"Roar…"
A low, guttural growl emanated from the depths of the cavern as Aemond's words left his mouth. His eyes widened, not wanting to miss a single moment.
The rattling of scales ceased, and a blast of searing, sulfur-scented air erupted from above. Aemond's gaze shot upward, locking onto the source of the airflow. "Vermithor, I'm coming!" he shouted.
The platform rumbled and shook, the crunching sound of sharp claws piercing through rock echoed throughout the cavern. Aemond's face flushed, and his heartbeat quickened.
The next second, a thunderous roar filled the cave, and a blazing golden Dragonfire erupted like a volcanic explosion. The intense heat and light illuminated the entire underground platform as if it were daylight.
Aemond cried out in surprise, lifting his cloak to shield himself from the scorching heat wave. The dragon's flames swept through the cavern, leaving the space awash in golden light.
Through the flames, a massive dragon's head emerged from the crypt, roaring skyward. Bronze-colored scales, thick horned crowns, and tyrannical, ferocious vertical pupils glared down at Aemond.
Every terrifying feature underscored that this was an incredibly brutal adult dragon.
"Vermithor…" Aemond whispered, stepping back involuntarily. The dragon before him was even more savage and formidable than he had imagined, like a wrathful god.
The Dragonfire ceased, and Vermithor shook its head, revealing its massive form. Thick, dorsal-scaled neck, broad brown wings, and stone pillar-like sharp claws—the dragon's body was a war machine in itself.
Aemond swallowed hard, trembling as he stretched out a hand. "Vermithor, let me ride on your back!" he demanded, his gaze never leaving the bronze beast's eyes.
"Roar…"
Vermithor's throat rumbled, and it let out a low roar. Slowly standing on its hind legs, its broad wings supported its massive frame as it climbed onto the spacious platform.
For the silver-haired boy beneath it, the dragon didn't even spare a glance.
"Vermithor, look at me!" Aemond yelled in frustration, rushing towards the dragon and shaking his torch to get its attention.
Vermithor's hideous head lowered, its vertical pupils focusing on the insignificant bug blocking its way, bloodthirsty thoughts swirling in its mind.
"Vermithor!" Aemond called out, oblivious to the imminent danger, his eyes locked with the dragon's brutal gaze.
"Roar…"
Vermithor, thoroughly enraged by the audacious boy, cruelly baring its teeth as golden Dragonfire built up in his throat.
It was in a foul mood, exceedingly so. A few days prior, a wild dragon had disrupted his hibernation at Dragonmont. After finally driving that dragon away, another stench of dragon-eating lingered, adding to his agitation.
His vertical pupils glinted with menace as he aimed his muzzle at the silver-haired boy, Dragonfire ready to erupt.
Realizing the imminent danger, Aemond shrieked, "No! No Dragonfire!"
But Vermithor was beyond reasoning, the flames raging in his mouth, poised to unleash.
"No, no, no!" Aemond backed away in horror, desperately clutching the treasure his brother Rhaegar had given him. In a panic, he pulled out the stone tablet from his robes, holding it high, and shouted with all his might in Valyrian, "Obey!"
Just then, the Dragonkeepers arrived at the grotto's entrance, witnessing the perilous scene with horror.
Vermithor, understanding the Valyrian command, gazed at the bloodstained runes on the stone plaque. The dragon's rage subsided slightly, regaining a trace of sanity. However, the Dragonfire, once ignited, could not be stopped.
Under Aemond's terrified gaze, the golden Dragonfire erupted.
"Roar!!!"
At the last moment, Vermithor flung his head, redirecting the flames towards the cave entrance. The torrent of fire surged forth, instantly consuming the Dragonkeepers in a blaze, leaving only charred remains.
Boom…
Vermithor roared in anger, flapping his massive wings and moving swiftly. He sensed the foul stench of Cannibal near Dragonmont. This was his territory, and he needed to assert his dominance.
"No! Vermithor, don't leave!"
As the Bronze Fury climbed out of the cave, Aemond, unwilling to give up, grabbed the thick, long dragon tail in desperation. Clinging to the finely scaled tail with both hands, he was dragged out of the cavern by the rampaging Vermithor.
In an instant, they disappeared into the darkness.
...
Watchtower, Underground Chamber
Rhaegar stood in the dimly lit chamber, his eyes lowered, lost in thought.
Three years ago, heated arguments with his father over the division of power had driven him to Harrenhal in anger. Harrenhal, desperately needing manpower, had led him to transfer half of King's Landing's men, leaving only the 800 Dragonkeepers in the Dragonpit and Syrio's intelligence scouts.
With Syrio now in Volantis, his forces in King's Landing were dangerously depleted and needed immediate reinforcement.
"Storm's End, Mellos, Larys…" He silently repeated the names, his eyes flashing with resolve.
The sound of metal striking metal interrupted his thoughts.
He turned to see the old blacksmith pulling a pitch-black dragon bone from the furnace, fitting it onto a sword blade. The blacksmith's skill was undeniable, and with a few precise hammer blows, the longsword was flawlessly assembled.
"My lord, your sword!" The old blacksmith held the newly forged Valyrian steel sword with reverence, presenting it to Rhaegar.
Rhaegar stood, taking the longsword to examine it closely. It was unlike any Valyrian steel sword he had ever seen. The blade was pitch black with subtle silver ripples, resembling a night sky dotted with stars. As if crafted from meteorite iron, the blade gleamed darkly, mimicking Blackfyre.
Two hideous dragon heads, reminiscent of a Cannibal, were carved on either side, adorned with four tiny emeralds.
The hilt was made from the leg bone of Balerion, lacquered black, and polished to prevent slippage. At its end, an octagonal ruby, the Flaming Red Heart, was set—large as a baby's fist.
The sword's overall appearance was similar to House Targaryen's ancestral sword, Blackfyre, both featuring dragon head designs and ruby inlays. However, Blackfyre's blade was wider, its hilt shorter, and its ruby had been replaced with a hexagram symbolizing the Faith of the Seven. In contrast, the new sword's blade was narrower and its appearance uniquely dark.
Rhaegar flicked the blade, which responded with a clear, resonant hum, the ripples shimmering like running water. "Good sword!" he complimented, gripping the hilt. The frosted roughness felt warm and solid in his hand.
Reflecting on the Dragon Claw taken by that wild dragon, he caressed the sword and mused, "The Targaryen House already has kingship, guardianship, and bravery, but it lacks a sword to kill and destroy."
The old blacksmith interjected, "My lord, please name the sword."
Rhaegar smiled, having already chosen a name. Glancing at the roaring furnace, his violet eyes reflecting the flames, he murmured, "Blood and fire come from the same source; it will be called Truefyre."
"My lord, I prepared a bowl of snake lizard blood for the sword's christening," the blacksmith said, gesturing to the young apprentice who brought a small basin of thick green blood.
Rhaegar shook his head, "No need, there is no shortage of blood and fire tonight." He raised the sword, and Truefyre cut a half moon through the air.
Hula—
The Flaming Red Heart at the hilt's end glowed, igniting the pitch-black blade with flickering flames. Truefyre, now imbued with Rhaegar's magic, connected with the power in his blood.
Creak—
Pushing open the wooden door, Rhaegar stepped out, sword in hand. Outside, the night sky was shrouded in dark clouds, hiding the moon. It was a perfect night for killing.
...
Dragonmont
"Quickly, go inside! This is Vermithor's cave!"
Viserys, drenched in sweat and panting heavily, arrived at the mouth of the deep grotto. His voice, hoarse from exertion, commanded the Dragonkeepers to explore the cave.
His body was failing him. After running for a bell, dizziness clouded his vision, and his lungs felt ready to burst. Each step brought searing pain, his white silk robe soaked with blood from numerous cuts. The salty sweat stung his wounds, making each movement agony.
The Dragonkeepers, carrying torches, ventured into the grotto. Viserys collapsed to the ground, gulping air to soothe his parched throat.
"Roar!!!"
A thunderous dragon roar echoed from the cave, followed by the Dragonkeepers' horrified screams.
"Oh no," Viserys muttered, forcing himself to stand. The Dragonkeepers rallied around him, forming a protective circle. There were forty-seven of them, their torches a blazing circle of light.
Rumble...
The sound of something immense crashing through the cave filled the air. Viserys, summoning the courage of a king, commanded, "Stand back, it's a dragon inside!"
"Roar..."
A massive, hideous dragon head, the size of a house, emerged from the grotto, followed by its neck, wings, and torso. Bronze scales, like dark gold, shimmered under the night sky.
Viserys' eyes widened, and he gasped, "Vermithor!"
This was his grandfather, King Jaehaerys I's dragon, the mighty beast that had once secured great victories for House Targaryen. In the firelight, the dragon's scales bore scars from battles past, evidence of its ferocity and survival.
Vermithor climbed out of the grotto, towering arrogantly above the gathered crowd. Its eyes swept over them, indifferent to the fear they inspired. Only the silver-gold haired Viserys caught its attention.
In a heartbeat, Viserys raised a trembling hand and shouted with all his might, "Vermithor, behold your king!"
(Word count: 1,533)