Chapter 448: One-Eyed Aemon

Terrified and trembling, Aemond felt his legs turn to stone at the thought of his father standing resolutely behind him. With shaking hands, he drew his sword to defend himself.

Clang!

Aemond's blade, Blackfyre, clashed against the assassin's scimitar, only to be knocked aside. The assailant's grotesque face contorted as he swung his weapon relentlessly.

Aemond's horror deepened; he raised his arm in a futile attempt to block, stumbling backward.

Sizzling—

The scimitar's tip grazed his forehead, slicing open his eye with a merciless strike. Aemond froze, blood gushing from the wound, and screamed in agony.

"Ah!"

He collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud.

"My eye! My eye!"

His screams echoed as he clutched at his face, blood seeping through his fingers. The assassin paused, surprised by Aemond's partial dodge.

"Aemond!"

Viserys, seeing his son's plight, rushed to his side in alarm.

Aemond, overwhelmed by pain, shook his head violently, ignoring his father's cries. His body convulsed as darkness engulfed his left eye, the pain unbearable.

In his agony, he longed for the comfort of his mother and sister. The sound of battle approached, his father's voice a beacon of strength amid the chaos. Memories of his older brother's stories - his survival and dominance over the wildlings of Crackclaw Point - flickered in his mind.

Weakness was not an option; he must wait for the right moment to strike back.

Surrounded by enemies, the Targaryens - once considered demigods, the Dragonlords - now appeared to be mere lambs for the slaughter.

Gasping for breath, Aemond clung to his father, his surviving eye catching sight of the dragonhorn dagger at his father's belt. Blackfyre lay beyond his reach, disdainfully kicked aside by the assassin, who then thrust his scimitar forward in a deadly arc.

"Let's see how you dodge this time."

"No!"

Erryk, besieged and bloodied by other assailants, cried out in horror.

The scimitar inched closer, its cold gleam menacing. Driven by desperation, Aemond rolled over his father, seizing the dragonhorn dagger.

"Die!"

He rose unsteadily, lunging forward with the dagger aimed at the oncoming blade.

The light from both blades intertwined, casting a spectral glow over the hall, which then fell deathly silent. Erryk, aghast, stared at the unfolding scene, while the assassins, driven by bloodlust, hungered for the kill of a Targaryen.

Before emotions could shift, the unexpected shattered the tense silence.

"Roar..."

With explosive force, the doors burst inward, hurling the heavy wooden planks like deadly projectiles. The assassins barely had time to register the chaos before the planks struck, their deadly impact shattering skulls.

A cloud of dust and debris marked the entrance of an awesome creature. The dragon, Sheepstealer, thrust its aged head through the shattered doorway, its horns splintering wood and sending splinters flying. In the settling dust, its brown eyes glowed with a cold, tyrannical fury.

"Roar..."

The cavernous hall shook as dragonfire surged forth, a tidal wave of searing heat and light. One assassin, his back to the dragon, was engulfed before he could even turn - a loud explosion marking his instant demise as the dragonfire consumed him.

In that split second, the sound of steel cutting through flesh echoed. Aemond, his face splattered with blood, plunged his dagger into an assassin's groin just as the dragonfire reached him.

Whoosh!

The blast of fiery breath swept over him, knocking him to the ground.

Behind him, Viserys acted quickly, rolling to shield himself and hugging tightly as the dragonfire blazed past, leaving nothing but scorched earth and charred remains in its wake.

A wave of unbearable heat washed over Aemond. He struggled to his feet, his clothes and cloak incinerated, his skin blistered and tender. A singed lock of hair fell to his cheek, still glowing with the remnants of the dragonfire.

"Sheepstealer!" Aemond cried, a mixture of pain and relief in his voice.

Outside, the massive dragon, Sheepstealer, lay sprawled, its huge head filling the entrance as it surveyed the chaos with fiery eyes.

"You won't get away."

Erryk's voice rang out as he kicked an assassin leader aside, diving to the ground for cover.

"Roar..."

Dragonfire burst forth once more, enveloping the remaining assassins in a chaotic inferno. Erryk, fortunate in his quick reaction, remained unscathed on the floor.

"Haha, we're saved!" Aemond's laugh mingled with tears as he turned to embrace his father.

Viserys was in a terrible state. His back was scorched, his magnificent silver-blonde hair on fire. He lay unconscious, his skin not badly burned, but flushed and feverish, his wounds oozing both pus and blood.

Aemond's relief turned to shock as he reached for his father, seeing him so badly injured for the first time. His hand hovered uncertainly over the frightening sight.

"Roar!"

The door burst open, the deafening roar of an enraged dragon piercing Aemond's ears. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his father under the table for safety before sprinting toward Sheepstealer.

As he reached the door, the clash of metal hit his ears.

Outside the tower, a swarm of masked men from Dorne had flooded the courtyard. Arryk rallied his men to face the invaders, but the enemy's sheer numbers overwhelmed the patrolling soldiers. A brave group even charged at Sheepstealer, aiming to slay the dragon while its neck was being wedged in the door frame.

Boom! Boom!

Chaos reigned outside the courtyard. Ser Cole, clad in silver armor and a blood-spattered white robe, led over a hundred men in a frenzied battle. Soldiers scattered, hastily engaging the enemy as hundreds of masked men ambushed those attempting to extinguish the fires.

"Roar!"

A bronze claw smashed through a house, Sheepstealer's massive body flailing wildly. Golden dragonfire erupted, falling indiscriminately into a crowded alley, setting Yronwood ablaze beneath the night sky.

Vermithor, eyes blazing with fury, leaped over the city walls toward the tower, spewing fire in every direction. Sensing the danger to its rider, it went into an uncontrollable rage, killing friend and foe alike.

Elsewhere, the city walls crumbled under the dragon's might, sending the defending soldiers fleeing in terror. More masked men emerged from the shadows and opened the city gates to let in a Dorne army of 2,000 men.

Leading them were two figures. One bore the emblem of the Black Gate, Olyvar Yronwood. The other, tall and corpulent, was Lord Harmen of House Uller, wielding a shield emblazoned with a "yellow and crimson flame."

Harmen Uller had foreseen that Kingsgrave and Skyreach at Prince's Pass would not withstand the dragonfire, so he brought his troops to Yronwood in anticipation. Despite the animosity between their houses, he respected Olyvar Yronwood's martial prowess.

With dragons in the skies, Dorne had reverted to the guerrilla tactics of old. The Prince's Pass faced the Targaryen regent, their most formidable adversary. Harmen, though arrogant, didn't underestimate the young conqueror of the Triarchy.

Their target was the King on the Iron Throne at Boneway—vulnerable and weak. Harmen and Yronwood devised a "siege plan," luring the enemy in to trap them tonight.

Eyes gleaming with madness, Harmen shouted, "Charge! Cut off the king's and the dragon's heads!"

Tonight, he aimed to become a dragon slayer. The soldiers of Dorne, driven by their leader's fervor, cheered and charged the burning tower, undeterred by Vermithor's wrath.

...

In the courtyard, Sheepstealer crouched, supporting the tower with its wings, shaking its head in agitation.

"Roar..."

Thirty masked men, armed with axes and spears, rushed forward to attack the dragon. One axe struck, barely chipping a piece of the dragon's tough scales.

"Roar..."

Sheepstealer, responding to the cries of the boy in the hall, flapped his brown wings wildly, sending masked men flying like insects. A single swipe of its wings scattered flesh and blood in all directions.

Unshaken, the masked men climbed onto the dragon's back, desperate to slay the beast.

Inside the hall, Aemond, impatient and desperate, tried to approach Sheepstealer's head, but was driven back by its fangs. The dragon refused to heed its rider's commands, determined to break down the door.

"Prince, take Your Grace away first. The people of Dorne have entered the city!" Erryk, struggling to his feet, urged Aemond.

The sounds of battle outside grew louder; the city gate had probably fallen.

"Impossible!" Aemond shouted defiantly. "Sheepstealer has come to save me. I will not abandon my dragon. It will help me put down the rebellion!"

The dragon was everything to Aemond. A Targaryen without a dragon was not worthy of the name.

Boom!

The courtyard gate shattered and a cloud of dust rose as Dorne soldiers rushed in. Aemond's expression froze, his left eye stinging.

"Roar..." Sheepstealer roared, slamming its head against the stone door frame, loosening the walls.

"Sheepstealer!" Aemond called, covering his left eye with one hand, a painful smile on his lips.

Outside the tower, Harmen Uller led his troops into the courtyard. Encircling Arryk's squad, he turned to the trapped Sheepstealer with excitement. A stationary dragon was a blessing from the gods.

"Charge! Restore the glory of our ancestors!" Harmen shouted, brandishing his double-edged battle axes. House Uller knew the sharp axes could sever dragon wings and spears could blind dragon eyes from dissecting a dragon's remains.

As cries to kill the dragon filled the air, Aemond, distracted, rushed to Sheepstealer, pushing its head. "Get out! Get out of here!" He didn't want to die, nor did he want his father or the dragon to perish. This ugly beast was his dignity.

"Hurry up! You came to save me, not to die!" A tear rolled down Aemond's right eye as he cried out in despair.

Whoosh!

Suddenly, a gust of wind carrying the scent of ash swept over Yronwood. The night sky darkened, the bright moon swallowed by an ominous force. Arryk, wounded and imprisoned, looked up. Despair gave way to hope as two green lanterns the size of bronze bells appeared in the pitch-black sky.

A silver-haired youth, standing against the night, surveyed the chaos with a frosty gaze, lips slightly parted: "Dracarys!"

A violent wind howled, dark clouds rolled in. A black dragon emerged, its green lantern eyes turning into vertical pupils, fangs stained with blood. The dragon's mouth opened in a cruel arc.

"Roar!"

Like a thunderbolt, the sky split open, and dark green Dragonfire, a harbinger of death, poured down on the crowd below. Harmen Uller was the first to be engulfed, a pool of Dragonfire landing on his shoulder.

"Ah!"

Green Dragonfire descended, filling the courtyard with wails of agony.

(Word count: 1,750)