In the wake of his stolen fish, Aemon did not chase the skies nor curse the heavens. He simply sat back down on his short stool, adjusted his fish basket, and recast his line into the sea.
"Let me catch you once," he muttered with narrowed eyes, "and you'll wish you hadn't touched my basket."
Fishing had become less a pastime and more a matter of principle. Aemon Targaryen, now officially styled as the Prince of the Dragon Clan, was learning quickly that power often came not from explosive moments, but from patience.
---
Later that Afternoon – The Narrow Sea
The waters glistened under the afternoon sun, and the wind blew steady across the Narrow Sea. The sailboat, having passed through the Gullet, now cut eastward along the trade routes between Westeros and the Free Cities.
Aemon was beginning to doze off beside his overflowing fish basket, lulled by the rocking of the ship.
Suddenly—Woo woo woo!
The horn above deck sounded in urgent bursts.
Sailors dropped their ropes and nets. Panic gripped the crew as they rushed to the bow, their voices tight with dread. Even the seasoned oarsmen paled.
Startled awake, Aemon rubbed his eyes and stumbled to his feet. "What's going on?" he asked aloud, confused.
He ran below deck, searching for his mother.
---
On the Horizon – The Enemy Reveals Itself
Outside, another vessel crept into view.
It was long and lean, with sails dyed in obscene images—a copulating goddess sprawled across the canvas. The deck was crowded with gaudy warriors, their hair streaked in garish colors.
The old deckhands recognized the signs immediately. "A slave ship," someone muttered. "Lyseni build, flying Tyroshi banners."
The Free Cities of Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr had long banded together as the Triarchy—better known in Westeros as the Three Daughters. Pirates in all but name.
And now, one of their raiders had spotted the royal Targaryen banner fluttering from Aemon's vessel.
Aemon reached the main cabin, where Lady Rhea stood tall, flanked by knights of the Vale. Her face was stone.
"A slave ship of the Three Daughters," she said, already stringing her bow. "They may be pirates, but they aren't fools. They know who we are."
And they were coming straight for them.
---
The Clash Draws Near
The horn blew again. This time from the enemy ship—short bursts, signaling attack.
"Archers! Prepare bows!"
Lady Rhea's voice rang out with a cool, commanding presence. The Vale knights responded immediately, taking up positions along the railings. Though better suited for horseback combat, they were trained with bows nonetheless.
Aemon watched, swallowing hard.
His hands trembled slightly as he ran to fetch his small wooden bow. He might have been a prince, but in moments like this, every hand mattered.
The pirate ship loomed closer. The raucous laughter of foreign tongues drifted over the water. Gaunt, sunburned men with cruel eyes jeered from their deck.
"Ready!" Lady Rhea shouted.
Aemon stood beside her, bow in hand, his face pale but resolved.
If only they had a dragon, he thought.
And then—Fwoosh.
The air changed.
First, there was wind. Then a rumble.
Then darkness.
A great shadow passed over them, and the sails above shuddered violently. A thick scent of sulfur rode the breeze, pressing down like the breath of a furnace.
Aemon looked up—and froze.
Dark green, deep as forest shadows. Wings wide as city walls. A hulking beast soared overhead, its scales gleaming like old jade, its breath steaming in the sun.
"Vhagar…" Aemon whispered.
Even Ser Steffon, usually a pillar of discipline, gaped in awe. "By the Seven…"
Vhagar, the oldest and largest living dragon in the world. Once ridden by Queen Visenya herself during Aegon's Conquest, it was now a living legend—a war machine wrapped in scales and fire.
---
The Wrath of a Queen's Mount
"Back! Clear the decks!" Lady Rhea ordered.
The crew scurried away from the railings.
High above, the mighty beast roared.
From atop Vhagar's back, a rider raised her voice.
"Dracarys, Vhagar!"
The great dragon responded at once.
With a thunderous beat of its wings, Vhagar dived.
Boom!
A torrent of dragonfire exploded from its maw—orange and yellow flames licking across the sky like a solar flare. The slave ship stood no chance.
The mast shattered. The deck ignited. Sailcloth turned to ash before it could fall.
Screams filled the air as pirates leapt overboard, only to be met with boiling water.
"Again!" the voice above commanded.
Vhagar roared and banked in a wide arc, unleashing a second blast.
The ship's spine cracked in two.
Its stern tilted skyward like a drowning beast.
Aemon gripped the railing, eyes wide. He'd never seen such devastation.
Even from a distance, he could make out the rider—a silver-haired woman in black and red leathers, hair tied back, posture regal and fierce.
"Rhaena…" he breathed.
The gentle girl from before was gone. In her place stood a dragonlord of flame and fury.
The third strike finished it.
A final burst of fire turned sea to steam and scattered what remained of the Triarchy pirates.
And just like that, Vhagar wheeled back toward Driftmark, vanishing into the clouds like a god returning to heaven.
Aemon stared after the shape, eyes burning with ambition.
"That's the difference," he muttered to himself. "Between dragonriders and men."
---
Aftermath
"Don't just stand there gawking!" Lady Rhea barked. "The survivors in the water—finish them!"
Aemon blinked out of his trance. His heart raced, but his training held.
He walked to the bow, bow in hand.
The Vale knights lined up beside him, bows drawn.
Aemon hesitated.
He wasn't afraid. But this was different. Ordering death was not like fishing. It wasn't a game.
"Mother…" he began.
Lady Rhea's eyes hardened. "When we return, you'll be named heir of Runestone. Learn now how to give orders."
She pointed to the sea, where bloodied pirates clung to driftwood. "Start with them."
Ser Steffon stepped forward. "My lady, the prince is still young—"
"He's a Royce. And Royces wield blades before they lose their baby teeth."
The crew fell silent.
All eyes turned to Aemon.
The sea breeze tugged at his cloak.
And then, he stepped forward.
"Knights of the Vale!" he called.
Dong! Dong! Dong! The knights stomped once, twice, three times.
Aemon raised his hand.
"Loose," he said.
The arrows flew.
Screams rang out.
Blood blossomed on the surface of the sea.
---
The Final Arrows
But Aemon wasn't done.
He slung his wooden bow from his shoulder, grabbed a quiver from a nearby rack, and stalked to the portside rail.
"Prince—!" Steffon began.
"I'm fine."
He knocked an arrow, aimed, and released.
Miss.
He gritted his teeth. A second arrow.
Thud.
A pirate screamed, collapsing backward into the water, an arrow buried in his eye.
Step after step, arrow after arrow, Aemon walked the railing like a soldier on parade.
He loosed four more arrows. Four hits. All fatal.
When he reached the end of the line, he looked down. No arrows left.
"Prince…" Steffon said softly.
Aemon dropped the bow to the deck with a quiet clack.
"It's too light," he said. "Doesn't feel right anymore."
The Vale knig
hts said nothing.
They stared not at the bow, but at the boy.
He was no longer just a child prince.
He was a dragon's son.
And someday soon, he would be a dragonlord in truth.
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