"Screee!"
Meleys circled above, her vertical pupils locked on the bronze dragon below. Yet, she made no move to attack.
Aemon glanced up and quickly understood.
The saddle on the Red Queen's back was empty—his Aunt Rhaenys wasn't riding her.
It seemed that the commotion from the dragon duel had startled Meleys from her lair.
"Stand down, Vermithor."
Aemon patted his dragon's massive back, signaling for calm.
He knew all too well how the Bronze Fury had earned his name.
Sudden bursts of rage, uncontrollable outbursts—Vermithor's temper was volatile and fearsome.
Though his great-grandfather, King Jaehaerys I, was known for his wisdom and kindness, his dragon couldn't have been more different.
Following the theory that a dragon's personality often complemented its rider's, Aemon mused to himself:
"Perhaps my great-grandfather was far more wild at heart than history remembers—he simply hid it well."
Vermithor's coppery eyes shifted briefly, glancing at his rider with what almost seemed like understanding. With a huff, the dragon descended, landing near the battered form of Seasmoke.
Boom!
Vermithor hit the ground with an earth-shaking thud, stirring up a cloud of dust.
As the dust settled, Seasmoke's bloodied and broken form came into view.
"No! Seasmoke!"
Laenor Velaryon, his face blackened from the fire and his body scraped from the fall, tumbled off his dragon and rushed to Seasmoke's side.
He wasn't seriously hurt. But Seasmoke…
The pale silver dragon lay motionless in the dirt, his chest scales shattered and his blood pooling around him.
The worst damage was to his right wing.
Vermithor's powerful jaws had crushed Seasmoke's shoulder blade and torn through the wing membrane, leaving it shredded and bleeding.
Seasmoke's ragged breaths told the story—he was closer to death than life.
"Screee…"
The once-proud dragon whimpered, a broken creature.
"No! No!"
Laenor's tears fell freely as he collapsed onto Seasmoke, cradling the dragon's bloodied head in his arms.
He couldn't believe this was happening.
The boy responsible—a young, white-haired child—had just mounted a dragon and already had the audacity to fight and maim without mercy.
Aemon remained on Vermithor's back, his expression calm. He signaled for his dragon to lower his head as he mocked Laenor:
"Apologies, cousin. My dragon doesn't always obey commands."
From Seasmoke's charging posture earlier, it was clear this wasn't the first time Laenor had pulled a stunt like this.
And Aemon wasn't about to let it slide.
He had held back—out of respect for the fact that Seasmoke was a Targaryen dragon.
If he had given Vermithor the "Dracarys" command, Seasmoke would have been nothing but ash.
Hearing Aemon's taunt, Laenor sobbed harder. He didn't care about appearances anymore.
All he could think about was his injured dragon—the thought of losing Seasmoke was unbearable.
Watching his cousin weep, Aemon's gaze softened slightly.
He offered a brief reassurance:
"Dragons are resilient creatures. Seasmoke will recover."
His intention wasn't to kill a dragon, only to make a point.
As long as the wounds weren't fatal, dragons could heal themselves. It was only a matter of time.
But Laenor couldn't hear him. He clung to Seasmoke, consumed by grief.
A patrol of Velaryon guards soon arrived, led by a golden-haired knight.
The knight was Joffrey Lonmouth, a minor noble from the Stormlands, better known as the Knight of Kisses.
Everyone on Driftmark knew of his relationship with Laenor.
"Laenor! Are you hurt?"
Joffrey rushed forward, helping Laenor to his feet.
But Laenor pushed him away, tears streaming down his face. He didn't care about his own injuries.
His father had forced him to take on this task.
Now look what had happened.
His little cousin—the boy with the silver hair and sharp eyes—had nearly killed his dragon.
The shame and humiliation were unbearable.
Seeing his lover's distress, Joffrey's anger boiled over.
He drew his sword and pointed it at Aemon, shouting:
"Who are you to assault the heir of Driftmark on his own land?"
Behind him, the Velaryon guards followed suit, drawing their weapons and forming a defensive line in front of the Bronze Fury.
But Vermithor didn't flinch.
The giant dragon licked the blood from his maw, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth.
Aemon smirked from atop his dragon. His purple eyes gleamed with amusement.
"Are you questioning me?"
His voice was calm, yet it carried an unmistakable authority.
"I am Aemon Targaryen, Born of Bronze and Fire. Son of Daemon Targaryen. Heir to Runestone. Prince of Dragons."
He listed his titles one by one, each name striking with the weight of unquestionable superiority.
"Second only to the king," his tone implied.
Joffrey's confidence wavered. His grip on his sword tightened, but he didn't lower it.
Still, he couldn't hide the tremor in his voice as he tried to retort:
"Your Highness, your noble birth doesn't justify such reckless violence."
Gasps rippled through the onlookers.
Aemon's lips curled into a smile.
"Violence?"
"Roar!"
Vermithor let out a thunderous roar, sending a wave of scorching air across the guards.
Joffrey stumbled backward, his eyes wide with terror. He tripped and fell hard onto the ground, his sword clattering away.
The guards, too, faltered. Their shields shook as they struggled to hold their ground.
"Don't be afraid," Aemon said with a chuckle.
"He's just protective of me."
With that, he patted Vermithor's side and gave a subtle command.
The bronze dragon turned away from the stunned crowd, unfurled his wings, and took off into the sky.
In their wake, whispers filled the air.
"That's King Jaehaerys's dragon…"
"He's tamed Vermithor…"
"A boy! Just a boy!"
High Tide.
Vermithor soared over the castle, his broad brown wings casting a shadow over the land.
The sight of the massive dragon drew every eye toward the sky.
After circling the castle three times, Vermithor descended, landing heavily at the main gate.
Boom!
The impact stirred up clouds of dust and sand.
Aemon climbed down from the ancient saddle, using the rope ladder to descend slowly.
When his feet hit the ground, he sighed and stretched.
"Dragons are magnificent… but exhausting."
Around him, the gathered nobles stared in awe.
"Is that… Vermithor?"
"Who is he? That boy—he looks like a Targaryen…"
Ignoring the murmurs, Aemon strode toward the castle's front courtyard.
At the stone archway, two familiar figures awaited him: the Cargyll twins.
The brothers had arrived early from Dragonstone to ensure their prince's safety.
With their matching silver armor and short beards, the twins cut imposing figures.
The elder twin, Erryk, stepped forward, scowling at the castle's empty entrance.
"Where is Lord Corlys? Why hasn't he come to greet the prince?"
His brother, Arryk, placed a hand on his sword, his sharp eyes scanning for threats.
Aemon remained calm, letting his knights speak on his behalf.
Erryk's voice grew louder:
"Is this how House Velaryon treats its royal guests?"
At last, the gates swung open, and Corlys Velaryon emerged, flanked by several retainers.
The Sea Snake carried himself with grave dignity, his every step exuding authority.
Aemon watched him approach, his smile unwavering.
He stood tall, unmoving, as if he were already the lord of Driftmark.
Behind him, Vermithor lowered his head, smoke curling from his nostrils.
"Prince Aemon."
Corlys bowed his head, his voice measured and wary.
"Welcome to High Tide."