Rhaenyra waits on the beach. The tide brings in wreckage: a broken saddle, a torn cloak, and Caraxes—dying, beached, whimpering like a wounded hound. The dragon looks at her once, then closes its eyes.
Daemon gasps. The tree’s sap runs black over his fingers. For the first time, he does not rage. He simply walks down the stairs.
The water explodes. Then silence.
“Where are you going, my prince?” asks SER SIMON STRONG.
“She thinks she has won,” Aegon whispers. “Let her come. I will give her a throne of ashes.”
Rhaena stands on the deck, staring up at the ancient dragon. She does not run. She holds a dragonegg, cold and stone-dead in her arms.