That night, High Tide, Driftmark.
"Who is that?"
Rhaenys Targaryen stood by the window, her expression serious as she gazed at the bronze dragon soaring freely over the sea.
If she wasn't mistaken, that was her grandfather's dragon.
Who had awakened it from its slumber?
Had it been tamed?
"What does it matter?"
Corlys Velaryon wrapped his arms around her from behind, his tone indifferent. "The royal family has so few heirs. Are you expecting King Viserys to personally tame a dragon?"
"You don't understand, Corlys," Rhaenys said gravely. "A dragon cannot fall into the wrong hands."
She feared that the dragon might have been claimed by some lowly bastard or another unworthy figure, which would sully the Targaryens' royal lineage.
Corlys's thoughts stirred, but he suppressed them, his focus momentarily drawn to his wife's striking beauty. Smiling faintly, he said, "But there are dragons here on Driftmark—three of them."
It was those dragons, after all, that emboldened him to challenge the authority of the Iron Throne.
Even the so-called rightful Targaryen heirs could boast only two dragonriders: one adult and one child.
And the only real threat, Daemon, was his ally.
"Corlys, the Targaryens still have men," Rhaenys replied calmly.
Moonlight illuminated the balcony rail, casting a pale glow over Rhaenys's face.
Her long black hair, streaked with silver, framed a face full of strength and determination. Beneath her high cheekbones, her piercing violet eyes glinted with unshakable resolve.
Her mother, Jocelyn Baratheon, had passed on the Baratheon resilience, darkening her Targaryen silver hair with streaks of black.
Corlys stared at his wife, momentarily captivated.
He, too, was a product of Valyrian blood, with silver hair and violet eyes that exuded noble dignity. Years at sea had tanned his skin, highlighting his rugged masculinity.
Rhaenys turned her gaze away and returned to the bedroom.
Her husband had many virtues: courage, talent, ambition—everything a man should have.
But his hunger for power was insatiable.
Watching her retreating figure, Corlys furrowed his brow slightly. "What Targaryen men? Are you putting your faith in a child still wet behind the ears?"
He let out a low chuckle, the absurdity of it all amusing him.
The Targaryens had grown weak.
King Viserys's narrow-mindedness had plunged the royal family into turmoil, both internal and external.
But Corlys was determined: he would not stop.
Dawn.
The horizon blushed with a crimson hue as the sun rose above the sea.
On the beach, Ser Arryk removed his black cloak, revealing the gleaming silver armor beneath. He planted his sword in the sand, breathing heavily, his face drawn with fatigue.
Facing him were dozens of guards from the Stone Drum.
Among them stood Ser Alfred, his expression sour as his gaze lingered on the ornate white armor of the Kingsguard.
All their efforts throughout the night had been for nothing.
The presence of two Kingsguard knights escorting the young prince to Dragonstone proved how highly the king valued his nephew.
The rumors were unfounded.
"Damn it. Why didn't they reveal their identities sooner?"
Ser Alfred gritted his teeth, his hand gripping his sword tightly enough to draw blood.
If he'd known the prince had such formidable escorts, he might have chosen a more diplomatic approach.
Arryk's mocking smirk deepened. He didn't care about Alfred's reputation or ambitions—he only knew one thing: this man bore ill intent toward the royal family and was finished.
"Screeeaaaaargh!"
A roar echoed from the horizon as a massive bronze dragon flew back toward the coast, bathed in the fiery glow of the sunrise.
"It's the prince!"
Ser Alfred's eyes lit up with a plan. Abandoning his sword, he sprinted toward the approaching dragon.
He would be the first to congratulate the young prince on taming the beast, pledging his loyalty to the child. Surely, a boy would be easy to manipulate.
"Prince Aemon!"
With a joyful expression, Alfred spread his arms wide, calling out repeatedly like a devout worshiper.
The bronze dragon seemed to hear him, slowing its flight and descending toward him.
But something was off.
"Wait, no—!"
Boom!
His cry was cut short as a massive dragon claw crushed him into a mangled heap.
His head, contorted in terror, rolled free, landing nearby with a wet thud.
Vermithor's bronze eyes remained indifferent, unconcerned by the insect it had squashed. The dragon merely adjusted its stance, lowering its neck lazily to the ground.
Aemon leaped down from the dragon's back, striding toward its massive head.
On the way, he kicked Alfred's grotesque head like a ball, sending it flying into the sea.
"Damn it, that scared me!" Aemon muttered, patting his chest, his voice tinged with irritation.
After enduring the fiery waterfall, his courage had skyrocketed.
A severed head? Hardly enough to faze him.
"Roarrrr!"
Vermithor settled onto the beach, its massive head resting on the sand, its posture almost lazy.
Aemon, aching all over, knelt before the dragon's head, pressing his forehead against its massive snout.
Inhaling the metallic tang of the dragon's breath, he felt an inexplicable sense of peace.
"Hello there, big guy," he murmured softly, a smile tugging at his lips.
Vermithor didn't move, its heavy breathing hinting at exhaustion.
The red morning sun cast a golden glow across the beach and the towering Dragonmount behind them.
Boy and dragon faced each other, the scene a picture of harmony.
From a distance, Arryk and the guards watched, awestruck by the breathtaking sight.
In their hearts, a single thought arose: The prince is a true dragon.
Unaware of their admiration, Aemon leaned against Vermithor's snout, savoring the dragon's warmth.
Finally, he had his own dragon.
Vermithor, still exuding an air of pride, allowed the boy to remain close, their bond newly forged.
"Vermithor, I can feel your heart," Aemon whispered, sensing the faint but growing connection between them.
Every time his bloodline strengthened, Aemon felt closer to the dragons.
Now, with his bloodline at 33%, he was certain—Vermithor was his destiny.
Resting against the dragon's snout, he muttered, "I see now. The egg that didn't hatch, the rejection from Dreamfyre—it all led me to you."
"Roarrrr!"
Vermithor snorted, its breath sending Aemon tumbling back onto the sand.
Rubbing his head, the prince groaned, "Ugh, what was that for?"
Vermithor rose, spreading its massive wings, and let out a low growl, its hunger evident.
"Fine, fine, I get it—you're hungry," Aemon grumbled, shaking his head.
Typical.
Even his dragon demanded to be treated like royalty.
The "Bronze Fury" had truly found its match.