Four Years Later.
113 AC.
Crownlands, Blackwater Bay.
"Screeech—"
A thunderous roar echoed across the tranquil sea, reverberating for miles.
A massive dragon with gleaming bronze scales soared through the skies. Its powerful wings cut through the air before it dove sharply, like a meteor crashing toward the earth.
"Dragonfire, Vermithor!"
On the dragon's back, a lean young man with shoulder-length silver-gold hair and striking violet eyes gripped the saddle, his voice clear and commanding.
Boom!
Vermithor's bronze eyes glinted with sharpness. It opened its massive maw and unleashed a torrent of molten, copper-colored dragonfire—thick and scorching, like molten lava erupting from a volcano.
The young man tilted his head upward, a faint smile playing on his lips as he spread his arms wide, embracing the heat.
King's Landing, Mud Gate.
A large crowd gathered at the city gates, all eyes glued to the scene in the sky.
Every onlooker held their breath, their hearts pounding in their chests.
"Screeech—"
In a split second, Vermithor pulled its neck back and beat its wide brown wings, maneuvering in a rapid arc to avoid the flames.
The young man leaned back just in time, the dragonfire barely grazing his nose.
The next moment, the fiery torrent poured into the sea, sending waves of steam and molten debris into the air. The water hissed, cooling the dragonfire into patches of blackened metal slag floating on the surface.
Then, Vermithor skimmed low over the waves toward Mud Gate, its massive wings stirring up gusts of wind as it ascended again, casting powerful shadows over the city.
"Seven hells!"
"By the gods!"
The crowd erupted in applause, their faces flushed with excitement.
"Magnificent!"
The lean young man glanced back over his shoulder, smiling at the cheers.
Suddenly, another roar echoed from the clouds.
"Screeech!"
A smaller, golden dragon burst through the sky, letting out a thunderous call as it chased Vermithor down to the Mud Gate before climbing back toward the clouds.
Boom!
The crowd could barely keep their eyes open as powerful gusts of wind battered their faces.
The roaring applause grew louder.
"Magnificent!"
"They're a perfect pair!"
Up on the gate tower, King Viserys watched with a broad grin, punching the air in triumph.
"The Prince is truly a warrior reborn!" said Hand of the King, Lyonel Strong, smiling as he gazed at the dragons soaring above. "A born dragonrider."
"Ha! He deserves the praise!" Viserys laughed heartily, basking in his nephew's achievements.
In just four years, Aemon had passed all fourteen traditional dragonrider trials, ancient tests passed down from Valyria itself.
Even among adult dragonriders, few had ever completed them all.
In the Freehold, he would've already been knighted as one of Valyria's youngest dragonlords.
An explorer, a conqueror—a true warrior.
Evening.
After changing out of his black riding leathers, Aemon entered the Red Keep's banquet hall.
"Prince!"
Two Kingsguard knights bowed respectfully at the doors.
"Thank you for your service, ser knights."
Aemon smiled warmly, his voice clear and soothing, like a stream flowing through the mountains.
At the doorway, a full-length mirror gifted by a Pentoshi envoy stood tall.
Aemon glanced at his reflection, pausing for a closer look.
In the mirror stood a striking young man—lean and graceful, with silver hair and violet eyes that gleamed like fallen stars.
Most notably, his height had shot up.
Standing at five feet nine inches (nearly 1.8 meters), he was no longer the "little prince" people once teased him for being.
"Hmph, let's see anyone call me short now."
He gave a soft huff and strode confidently into the hall.
Soon, the evening banquet began.
Aemon sat comfortably at the table, casually picking up his fork and knife.
"Don't rush—the food's coming," teased Rhaenyra, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
Aemon grinned back at her, resisting the urge to tease her in return.
He could've easily joked, "Do you even know how much a big guy like me eats?"
But he held his tongue, instead enjoying the warmth of the moment.
As more guests arrived, the atmosphere grew lively.
"Aemon, you've stolen the show today."
Viserys strode into the hall, his steps brisk and his smile wide.
He beamed with pride for his nephew.
If he could, he'd commission a statue of Aemon to place in his chambers, admiring it every day like a prized collectible.
"You were marvelous."
Queen Alicent entered next, followed by her children—a small entourage trailing behind her.
Aemon glanced at them, raising an eyebrow.
Three little ones.
There was six-year-old Aegon, four-year-old Helaena, and three-year-old Aemond.
That's right—Aemond Targaryen, the future "One-Eyed Prince," had been born right on schedule.
It seemed that Viserys, inspired by his talented nephew, had rushed to have more children to secure the family's legacy.
In 110 AC, his third son Aemond was born—and even named after his exceptional nephew.
"Brother…"
Little Aemond peeked shyly at his older cousin, hiding behind Alicent's skirts.
Still a timid little thing.
Aemon shifted his gaze to Aegon, who was already climbing onto the table like a troublemaker.
Caught under Aemon's sharp gaze, Aegon froze mid-action, sheepishly retreating to his seat, sweat forming on his brow.
Though not as favored as Rhaenyra, Aegon was still the eldest son—a pampered, mischievous child accustomed to getting his way.
But even he knew not to cross Aemon the Dragonrider.
After the meal, Aemon wiped his mouth and made an announcement.
"I'll be returning to the Vale tomorrow."
"What?"
Viserys's smile faded, replaced by displeasure. "Why? Your mother is always out hunting. You won't even see her."
Aemon chuckled softly. "I have business to attend to."
His distant parents had only fueled Viserys's possessiveness over him.
Had it not been for his living parents, Viserys might've fought for custody himself.
"What business could you possibly have? Runestone isn't yours to rule."
"I'm going back to raise my own banner."
Viserys blinked, taken aback.
Aemon's tone was serious. He had carefully prepared his words.
Since his trip to Driftmark, Aemon had been splitting his time between King's Landing and the Vale.
But King's Landing felt more like home.
He trained with Vermithor, studied Valyrian texts, and even tried to ease the tensions between Alicent and Rhaenyra.
Yet he saw the growing divide.
Two factions were quietly taking shape—the Blacks and the Greens.
If he stayed any longer, he'd be caught in the middle.
"I must leave before things spiral further."
Looking at the two women—Alicent busy with her children and Rhaenyra stone-faced—Aemon sighed inwardly.
The court had grown toxic.
"It's time to carve my own path."
Viserys frowned but remained silent.
"I'll leave at dawn," Aemon repeated. "No need for anyone to see me off."
"You're sure?"
A tense silence hung over the hall.
Finally, Aemon stood, offering a polite farewell.
"I'm not Black or Green—I'm my own man."
With that, he left.