King's Landing, the Throne Hall.
"You are right, but the matter of marriage requires careful consideration."
In the dimly lit hall, Viserys sat on the Iron Throne, negotiating with several royal advisers and vassals.
"Your Grace, the young and capable Lord Lyonel of Highgarden is a fine match," Lyman Beesbury, an old man in poor health, suggested.
Grand Maester Orwyle interjected, "If that is your choice, then Lord Lyonel of Oldtown is also an excellent candidate."
"That's not the same..." The advisers began to argue, their voices echoing in the flickering candlelight.
Viserys leaned wearily against the Iron Throne, his hand resting on the armrest shaped like Vermithor's head. He closed his eyes in exhaustion.
He had not slept in three days.
The advisers resembled caged birds, eager to push him into the same old marriage alliances forged by his grandfather Jaehaerys. But Viserys wasn't Jaehaerys, and Rhaegar's children were the concern of his children, not his.
First, he would secure the loyalty of his vassals, then he would pretend not to hear their incessant bickering.
As the night wore on, the old king fell asleep.
The advisers continued to argue, unaware that their king was no longer listening. After all, who wouldn't want to marry into the royal family and claim the bloodline of the ancient Valyrian Dragonlords?
Soft snoring began to fill the hall.
Viserys slept soundly until—
Crack!
A sudden clap of thunder shook the hall, sounding like a silver vase shattering.
Viserys jolted awake, mumbling in confusion, "Water... so much water..."
His chest heaved as he caught his breath. It had been a nightmare, a terrible and torturous scene.
He looked around, his eyes landing on the white-robed Arryk. "What time is it?" Viserys asked urgently.
Arryk glanced out the window and replied solemnly, "It's nearly the bat hour, Your Grace. It's raining heavily in the city."
The sound of rain must have been what had disturbed Viserys in his sleep.
"Is that so?" Viserys muttered, his face pale. He gripped the object in his hands more tightly.
Crack!
His left index finger caught on the fang of the dragon-shaped armrest, tearing open a small cut. Viserys stared, wide-eyed, as blood began to well from the wound.
The rain intensified outside, drumming heavily against the windows and filling the air with thick vapor.
Looking out into the storm, Arryk, a member of the personal Kingsguard, silently drew the curtains shut. "I hope the Prince is safe," he murmured.
The Kingsguard, unable to ride dragons, remained in King's Landing, bound by duty to wait.
...
Storm's End, Courtyard.
The sound of rain pattered steadily on the stone, accompanied by flashes of lightning that illuminated the dark clouds above. The heavy rain fell in torrents, soaking the land beneath.
Aemon, draped in a crimson cloak, dashed out of the castle into the downpour.
"Prince, please stay for the night!" several guards called after him, trying to dissuade the storming Prince.
"No! I will not serve Lady Maris," Aemon snapped, quickening his pace. The rain drenched his gold and silver hair, blurring his vision as he hurried through the courtyard.
Roar!
The Trickster, his dragon, lay coiled under a rain canopy, waiting for its indignant rider. They had arrived at Storm's End under thick clouds, and now the heavens had opened.
Aemon reached the dragon, slapping its dark green scales slick with rain. He leaned in, whispering in its ear, "Listen to my commands, Trickster."
He couldn't bear to spend another moment in that cursed castle.
Despite the risks of riding a dragon in such weather, he was determined to leave.
Roar!
The Trickster shook its head, then bent low, inviting Aemon to mount. This was no ordinary dragon—it could navigate through storms with ease, defying the fury of nature.
"Good boy, Trickster," Aemon muttered, casting one last glance at the open hall of Storm's End before retching in disgust.
Damn that old woman! Gold-digging whore!
He had been sent here to assemble the fleet and aid his brother in the Summer Sea campaign, and to search for his uncle, the one-eyed Aemond. But the negotiations had gone sour.
When the subject of his uncle arose, everything had taken a dark turn. Despite Aemon's insistence, Lady Maris of Storm's End had responded with insolence.
Sitting arrogantly upon the throne in the hall, she had crossed her legs and sneered, "Lift up my skirt and satisfy me with your mouth, and the armies of the Stormlands are yours."
Bah!
Aemon cursed under his breath, his anger simmering. "Damn old woman, always scheming about us brothers."
The rain intensified, the cold drops stinging his skin as they fell harder. Shivering, Aemon climbed nimbly onto the dragon's back. He had already made up his mind.
"We're heading to Evenfall Hall on Tarth. They won't turn away a Targaryen named Aemon."
Prince Aemon, heir to the Old King, had been supporting the Lord of Tarth against the pirates of the Triarchy before being slain by an assassin from Tyrosh. Now, with Storm's End behind him, he looked toward Duskwood—a place where both dragon and rider could rest.
Roar!
The Trickster blinked its vertical pupils, eager to take to the skies. Its wings spread wide as it launched into the storm, the slender tail, reminiscent of a scorpion's, buzzing and slicing through the rain as they soared higher, piercing the storm's heart.
...
Above Shipbreaker Bay.
Rumbling thunder echoed across the sky, accompanied by the roar of fierce winds and driving rain that swept over the land.
Roar!
A young dark green dragon, Trickster, unfurled its wings and soared through the stormy skies, flying steadily despite its vertical pupils being unable to distinguish direction in the storm.
"Achoo! Achoo!"
Aemon sneezed twice, rubbing his nose uncomfortably. He muttered in frustration, "My brother and Maekar manage just fine with a single call, but here I am, nearly losing my footing."
His thoughts drifted to Lady Maris. You shameless hussy... you slept with my uncle Aemond, and now you think you can get your hands on me? What a delusion.
"What do you think, Trickster?" Aemon patted the dragon's back, talking more to himself than expecting a reply. "Doesn't that seem unfair?"
Trickster didn't respond, but it increased its speed, its vertical pupils glancing cautiously toward a certain area.
"What's wrong, Trickster?" Aemon asked, his senses sharpening as he looked back over his shoulder. His visibility was poor—only a few dozen meters in the overcast sky. The sounds of rolling black clouds, pattering rain, and crashing waves filled his ears.
Roar!
Suddenly, Trickster tensed and swooped low, skimming over the waves as it let out a warning roar.
Aemon's face paled slightly, his hands tightening on the saddle grips. Water streamed down his cheeks, though he couldn't tell if it was rain or cold sweat. Trickster's agitation spread to him, and his heart began to race.
The dragon glided just above the water, skillfully dodging jagged reefs as it pressed on toward their destination.
"Faster," Aemon urged, squinting through the rain as the hazy outline of Naath appeared in the distance. Once we reach Evenfall Hall, we'll be safe.
Crackling—
A sudden flash of crimson lightning split the night sky, illuminating the storm-soaked world like daylight.
Aemon quickly glanced over his shoulder.
Roar!
A pale silver dragon surged through the dark clouds, its roar cutting through the storm. Aemon's eyes widened in alarm. "Seasmoke!" he shouted, recognizing the silhouette.
The rain lashed against his face as he studied the shape, then let out a long sigh of relief.
It wasn't an attack—it was just Seasmoke gliding through the sea fog, its familiar form cutting through the storm.
"Luckily..." Aemon muttered, relaxing his grip. He knew Seasmoke's docile nature; it wouldn't attack unless provoked.
As soon as the words left Aemon's mouth—
Ssshh... Roar!
A loud crack of thunder split the sky, followed by the enraged roar of a crazed beast echoing through the storm.
Ssshh... Roar!
Seasmoke let out a panicked cry, blood dripping from one of its wings as it dove sharply, lowering its body in an attempt to escape. Before Aemon could react, he was stunned by the deafening roar.
In the next instant, a pale, bone-looking creature broke through the clouds, its large, tattered wings flapping as it rapidly closed in on the wounded dragon.
Crack!
The pale shadow lunged, opening its foul-smelling maw. Its sharp fangs tore into Seasmoke's bleeding wing, crushing scales and bone with a vicious bite.
Seasmoke shrieked in agony, his body lurching mid-flight as the pale creature clamped down on his shoulder blade. The attacker shook its head violently, trying to rip the wing clean off.
"Dracarys!" Aemon shouted desperately.
At that critical moment, a burst of orange dragonfire erupted from Seasmoke's mouth, striking the head of the pale beast with a blinding flash.
Boom!
The fire lit up the stormy sky, revealing the horrifying appearance of the Pale Wild Dragon. It had a skeletal frame, wings riddled with holes, and a grotesque, drooling mouth. Its sickly body seemed to drip with a nightmarish saliva, giving it a twisted, unnatural look.
"Seven hells... what is that thing?" Aemon gasped. He had never seen anything so monstrous—not even Sheepstealer, with its gaunt, flabby form, nor the Cannibal, known for his black scales and cold, predatory eyes. This creature was uglier, more vicious, and far more grotesque.
Ssshh...Roar...
The Pale Wild Dragon screeched in pain, releasing its grip on Seasmoke's wing. Its scarlet eyes, burning with rage, locked onto Trickster, the young green dragon not far away. Without warning, it spewed a stream of pale dragonfire, sparks flying like deadly fireworks.
"Quick, Trickster! Get out of the way!" Aemon tightened the reins, instinctively raising his hand to shield himself.
Trickster reacted with lightning speed, its scorpion-like tail swaying as it nimbly dodged the pale flames.
"Well done," Aemon breathed, his hair plastered to his face by the rain. His eyes darted to Seasmoke, who was still shrieking in pain, the wing injury leaving him vulnerable. If Aemon left now, the wild dragon would finish Seasmoke off. But if he stayed...
Trickster pulled back, giving Aemon a better view of the pale wild dragon. His brow furrowed in concern. The creature, which looked like a Dragoneater, was enormous—at least twice Seasmoke's size. It must have been nearly 80 meters long, rivaling dragons like Silverwing or Caraxes.
But what troubled Aemon most was the decaying aura the creature exuded. This was no dragon in its prime. It was a walking corpse, with a lifeless, rotting presence.
Ssshh...Roar...
The Pale Wild Dragon let out another bloodcurdling roar, charging at Trickster with ferocious speed.
"Do you remember what I said, Trickster?" Aemon's voice trembled with urgency as he tightened the saddle straps.
There was no choice now—this wasn't just about fighting. It was about survival, preventing the wild dragon from killing Seasmoke and escaping with their lives.
Roar!
Trickster hissed in response, its powerful body coiling as orange flames gathered in its mouth. The young dragon had been bred for battle, fearless even when facing a far larger foe.
"Good boy. Follow me!" Aemon commanded, a flash of determination in his eyes as he pulled the reins to change direction.
Trickster responded instantly, disappearing into the thick sea fog with swift, fluid movements.
Boom!
A torrent of pale dragonfire fell from the sky, hot on their trail.
"Be careful, Trickster," Aemon urged, his heart racing. He glanced back at the wounded Seasmoke, torn between helping and fleeing.
He remembered a reef cliff along Shipbreaker Bay, a place just narrow enough for a young dragon to hide. Fighting wasn't an option; running would only bring more danger. Neither King's Landing nor Dragonstone had enough forces to defend against a wild dragon like this. If Aemon led it back, countless lives would be lost.
Instead, he relied on his memory of the coast's natural defenses. We'll outwit it, he thought, guiding Trickster toward the cliff.
(Word count: 2,003)