their monstrous appetites.

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[The Great Yard, Red Keep]

Viserys stood before Vermithor, his face a mask of grim determination. Ser Harrold Westerling watched anxiously, knowing full well that once the king mounted his dragon, there would be no protecting him.

"Your Grace, I advise you to wait for the others," Harrold urged, his voice tinged with fear. "For your safety—"

Viserys cut him off with a steely glare. "My people are dying. There will be no more mercy. No more patience."

He placed a firm hand on Vermithor's scales. "Soves, Vermithor."

With an earth-shaking roar, Vermithor surged into the stormy sky, his massive wings sending torrents of rain and wind cascading through the courtyard.

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The sight of the Bronze Fury soaring above the city brought a flicker of hope to the hearts of the smallfolk and lords alike. Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating Vermithor's immense form as he streaked through the storm.

Some wyvern riders, feasting on the helpless below, looked up in horror as the colossal dragon descended upon them.

"Dracarys!" Viserys bellowed.

In an instant, one of the wyverns was engulfed in searing dragonfire, its shrieks of agony swallowed by the storm. The remaining wyverns scrambled into the air, desperate to evade Vermithor's wrath.

High above the city, Viserys guided Vermithor into the dark clouds, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The storm cloaked them, masking their movements in shadow.

"Attack the rider," Nazalar commanded his wyvern riders from below. "Without a rider, a dragon is nothing but a mindless beast."

Viserys scanned the storm-wracked skies, the tension in the air as thick as the rain that drenched his face. Then, with a guttural roar, four wyverns lunged at Vermithor from the darkness.

"Angos, Vermithor!" Viserys shouted.

Vermithor twisted his massive body mid-air, his claws raking through the nearest wyvern, tearing it apart in a spray of blood and sinew. But the others pressed in, their claws and teeth sinking into Vermithor's bronze scales.

Seeing the dire situation, Viserys roared again, his voice cutting through the storm like a blade.

"Dracarys!"

Vermithor unleashed a torrent of dragonfire, illuminating the sky in a blinding inferno. One of the wyvern riders was instantly incinerated, while the remaining wyverns screeched in agony and fled into the storm.

Yet, even as victory seemed within reach, a lone wyvern rider lurked nearby, hidden in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

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[Great Hall, Red Keep]

{While the terrifying battle raged outside...}

The Great Hall of the Red Keep teemed with lords and ladies who had sought refuge within its storied walls. Prayers to the Seven echoed alongside hushed whispers and muffled sobs, blending into a symphony of fear. Otto Hightower stood resolute at the base of the Iron Throne, flanked by Lord Lyman Beesbury, Lord Tyland Lannister, and the ever-watchful Larys Strong. Though Otto's features betrayed little, his heart was heavy with dread. He had heard nothing of his daughter, nor the whereabouts of the king. As soon as the first alarms of the assault sounded, he had fled to the hall, hoping for answers.

Suddenly, the massive gates of the hall creaked open with a groan that silenced the room. A contingent of Gold Cloaks entered, led by Ser Arryk of the Kingsguard, escorting none other than Princess Rhaenyra and her children. She wore only her nightgown, her hair disheveled, her expression one of bewilderment—clearly unprepared for the sudden assault.

Trailing just behind her was Queen Alicent, her face pale but composed, followed closely by Ser Criston Cole. With Alicent were her daughters, Helaena and Aerea, and her grandchildren, their innocent faces marred by terror.

The cacophony of prayers and cries died instantly as the two rival factions—the 'Greens' and the 'Blacks'—stood together in the hall. The lords braced for hostility, expecting old rivalries to ignite in this moment of crisis. But none came. Instead, Rhaenyra and Alicent found themselves side by side, their political feud momentarily buried under the weight of survival. They clutched their children, whispering words of comfort amidst the growing fear.

"Are we going to die?" Lucerys asked, his young voice trembling with innocent fear.

Before Rhaenyra could answer, Alicent knelt beside him, gently brushing a hand over his hair. "No," she murmured softly, though her own heart wavered.

"Mother, can I go to Dreamfyre?" Helaena whispered, her wide eyes fixed on the storm beyond the tall windows.

"No, sister. It's far too dangerous out there," Rhaenyra replied, her tone unusually tender, her eyes lingering on Helaena's face as though committing it to memory.

Suddenly, a lord pointed toward the towering windows, his voice breaking through the tension. "Look! Vermithor! His Grace is joining the battle himself!"

All eyes turned to the skies, where the colossal bronze dragon, Vermithor—the Bronze Fury—ascended into the storm, his scales glinting with each flash of lightning. A murmur of hope rippled through the gathered lords and ladies. But while the smallfolk and lesser lords dared to feel emboldened at the sight.

Alicent, Rhaenyra, and the members of the small council exchanged horrified glances. They knew the risk, knew the king's frailty, and the recklessness of him flying into the heart of such chaos.

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[Street of the three Sisters]

Daemon Targaryen, wielding Dark Sister, led a grim procession through the chaos—Aemond Targaryen at his side, and a very drunk Aegon trailing behind, barely coherent. Gold Cloaks flanked them, struggling to keep the crowd at bay as terrified smallfolk surged through the streets, fleeing from the carnage.

Suddenly, a breathless Gold Cloak rushed toward Daemon, his armor slick with rain. "My prince," he gasped, "we've lost the River Gate to the invaders. Fierce fighting is underway in Fishmonger's Square."

Daemon's face darkened, and even Aemond's singular eye widened in alarm at the news.

"Bring me my swooord! I'll killllll them!" Aegon slurred, swaying as he tried to draw a blade from one of the guards, only to be yanked back by his brother.

Daemon's patience snapped. With a sharp crack, his hand met Aegon's face, the slap echoing down the narrow street. Before another word could be exchanged, the unmistakable roar of a dragon pierced through the storm. Both Daemon and Aemond froze, their gazes meeting for a heartbeat before they sprinted toward the Dragonpit, urgency driving their steps.

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[Great Hall, Red Keep]

"How could His Grace be so reckless? Flying into battle without a thought for his own safety!" Lord Lyman Beesbury's voice trembled, more from fear than indignation.

"Where the hell are Prince Daemon, Aemond, and Aegon? Why is the king fighting alone?" Lord Tyland Lannister growled, his frustration bubbling to the surface.

"We should pray to the Seven to protect King Viserys," Otto Hightower muttered, his tone grim. But his mind churned with dangerous thoughts. He wasn't yet prepared to openly challenge Rhaenyra's claim and crown Aegon… but the temptation clawed at him.

At that moment, Ser Harrold Westerling and Ser Erryk Cargyll burst into the hall, their armor gleaming with rain, their faces carved with worry. They strode swiftly toward the royal family, their presence drawing immediate attention.

"Your Grace. Princess," Ser Harrold addressed them, his voice low but urgent, "the enemy has breached the River Gate. They are advancing toward the Red Keep."

Alicent gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Rhaenyra's face paled, her arms tightening around her children.

Without another word, Ser Harrold turned on his heel and stormed from the hall, his steps echoing through the cavernous space. He moved to ready the defenses, his heart heavy with the knowledge that the storm outside wasn't the only tempest they faced.

Stepping into the courtyard, he glanced skyward one last time as the rain poured and the storm roared

" Be safe,my king" he whispered, before vanishing into the shadows of the red keep

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