The Dragonpit of King's Landing was forever shrouded in the stench of sulfur and ash.
When Daemon Targaryen descended from the sky astride "Blood Wyrm" Caraxes, the Dragonkeepers had already dropped to their knees, heads buried low, daring not to look directly at the man famed for his mercurial temper and unpredictable conduct—the so-called Rogue Prince.
Caraxes—the bloodthirsty behemoth of black and red—exhaled sulfurous breath as his ferocious body slowly lowered itself.
Daemon slid neatly down from the dragon's back. His dark crimson leather armor was dust-stained from travel, and his silver-gold hair whipped wildly in the wind stirred by the dragon's wings.
He patted the rough scales along his dragon's neck. Caraxes let out a low rumble in response, then, with earth-shaking steps, lumbered toward the vast cavern that belonged to him.
Daemon turned around, his gaze habitually sweeping across the Dragonpit.
Then his eyes froze.
Outside the pit, beneath a hastily erected open canopy, lay Vhagar.
The legendary giant dragon had her eyes closed, resting at ease.
Yet what seized all of Daemon's attention was not Vhagar herself.
It was the black figure beside her enormous head—so small by comparison.
A dragon.
A young dragon entirely covered in ink-black scales, their edges shimmering with a strange, dark red luster. It was roughly two meters long, its body slender and fluid. Its head was slightly oversized in proportion, yet the sharpness of its features had already begun to show. Along its spine ran a row of small but keen bony spines, extending all the way to the tip of its tail.
At this moment, it was curled up beside Vhagar's lower jaw, one forelimb even resting atop Vhagar's massive, rock-like claw, its posture intimate and natural.
And Vhagar—an old dragon famed for her violent, solitary nature, one that even other great dragons kept well away from—was actually allowing this little black creature to nestle against her. The airflow from her breathing brushed gently over the hatchling's scales.
Daemon's pupils contracted sharply.
A black dragon?
A pure one—utterly black, without the slightest trace of other colors?
In the history of House Targaryen, dragons with purely black scales were exceedingly rare.
How could there be a hatchling beside Vhagar? And a black one at that?
As far as he knew, Vhagar had long since passed the age of laying eggs. She had not produced a single dragon egg for over half a century, let alone successfully hatched one.
Moreover, given Vhagar's temperament, she would never tolerate the presence of another dragon—much less a hatchling—approaching her, much less with such intimacy.
"Rosso," Daemon said.
The captain of the Dragonkeepers, Rosso, who had been standing respectfully at a distance, immediately jogged forward and dropped to one knee. "Prince."
Daemon did not look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the black hatchling.
"That dragon," he said, jerking his chin toward it, "when did it appear? And where did it come from?"
Rosso followed Daemon's gaze. He swallowed, then spoke with evident caution. "Your Highness… that is… Lothorne. It appeared beside Vhagar… about half a year ago."
"Half a year ago?" Daemon snapped his head around, his sharp violet eyes locking onto Rosso. "Vhagar's egg? When did she lay another? Why was I not informed?"
"N-no… not a newly laid egg, Your Highness." Fine sweat beaded at Rosso's temples as he forced himself to explain. "It was… it was a dead egg from fifty years ago."
"A dead egg hatched?" Daemon's brow knit tightly, his face filled with disbelief.
Dragon eggs turning to stone and becoming dead eggs was not uncommon—but a dead egg hatching again?
That egg… he remembered it now.
The very dead egg Vhagar had insisted be kept close when his late wife Laena rode her…
This was almost unheard of, a violation of every known principle concerning dragons.
His gaze returned to the black hatchling, the doubt in his eyes gradually giving way to a light mixed with surprise and possessive delight.
"A dead egg reborn, a black dragon born into the world…" Daemon murmured, the corners of his mouth slowly lifting. "A good omen."
"This must be a sign of our ancestors' blessing, foretelling the coming of the child Rhaenyra and I will have—our future Aegon."
"This black dragon—Lothorne? An omen? The name is fitting."
"Hmph… it shall belong to my son Aegon."
Yet Rosso's kneeling body trembled slightly, his lips quivering as he spoke.
"Your Highness… I fear… I fear that will not be possible."
"What?" Daemon's smile froze. "What do you mean, not possible?"
"It has been many years since I last returned to King's Landing," he went on coldly.
"It seems you have forgotten who I am."
But Rosso bowed his head deeply.
"However… Lothorne… it… it seems to have already… chosen a master."
"Chosen a master?" Daemon asked in disbelief. "Who?"
There were only so many Targaryens. No matter how he considered it, he could not imagine who else could possibly be riding a dragon.
Rosso seemed to steel himself and spoke. "It is… Prince Aemond."
"We have observed for a long time. Lothorne only allows Prince Aemond to approach, to touch it, and even… obeys his simple commands."
"Vhagar also… does not resist Prince Aemond approaching both of them at the same time."
"We have all seen it… Prince Aemond, he… he can at the same time—"
Rosso's voice dropped lower and lower as he finished, "—ride two dragons."
"Utter nonsense!!!"
Daemon erupted in fury, cutting him off with a roar.
He seized Rosso by the collar, almost hauling the kneeling captain of the Dragonkeepers to his feet.
"One man, one dragon! That is iron law! The iron law of Valyrian dragonriders since ancient times! There has never been a single exception!"
"How could Aemond possibly be worthy… how could he dare…?" Daemon was so furious he could scarcely form complete words, his chest heaving violently.
Rosso was being choked by Daemon's grip, struggling for breath, yet he did not dare resist. He could only explain in broken gasps, "It is absolutely true… Prince… at first, we also could not believe it… but the facts are exactly so…"
"His Grace the King… the King is also aware of this matter, and he has strictly ordered us not to spread word of it."
Daemon's expression had already shifted from iron-blue fury into something far more dreadful—an oppressive, shadowed gloom.
He slowly turned his head, once more looking toward Vhagar and the black hatchling Lothorne.
A trace of intense wariness—one he himself was unwilling to acknowledge—began to grow rapidly in his heart.
One man riding two dragons?
He refused to believe such nonsense.
Daemon would never accept something so absurd. He had to verify it with his own eyes.
He stepped forward, striding straight toward where Vhagar and Lothorne rested.
However, just as he entered a distance of forty paces from Vhagar—
"ROAR!!!"
Vhagar, who had been dozing, suddenly snapped her eyes open!
Those enormous, molten-gold vertical pupils carried a cold warning and outright rejection.
She lifted her massive head. A deep roar, like muffled thunder, rumbled from her throat as sulfur-laced hot breath blasted outward, whipping Daemon's robes wildly and nearly knocking him off his feet.
At the same time, the black hatchling Lothorne beside her also rose. Though still small in stature, it showed no fear, letting out a sharp, hostile hiss at Daemon.
Its jaws opened, revealing fine yet already razor-sharp teeth glinting coldly, while deep in its throat a faint dark red glow flickered.
One great and one small, one old and one young—the two dragons made their stance clear in the most direct way possible.
They did not welcome his approach.
Daemon's steps were nailed to the ground.
Faced with Vhagar's undisguised threat, even he did not dare advance further.
His "Blood Wyrm," Caraxes, might not fear a battle with Vhagar, but a direct collision with her would be courting death.
He stared hard at the black hatchling baring its teeth at him, then looked again at Vhagar, watching him with vigilant hostility.
At last, his gaze swept over the Dragonkeepers kneeling far away, silent as cicadas in winter.
Rosso's words and the dragons' reactions intertwined, leaving him no choice but to believe it.
It seemed… it was true.
Daemon slowly took several steps backward.
Only when he had withdrawn beyond the clear boundary of Vhagar's warning did he stop.
One man riding two dragons… unheard of, unseen.
…He would have to warn Rhaenyra. Her half-brother, born of the same father, was likely far more dangerous than any of them had imagined.
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