Inside Tyrosh Castle, Hugh stood before a high window, watching the distant sea.
It had been a week. One full week since he had launched his bloody coup. In these past few days, he had barely closed his eyes.
There were too many matters to handle, too many ambitious men to appease, and far too many unseen dangers to guard against.
But at this moment, his mood was excellent. There had been no reply from Dragonstone yet, but he knew they would agree.
They had no choice. With Prince Lucerys and the two Targaryen girls securely in his hands, he held three trump cards that made him virtually invincible.
Heavy footsteps sounded out in the corridor.
Ulf pushed the heavy oak door open, a fawning smile plastered across his face.
"My Lord, Sara has been brought."
Hugh turned around and gave a curt nod.
"Bring her in."
Sara was dragged into the room. Her silver hair was disheveled, and her face was deathly pale, but her eyes still burned with an unyielding fury.
She stared at Hugh as if she wanted to incinerate him with her gaze alone.
"Hugh," her voice was harsh and raspy.
"You traitor! What have you done to my son?"
Hugh smiled faintly.
"Your son is perfectly fine. He is sleeping in the room next door. He has servants looking after him, eating well and sleeping soundly, far better than when you were minding him."
Sara struggled violently to rush forward, but two guards pinned her down ruthlessly.
"Let me go! You bastard! You, "
Hugh walked calmly over to her, raised his heavy hand, and delivered a brutal slap to her face.
Smack!
Sara's head snapped to the side, a trail of blood seeping from the corner of her mouth.
She didn't cry out; she merely turned back to stare at Hugh with an even more concentrated, venomous rage.
"Wake up, Sara," Hugh said softly.
"Your son is in my hands. You are entirely in my control. If you want your boy to live, you had best learn to be polite to me."
Sara's body trembled, but her defiant gaze did not waver.
She spat a mouthful of bloody spittle onto the floor in sheer disdain.
Hugh looked at her and suddenly laughed aloud.
"You know, Sara, I like your spirit. Fierce."
He leaned in closer.
"When I have settled everything, I will marry you. You will be my Queen, and your son will be my heir. How does that sound?"
Sara looked at him with absolute revulsion.
"You're dreaming."
Hugh shrugged indifferently.
"Say what you will. But right now, I need you to do something for me."
"What?"
Hugh looked at her calmly.
"I need the secret to taming dragons. I want you to teach me the words to tame Vermithor."
Sara's eyes widened in disbelief.
"You truly have the nerve to think that is possible?"
"I am the seed of King Jaehaerys," Hugh said proudly.
"If that weak brat Lucerys can be a dragonrider, then I most certainly possess the ability."
Sara looked at him, her gaze fraught with complex emotions.
"You want me to teach you?"
"Yes."
"Why should I?"
Hugh smiled, a deep trace of cruelty twisting his features.
"Because your son is in my hands. If you refuse to teach me, I will cut off one of his fingers every single day. When the fingers are gone, I will move to the toes. When the toes are gone, I will take the arms and the legs. Think about it."
Sara's face turned deathly pale.
She gritted her teeth, remaining rigidly silent for a long time.
Finally, defeated, she closed her eyes and gave a slow nod.
Over the next few days, Sara began to teach Hugh the ancient dragon-taming chants.
The melodic tones rose and fell, the rhythm peculiar and unnatural to a commoner's tongue.
Hugh learned diligently, practicing the words over and over until every syllable was exact.
Three days later, he finally decided to make his attempt.
On a rocky hill just outside Tyrosh, Vermithor rested not far from Silverwing.
The bronze giant was truly massive, a full size larger than the silver she-dragon.
He lay sprawled lazily across the sun-baked rocks, his eyes closed; the jagged wounds from Vhagar were still visible but had healed significantly.
At the moment, the Bronze Fury was peacefully napping.
Hugh brought dozens of his guards to the foot of the hill, ordering them to wait at a safe distance while he ascended alone.
Ulf followed a few paces behind him nervously, whispering, "My Lord, going up there alone is far too dangerous..."
Hugh looked back and glared at him.
"Why? Do you want to come with me?"
Ulf shook his head frantically, his face pale. Hugh sneered and continued his trek upward.
The mountain wind howled across the rocks, violently snapping his dark cloak.
Hugh approached step by step, drawing steadily closer to the slumbering beast.
One hundred paces. Fifty. Thirty.
Vermithor suddenly opened his eyes.
Those massive draconic orbs, glowing like two golden lanterns, were fixed intently on the silver-haired little creature that dared to approach his resting place.
There was a familiar scent of Old Valyrian blood; the Bronze Fury did not instantly incinerate Hugh as he would a mere commoner.
Instead, he let out a low, rumbling roar that echoed through the valley, vibrating the ground and causing loose stones to tumble down the incline.
Hugh stopped in his tracks and took a deep, steadying breath.
Then, he began to sing.
Ancient High Valyrian flowed from his mouth, the melodic tones shifting in a strange, ancient cadence.
Vermithor's slitted eyes narrowed. He seemed to understand the intent.
The dragon ceased his roaring and watched Hugh, a flash of complex emotion swirling in his golden pupils.
Hugh continued to sing as he slowly moved forward, attempting to draw near the Bronze Fury.
Twenty paces. Fifteen. Ten.
Vermithor suddenly stood up to his full, terrifying height, his massive leathery wings unfurling to blot out the afternoon sun.
He let out a mountain-shaking roar and abruptly spat a blinding blast of dragonfire!
Hugh was paralyzed with terror, but he did not dodge.
The roaring flames streaked just past him, turning the jagged rocks behind him a glowing, molten red.
He could feel the scorching, suffocating heat on his skin and smell the acrid stench of his own singed hair.
But he did not flee. He braced himself against the heat and continued to sing.
Vermithor lowered his massive head, bringing his scaled snout mere inches from the man, his golden gaze thoroughly scrutinizing.
Not long ago, there had been another little creature; the Bronze Fury had accepted that man only because it had been far too long since he had felt a rider upon his back.
He loved the gentle Silverwing, but he also craved the chaotic thrill of battle; it was his undeniable nature as a war dragon.
Then he died.
He saw potential in the silver-haired creature who killed his previous rider...
But ancient draconic pride would not allow the Bronze Fury to submit to that arrogant boy.
More importantly, he detested the lingering scent of his mother on him, that cranky, ancient she-dragon Vhagar... even though Vermithor himself was Vhagar's firstborn.
Hugh pushed on, his voice trembling as he sang, moving steadily forward.
Three paces. One pace.
He slowly reached out a shaking hand and pressed his palm flat against Vermithor's warm, scaled snout.
The dragon's sulfurous breath blew hot and heavy against his face. Vermithor did not move, merely staring down at this incredibly reckless boy.
Hugh's singing did not falter. He finished the very last line of the chant, then slowly opened his eyes to lock gazes completely with Vermithor.
One second. Two. Three.
Vermithor moved. He lowered his massive head just a fraction, allowing Hugh's hand to slide up and touch his forehead.
Hugh's heart hammered wildly against his ribs. He had succeeded. He had truly succeeded!
Suddenly, Vermithor's nostrils flared violently with the thick scent of sulfur, and he let out a massive, dismissive snort.
The sheer gust of air from the Bronze Fury's lungs hit Hugh like a physical blow, sending him tumbling backward into the dirt.
Then, ignoring the fallen man entirely, Vermithor roared fiercely at the sky, unfurled his vast bronze wings, and took flight.
The Bronze Fury was in a relatively good mood today; usually, he would have simply devoured such an arrogant intruder.
Hugh, left sprawling humiliated on the rocky ground, was utterly baffled.
'Why? Why did the beast not accept me?!'
He must have missed a syllable!
Or worse, that treacherous bitch Sara had deliberately hidden a crucial part of the incantation from him!
Consumed by a blinding, venomous rage as he watched the dragon shrink into the sky, Hugh picked himself up.
He decided right then and there that he would return to the castle and show that woman the true meaning of a dragon's wrath.
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