Aemon's journey led him swiftly to a large, vine-draped cave.
There was no specific reason—just a faint sense of familiarity and an inexplicable tinge of fear.
"Squeak, squeak."
From Aemon's satchel, his golden-nosed mouse peeked out, sniffing curiously.
Setting the small creature on the ground, Aemon unshouldered his pack and crouched.
"Go on. Wait for me outside," he said softly.
Dragon-taming was perilous, and there was no need to endanger the little creature.
The mouse hesitated, its tiny head nudging insistently against Aemon's palm.
"Silly thing, dragonfire will roast you alive," he chided gently, pushing it toward safety. "Take my satchel and stay safe."
Reluctantly, the mouse grabbed the satchel's strap and scampered off, pausing every few steps to look back.
Aemon smiled faintly, watching it disappear.
With his preparations complete, Aemon straightened up, determination hardening his youthful features.
Dragon-taming was no small feat.
In the history of the Targaryens, most succeeded only in their teens or later—some even as adults.
Take his uncle Viserys or his father Daemon, for instance: both descendants of the legendary Balerion the Brave, yet neither tamed their dragons until their twenties.
Daemon himself didn't claim Caraxes until 105 AC, at the age of 24. Only the infamous Maegor the Cruel matched such late achievements.
"No backing down now," Aemon muttered, slapping his cheeks to focus himself.
With that, he stepped into the cave.
The interior was dark and cavernous.
Aemon struck a spare torch, its warm glow revealing the stalactites hanging from the ceiling.
Their milky white surfaces shimmered faintly, casting an otherworldly light around the natural chamber.
The ground beneath his feet crunched with loose stones as he moved deeper into the cave.
Voices outside suddenly interrupted the quiet.
"He's gone inside! Stop him!"
The frantic shout came from the elder dragonkeeper.
Aemon turned sharply, seeing flickering flames at the cave's entrance—torches held by the pursuers.
No time to hesitate.
Resolving to press on, he ignored the shouts and dashed deeper into the shadows.
"Don't wake them! The unclaimed dragons will destroy us all!"
The elder dragonkeeper's warning echoed behind him, but Aemon didn't slow down.
The deeper he went, the stranger the cave became.
Natural stone walls gave way to smooth, carved surfaces, and the floor transitioned into thick slabs of hardened stone.
The air grew hotter, sweat pouring down Aemon's face as he pushed forward.
He reached an expansive junction and turned, entering a vast open chamber.
This was unlike the rest of the cave.
The stalactites above were gone, replaced by an eerie void stretching upward into darkness.
The floor spread out into a wide platform, bordered by towering stone pillars that rose ominously like sentinels.
Aemon stopped, taking it all in.
The grandeur of the chamber sent a shiver down his spine, reminding him of something from his dreams.
"This is it," he whispered, realizing he had reached the heart of the mountain.
Here, he would summon the dragon.
Aemon swallowed hard, steeling his nerves.
Clearing his throat, he began to sing softly in High Valyrian:
"Fire and flight, the wings of flame..."
"Two heads as one, the dragon's name..."
"By my voice, the fiery tongue..."
His clear, youthful voice filled the chamber, the song a melody passed down through generations of dragonlords.
This was the Song of Dragons, a ritual to awaken a dragon and form a connection.
As he approached the edge of the platform, he carefully set down his torch, keeping his eyes on the encroaching darkness.
CRACK.
The sound of the torch hitting the stone echoed, breaking the rhythmic flow of his song.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
A warm gust of air stirred around him, heavy with unseen menace.
Instinctively, Aemon froze, realizing he was not alone.
In the darkness, something stirred.
A shape emerged—faint at first, then clearer as the torchlight caught the gleam of bronze scales.
A massive head rose from the shadows, its surface glinting like polished metal.
"By fire's sight, and fiery breath..."
Aemon's song faltered as the dragon's form became fully visible.
Vermithor.
Known as the Bronze Fury, it was a giant among dragons—second only to Vhagar in size and ferocity.
Its body, covered in dense bronze scales, radiated a deadly beauty. A jagged scar ran down the length of its snout, and its maw revealed rows of sharp, uneven teeth.
The great dragon inhaled deeply, its chest expanding before unleashing a torrent of molten flame.
Bronze fire filled the chamber, lighting the cavern like the heart of a volcano.
Aemon stared, wide-eyed, as the creature roared with unrestrained power.
The dragon's flame was the very essence of the nightmare he had seen—a cascade of liquid fire, consuming all in its path.
The dragon lowered its massive head, its coppery eyes locking onto the boy.
Aemon froze.
It was as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them.
"By fire's will, I take the sky," he sang softly, the final verse trembling on his lips.
Vermithor's nostrils flared as it leaned closer, its immense body moving with a weighty grace.
Aemon held his ground, unflinching as the beast's hot breath washed over him.
In that moment, boy and dragon stared at one another.
A fragile connection, forged in fire, began to take root.
Before the bond could solidify, voices rang out.
The dragonkeeper and guards had arrived at the chamber's edge, their presence disrupting the delicate balance.
"No!" the elder dragonkeeper cried, his face pale with terror. "That's Vermithor! He'll destroy us all!"
Vermithor's head snapped toward the intruders, its coppery eyes narrowing in irritation.
The dragon's massive wings flared, and its guttural growl shook the ground.
"Get down!" Aemon shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.
His warning came just in time.
Vermithor unleashed a searing blast of bronze fire toward the cave entrance.
Those who hesitated were incinerated instantly, their armor melting into puddles of slag.
Screams echoed as molten rock dripped from the ceiling, sealing off the intruders' escape.
Aemon watched in awe, his fear tempered by a growing respect.
This was no ordinary dragon.
This was Vermithor, the Bronze Fury.
And tonight, Aemon would make it his own.