King's Landing, Rhaenys's Hill, the Dragonpit.
A vast dome covered half the hill, spacious enough for several great dragons to lie side by side.
Yet for Vhagar, even this place had grown far too cramped.
Her mountain-like body could no longer squeeze through the mouth of the Dragonpit. She could only lie outside it day after day, upon a stone platform built specially for her in the open air.
At the edge of the platform, the Dragonkeepers assigned to stand watch wore fire-resistant leather armor, their faces marked by awe they could not hide, and fear.
When facing the Mother of Dragons, they dared approach only when pushing carts laden with livestock forward to feed her. At all other times, they kept their distance.
Vhagar was too old. The passing of years had granted her a size unmatched by any living dragon, and had also brought with it a lethargy bordering on stillness.
She spent most of her time asleep. Each breath she exhaled sounded like a muffled thunder rolling up from deep underground, heavy with the stench of sulfur.
Only the scent of blood and raw flesh could slowly rouse her—revealing molten-gold slit pupils—before she fed at a languid pace and sank once more into deep slumber.
But today was clearly different.
When Aemond climbed the hill with three attendants in tow, Vhagar was awake.
The ancient dragon lifted the front half of her body, her thick neck raised high, her gaze fixed upon a dull gray dragon egg resting on the sand.
A continuous low growl rolled in her throat, and from the gaps between her scales seeped an ever-brightening dark crimson glow.
In the next instant, a torrent of searing dragonfire—nearly ink-green in color—erupted forth, completely engulfing the stone-like egg.
"Seven save us…" Alyn Haver murmured behind him, instinctively retreating half a step as the color drained from his face.
He had seen knights clash in glorious tourneys, but he had never before stood face to face with such primal, absolute destructive force.
When the wave of heat slammed into him, his knees went weak, and he nearly collapsed where he stood.
Arrec Hightower clenched his teeth and forced himself not to move.
House Hightower had always taken pride in wisdom and legacy, yet before such power, his learning and lineage felt as light as dust.
So this was the dragon Aemond commanded…
The faint trace of disdain in his heart vanished in an instant, replaced by fear. The dragons possessed by the Targaryens were something no one else could ever hope to match.
Even the ever-composed Gared Lannister held his breath, blue eyes reflecting the firelight, filled with shock.
In the distance, the Dragonkeepers had already retreated behind their shelters, watching the ancient dragon with extreme caution.
Even the oldest among them had never seen Vhagar focus so intently on burning a dead egg.
At that moment, Vhagar suddenly ceased her flames.
It was as though she had sensed something. Her massive head slowly turned, and those molten-gold slit pupils locked precisely onto Aemond.
A thunderous roar surged forward on a wave of heat, whipping up Aemond's robes and silver hair.
Aemond lifted his gaze, violet eyes meeting the dragon's stare head-on.
He did not feel fear. On the contrary, within that inhuman exchange of gazes, he walked toward her and reached out to touch her rough scales.
Vhagar suddenly extended her tongue. Covered in backward-facing barbs, its surface, restrained yet still forceful, swept across his palm.
Blood instantly seeped from his hand.
"Your Grace!" the Dragonkeeper captain cried out in alarm.
The attendants sucked in their breath as well.
These faint sounds clearly angered Vhagar.
She glanced past Aemond, toward those ants behind him.
These ants fed her every day.
But that did not mean they were anything other than ants.
A dull rumble rose deep within her throat. The sulfur stench grew thick and choking, flames ready to burst forth at any moment.
"Quiet."
Aemond raised his uninjured hand, and all commotion came to an abrupt halt.
Vhagar also stilled, though her massive eyes first looked at him, then turned to the dragon egg on the sand—now faintly glowing dark red after being scorched by dragonfire—before slowly returning to his face.
My blood?
Watching Vhagar's gaze shift back and forth, Aemond suddenly understood.
He did not hesitate. Clenching his bleeding hand, he walked step by step toward the dragon egg that was still steaming with intense heat.
The closer he drew, the more clearly he could feel the abnormal warmth radiating from the shell—the lingering heat of Vhagar's flames.
Vhagar lowered her head, her gaze fixed tightly upon him.
Aemond stopped before the egg and pressed his bloodstained palm against it.
The blood dripped down, yet did not slide away. Instead, as if drawn by something, it rapidly seeped into the dull, mottled patterns of the shell.
Dark red threads spread like a spider's web, sketching fleeting patterns across the surface before vanishing completely.
'So she took me for a blood source.'
She wanted me to help her hatch this little dragon yet to be born.
A deathly silence fell over the surroundings. Everyone held their breath as they watched this scene beyond comprehension.
At that very moment, a clear, lingering cry rang out from the sky.
A graceful silver-blue figure descended lightly, scales flowing with a luster like pearl and moonlight—it was Dreamfyre.
She folded her wings and let out several soft, gentle calls toward Vhagar.
Vhagar answered from deep in her throat with a short, heavy roar.
This was the surge of blood-bound connection between this mother and daughter of dragons.
Dreamfyre was Vhagar's first offspring.
Helaena slid down from the dragon's back.
She wore white riding leathers. The soft armor embroidered with silver thread glimmered faintly in the setting sun. Her silver-gold hair was somewhat tousled by the wind, and her cheeks were flushed red from the cold of high-altitude dragonriding.
Then she saw Aemond—and the blood-smeared hand he had pressed against the dragon egg.
"Aemond!"
She hurried forward, not even pausing to acknowledge the attendants' bows, and grasped his wrist directly, lowering her head to examine the wound.
Her brows knit tightly, her eyes filled with pain and worry. "What are you doing?"
"Why would you hurt yourself?"
Aemond's gaze remained fixed on the dragon egg. "Helaena, it seems to have come alive."
Helaena followed his line of sight.
The surface of the egg was still dull and rough, clearly bearing the appearance of a dead egg.
Yet even she could faintly sense it… a life pulse, extremely weak yet stubborn, rising from deep within.
"It's responding to me, Helaena," Aemond said.
He could feel it—some kind of connection quietly forming between himself and this dragon egg.
"Don't do this again," Helaena said softly, gently pulling his hand back as she checked the wound.
"It's only a bit of blood," Aemond turned to look at her, his tone easing. "It's nothing."
"Won't you come back to the Red Keep with me?" she asked, looking at him expectantly.
"I'll stay a little longer," he gave her a faint smile. "There are still some things to take care of."
Helaena looked at him in silence for a moment. In the end, she nodded, turned, and left with her maids and guards, her figure gradually disappearing from sight.
Aemond stood alone beside the dragon egg. In his palm, he could still seem to feel that faint movement beneath the shell.
Once. Twice. And again.
He could be certain now—this dead egg had been activated by his blood.
Was it not said that a Targaryen could only ever ride one dragon in a lifetime?
He lifted his eyes toward Vhagar. The old dragon was also watching him.
Blood could awaken a dead egg?
What else could it do?
As the setting sun dyed Rhaenys's Hill a deep shade of dark gold, heavy footsteps came from the direction of the stone steps—clearly, many people were approaching.
Hearing the sound, Aemond looked over.
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